My mother was waiting outside the door, her brow furrowed as she watched Sabine weave her way through the chaos of backstage. “That girl has a spirit for stirring up trouble,” she said, turning to the two of us. “It may be time for her to find employment elsewhere.”
My skin flushed hotly, and I jabbed a finger against my mother’s chest. “Leave. Her. Alone.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I mean it, Mother,” I said, glaring up at her. “If she leaves because of anything that you’ve done, I’ll quit. And not just the company – I’ll walk away from you, and I won’t look back.”
Not waiting for her to respond, I stormed through the corridors to the foyer. There were still a handful of young gentlemen watching the dancers finish their warm-up, but most had retreated to their boxes as the performance was about to begin. A few of the girls gave me curious glances, but no one troubled me.
Was it an idle threat, or had I meant what I said to my mother? I wasn’t sure. My eyes flicked over the portraits of the famous women who had graced the stage and my stomach clenched at the idea of willingly giving up my dream of standing amongst them. I mouthed the names written on little plaques beneath the paintings in a silent plea for guidance. My mother’s I ignored, but I paused when a familiar name passed my lips. Lise Tautin. My grandmother.
I touched the spot on my throat where the necklace she was pictured wearing usually hung, but it was in my dressing room. I had no memory of her – she’d gone missing when I was very young. Her hair was blonde and her eye color indistinct, yet I could see my mother in the arch of her cheeks and the coolness of her gaze. But I didn’t have time to give it much thought before I was caught up in the exodus from the foyer. Finding my spot among the chorus, I watched as ballerinas dressed as harem girls exited the stage, their shoes making soft little thuds as they ran past me. It was time to go on.
Adjusting the basket across my elbow, I linked arms with one of the girls, and then we strolled out onto the set staged as an exotic spice market, warm with the heat of the audience rather than the desert sun. I sang and skipped and spun, the words rising instinctively to my lips as I matched the volume and sound of the other girls. The audience was a faceless blur, the colors brilliant, the lights bright as we set the scene.
Then my mother walked onto the stage, her voice dominating the theatre. She sang, and the rest of us were silent, relegated to the backdrop. The girls of the chorus tempted her with their wares, jewelry, spices, and all manners of delicacies. Then it was my turn. I stepped in front of her, holding out my basket of wax fruit for her to see. Still singing, she selected an apple, which I pretended to refuse payment for. As I retreated to the backdrop, something caught my eye.
A flash of light. Motion in the Regent’s private box. No one was allowed to sit in there unless accompanied by the Regent or his family. I’ll be watching every move you make… Marie’s voice whispered across my thoughts. Was she alone, or was Anushka with her?
I wanted to stare, but that would mean breaking character, so I couldn’t. One of the other girls caught my arm, spinning me away, our voices chorusing my mother’s. My spine prickled. Even though I was in the middle of a stage, countless eyes upon me, I felt as though I were being stalked. It was all I could do to keep smiling, singing, and dancing, because I wanted to run. Every chance I had, I glanced toward the box, but it was too dark to say who sat within.
The scene ended, and we all danced offstage. I needed to go change my costume, but instead of going with the other girls, I hesitated in the darkness of the wings. My sweating fingers clutched at the basket handle, and I stepped as close to the stage as I dared go without being seen by the audience. The Regent’s colors hung below the railing, as they always did. The box itself was dark, but a single gloved hand rested on the railing. Why were they watching me? What did they intend to do?
Fingers dug into my elbow, pulling me back. “What are you doing?” Sabine hissed. “You need to change.”
I let her lead me backstage.
“You’re sweating like a pig,” she informed me, wrinkling her nose as she unfastened the merchant costume’s buttons.
“Pigs don’t sweat,” I said absently, barely noticing as she rolled her eyes. I needed to see who was in those seats. I was certain it was her, but I needed to be sure. And if it was her, then what? Confront her? No. Whether I was right or wrong about her association with Anushka, that wouldn’t go well for me.
“Did you mean it?”
Sabine was fussing with my skirt, only the top of her head visible. “Pardon?”
“What you said to your mother, did you mean it?”
There was an intensity in her voice that told me it wasn’t an idle question. I bit down on the inside of my cheeks. Had I meant it? Part of me screamed that it didn’t matter – there was the accomplice to a five hundred year-old murderer sitting in the wings watching me. But a bigger part of me refused to let fear rule my actions. “I meant it,” I said, wiping my hands on my skirts. “If she fires you, I’ll quit.”
“But she’s your mother.” I could only see the top of her head, but I knew her well enough to know that she was shaken.
“Only when it’s convenient for her,” I said, catching one of her gold curls with my finger. “And you’ve always been my best friend. I understand why you did what you did, Sabine. But I need you to understand that I need to do this.”