Yes! Enjoy Chapter One, right here.
Thursday, 3 May 1877
Knocks, shouts, voices. Snatches of melody, clipped calls. Furtive whispers sneaked beneath the door as musicians tuned their instruments, chattering and complaining beyond the wall. The opera house throbbed with the usual energy of a closing night, and outside Odette’s dressing room door, scattered footsteps resounded down the hall, while heavier thumps from the stage above vibrated through the ceiling. Notes and chords, some clear and others muffled, filled the gaps between the beats of movement.
A light, cautious knock rattled her door. ‘Miss Delaney? Mr Zadora said five minutes.’
Odette Delaney plucked a pot of powder from the dresser. She rubbed the point of her little finger against the red and dabbed it onto her cheek to smooth an uneven edge. Licked the tip of her index finger and ran it over her brow. Turned her head left, right, and pursed her lips as she studied her make-up. Then she stood back to run her gaze along the length of her costume in the full-length mirror that rested against the wall beside the dresser.
Tiny black slippers stitched with embroidered flowers and faux pearls, soft white silk stockings, black velvet puffs to mimic Tudor breeches, tied with white cord, a white cotton shirt and padded black doublet with embroidery to match the decorations which adorned her feet…
This was one of her more scandalous costumes, and her favourite by far. The costumer Nadine had outdone herself. Odette took the rapier from her dressing table, swished it so fast it whipped the air, and held it before her face, just like on the playbill’s lithograph.
‘Last night, Romeo. I will miss you. Let us give them a closing night to talk about.’ She slid the rapier into its sheath on her hip.
The knock came again, faster and louder than before.
‘Miss Delaney? Mr Zadora—’
Odette flung the door open. ‘It has been five minutes when I say it has been five minutes.’ She glowered at the dark-haired young man before her. ‘Comprendre?’
He staggered backwards, bumping into the wall. Gangly, freckled, and wide-eyed, he was barely more than a boy, really. ‘Y-yes, Miss Delaney,’ he stammered with a frantic nod. ‘I didn’t mean to, Miss Delaney—I won’t ever again—I mean, I…’
Odette tapped his cheek lightly. ‘Zadora is playing with you. You will learn, my darling.’
As she turned, he patted the spot where her hand had touched his skin, eyes shining with wonder.
Silly boy.
The muffled noise that had pressed at the dressing room walls amplified as Odette made her way down the corridor, deeper into the opera house and towards the beating, bleeding heart of the stage. She placed a hand on the banister to ascend from the subterranean maze of dressing rooms, offices, and storage cupboards, from the lands of the green room and orchestra pit to the world of ropes, curtains, stage, and applause. The ease of taking the narrow stairs in breeches instead of wrestling with skirts and petticoats was another reason she loved this costume. Was this the freedom men experienced every day? Striding smoothly instead of navigating walkways delicately in case they tripped? Enjoying more space for words, receiving most of the lines—the most of everything?
After so many performances playing love-struck damsels or fallen women, the lead of Romeo, sung in the playful tradition of en travesti, a part written to be performed by the opposite gender to the role, had been a revelation. I Capuleti e i Montecchi suited her range and had given her the opportunity to perform in a male costume. Not to mention the joy of wielding a rapier.
She quite liked the short cape that fluttered when she walked, too.
This was the world of the stage—a world twisted on its head. A world where men stepped back to clear her path, not because she’d been transformed into one of them by brocade and jet buttons, but because she was herself. Because she was Odette Delaney. Soprano. Star.
Although even the theatre had a way of redressing the balance. While this opera allowed two women to hold centre stage, it filled the ranks of the chorus with an army of men.
No ballerinas.
No feminine chorus.
Just Odette as Romeo and touring soprano Maria Esposito as Giulietta, two high melodies in a sea of baritones and bass. And they were not only outnumbered onstage. Men, many of them former sailors who’d traded the waves for steady land, worked the curtain ropes. Lithe runners controlled the lamps, set the stage with props, and pushed heavy wooden backdrops into position. Doormen in coat-tails showed the audience to their seats, sold their tickets, and counted the money. From the manager Karl von Miller through to the ushers in the stalls, it was men, men, men. Women who wanted a theatre career had two choices.
Sewing buttons.
Centre stage.
Odette slipped between the curtains. Maria, emerging blossom, was already waiting there. Her hands tapped her skirt to dispense her nerves as she peered out at the stage.
‘Last night,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t see you after the show. We are directly for our train after curtain call. I will miss you.’
‘I will miss you too, my darling,’ Odette replied, her voice just as low. ‘Remember what I taught you. Trust no one. Hire your own managers and solicitors. Read every contract twice.’
Maria nodded, but she seemed distracted as her gaze danced across the stage. Would she pay heed to her advice? Odette had grown fond of the little soprano, this year’s rising star. Hopefully, she’d learn how to hold her own before the world gobbled her up.
‘What is next for you?’ Maria asked.
Onstage, the lamps spilled across the wood, then struck upwards, their light pulsing and hatching into thin bands to form an incandescent wall that obscured the audience. From here, the only other person visible beyond the stage was Cassius Zadora, and even he became a silhouette shrouded in shadow. He stood on his low podium at the front of the orchestra pit, which stretched beneath the stage, his body midway between the concealed world of the musicians and the spectacle of the performance. From this vantage point, he could see everything—the music below and the singers above. He held his familiar rigid pose, all angles with his raised elbows and stiff shoulders, even though his hand and baton swished the air with the smoothness of a falling leaf. Music didn’t flow through Cassius as he conducted. No, he fought it in his quest to control every note. It beat and bruised him, and he held it, moulded it, then released it into the air. With a swift motion, he brought in first the flutes, then the brass. It was almost time.
‘That’s a secret,’ she answered Maria, then kissed her cheeks in farewell. ‘You will see it in the papers soon. Bon voyage, little Maria.’
The trumpet played its short burst of announcement, heralding her entrance.
Odette stepped onto the stage. Turned her back to the audience. Held her pose while the ensemble finished its song.
A beat of silence as she waited for the strings.
It was not a long rest, but tonight, Cassius held it tighter than normal. Like he was reminding her that, although she owned the stage, he owned the music. In these moments, she felt him as if he were standing right behind her, almost but not quite touching, his breath warm against her neck. She didn’t need to see him to know he was watching her, because in this moment, everyone was watching her.
This was the best part. The sliver of time when they were hers. The audience, the musicians below the stage in the orchestra pit, the lights, the other performers, even Cassius. She held them all in her palm. With a slight flick of her wrist to tell Cassius she was ready, she released them, and the moment melted into something more—the song, the performance, a magic so much bigger than her own voice. Linked by notes and quavers, lyrics and melody, passion and illusion. A transcendent experience.
The violins came in.
And no longer Odette, but now Romeo, she spun to face the crowd and began to sing.
