Chapter 2
Later that night, the gala was on. Rose was currently onstage in front of a full house. The spotlight illuminated her hair, shimmering gold against her white dress, and her nerves from the previous rehearsal were gone. Her voice, to the audience, seemed ethereal, more confident.
". . . And though it's clear, though it was always clear, that this was never meant to be, if you happen to remember, stop and think of me.
"Think of August when the trees were green. Don't think about the way things might have been.
"Think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned. Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind.
"Think of me, please say you'll think of me, whatever else you choose to do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you. . . ."
Up in one of the boxes, Jack was watching with his brother. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he studied Rose, then widened in recognition. No, it couldn't be. The last time he'd seen her had been in England . . .
Can it be? Could it really be Rose? Out loud he shouted, "Brava!" Long ago, he thought, it seemed so long ago. How young and innocent we were. She may not remember me, but I remember her.
". . . Flowers fade; fruits of summer fade. They have their seasons; so do we. But please promise me that sometimes you will think of me . . . !" Rose held out the final note, slowly raised her hands from waist to mid-chest level, arms straight and palms facing supine. The instant the note died away, the room erupted in applause. Smiling broadly, Rose curtsied, her dress pooling around her as the curtains drew shut.
The audience left their seats; the moment the curtains closed some of the ballet girls were helping Rose offstage, while the others took off for their dressing rooms to go change into more casual clothes.
Lynda and Christina ran into the Count and Viscount as the latter were coming out of the performance hall, with Gwen right behind the two girls. John seemed unusually excited, his eyes lighting up as he spotted Gwen. "Gwen Cooper!" he exclaimed. "I was hoping to see you tonight!"
"I'm engaged to be married," she informed him coolly; Jack ducked his head to hide the smile creeping on his face.
His half-brother didn't seem to have heard her. "It was a brilliant evening. And Rose Tyler!" he continued. "What a triumph! How is it she was kept this long from us?"
Lynda scoffed; her expression was one of disdain. Christina's own eyes glittered scornfully. "Rose, a triumph? Impossible!" A strand of dark hair fell in front of her eyes; she pushed it back. "Six months ago she sang like a crow. But do let us get by, my dear count," Christina continued, with a saucy curtsy. "We are going to enquire after a poor man who was found hanging by the neck."
Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, acting manager, had the misfortune to pass by just in time to hear Christina's remark. "What? How have you heard already?" She stopped, considered it, then shook her head. "I don't know why I bothered asking. You girls know everything that goes on here even more than we do." Her tone sharpened. "Forget about it. It's Wilfred and Yana's last night, and finding out would only upset them."
"What, they haven't left Paris yet?" Lynda asked in surprise.
"Did you really think they would?" Kate returned dryly.
"Well . . . no."
"They were planning on leaving tonight, after the gala." Kate shrugged. "I thought it was obvious or that they had told you, but apparently not. Now, if you two would carry on, please."
They all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. Comte Hart was right; no gala performance ever equaled this one. Rose had been simply stunning and had managed to usurp and sing even better than Reinette. During the performance, the Comte had heard all of the whispers and protests: Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all this time? Until then, Rose had done just fine in minor roles while Reinette had always played the lead. And it had taken Reinette's incomprehensible and inexcusable absence from this gala night for the little blonde Tyler, at a moment's warning, to show all that she could do in the role reserved for the French diva! Well, what the subscribers wanted to know was, why had Yana and Mott applied to Rose Tyler, when Reinette Poisson was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if they did know of it, why had they kept it hidden? Why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to the general public to have a singing professor at that moment. She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery.
The Comte Hart, standing up in his box, had heard all of this frenzy and took part in it by loudly applauding. John Hart was forty-one years of age, with close-cropped dark brown hair, dark eyes, and a surprisingly well-toned body. He was a great aristocrat and a rather good-looking man, despite his rather cold eyes. John was exquisitely polite to the women—more so than he should be, as he would flirt with almost any female or male who caught his eye—and a little haughty and indifferent to the men who did not always forgive him for his successes in society—or his private affairs. After his father's death, he had become the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France; his half-brother through their mother, Jack, had inherited the Boeshane Peninsula—the Face of Boe, some called him.
Jack was twenty years younger than his older half-brother, and had spent some time over in England as a young boy, staying with a friend of his called Gary. At the time of John's father's death, Jack had been twelve years old—he'd moved back to France to live with his brother, somehow sporting an American accent upon his return.
In any case, John would not have been there had it not been for Jack persuading him to become a patron for the Palais Garnier. After the performance, Jack had seemed restless, and John figured now would be as a good a time as any to turn his younger half-brother loose. With a quick tap on Jack's shoulder and a slight nudge of his fingers, John silently informed his younger brother he was free to go wherever he wished.
After all, he wouldn't want to hang around with his elder brother by twenty years after an opera performance either.
It wasn't long before Jack was lost in the crowd.
-oOo-
As Rose crouched before the little altar in the stone-walled room that served as a place where the opera singers, dancers, and workers could go for spiritual guidance and pray without being disturbed, she thought she heard an oh-so-familiar voice declare, "Brava, brava, bravissima . . .!"
Donna's voice followed her: "Rose! Rose!"
"Rose," she thought she heard the voice echo softly.
"Where in the world have you been hiding?" Donna asked, entering the room and coming up behind her. "Really, Rose, you were brilliant! I just wish I knew your secret. Who is this new tutor of yours? Cos honestly, the way you're singing now, you could be the next prima donna."
A smile lifted the corners of Rose's mouth; then it was gone. "Father once spoke of an angel," she told Donna. "I used to dream he'd appear." Breaking into song she continued, "Now as I sing I can sense him, and I know he's here!
"Here in this room he calls me softly, somewhere inside hiding. Somehow I know he's always with me—he, the unseen genius!"
"I watched your face from the shadows, distant through all the applause. I hear your voice in the darkness, yet the words aren't yours." Donna shook her head, her blue eyes worried and concerned for once. "Rose, you must have been dreaming. Stories like this can't come true, and you know it. Rose, you're talking in riddles and it's not like you!"
The blonde singer ignored her and called upon her instructor. "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory!"
"Who is this angel?" Donna asked herself. "This—"
Rose started singing again, and Donna found herself joining her friend: "Angel of Music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel."
Rose stopped walking, faced Donna. "He's with me even now," she said, her golden-brown eyes now the color of whiskey.
Donna, concerned, reached out and grasped her friend's hand. "Your hands are cold," she noticed, more out of surprise and in need of something to say than anything else. It was true: Rose's hands were as cold as ice. From fear? Or something else?
"All around me . . ." Rose continued quietly, her eyes flitting around the room as if she could physically see her Angel of Music.
Still, there was something about the way she did it, something about her expression, her body language . . . And she was pale—so, so pale . . . Donna couldn't help commenting on it.
"It frightens me," was the response. What exactly, she didn't say.
The only thing Donna could say was "Don't be frightened" as she threw an arm around Rose's shoulders, hoping to comfort her friend.
After a few minutes, Rose pulled back, gave Donna a shaky smile. "Are you a dancer or a singer?" she joked.
"What? Me, a singer?" Donna looked shocked. "Never!"
That earned her a small laugh from Rose.
They were outside Rose's dressing room now, entered the smaller room. No sooner had Rose sat down at her small desk than they heard the familiar sound of Sarah Jane's voice: "Donna! What are you doing in here? You should be with the others."
The redhead jumped. "Sorry, mum." She turned, hurried out of the room with a quick glance back at Rose. Then she was gone, heading back to where the other dancers were congregated.
Sarah Jane stepped up to behind Rose's chair, handed her a red rose. "You sang well tonight. He is very pleased."
There was no need to ask who she was referring to; they both knew—all too well. Rose accepted the thorny flower, brought it to her nose, and sniffed. Her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled its lovely scent.
She'd sung for him tonight, as always. He'd taken Reinette out of the picture for her, had given her a chance to prove herself to the public . . . but it was the praise of only one who mattered.
Yes, she'd do anything to please him.
-oOo-
Jack stopped just outside Rose's dressing room door as he heard Saxon's voice behind him:
"Ah, Viscount!"
Jack stifled a sigh, turned to face the two mangers. "Yes?"
"I'd say we made quite a discovery with Ms. Tyler," said van Statten.
"Perhaps we could present you to her, dear Viscount," Saxon added, with an oily smooth smile.
"If you don't mind, gentlemen," said Jack, "this is one visit I'd prefer to make alone."
As he opened the door and slipped inside, he heard Saxon comment, "It appears they know each other quite well."
Once he closed the door and laid eyes on Rose, however, it didn't matter whether he'd heard Saxon or not.
Her back was to him; he crept up silently, covered her eyes with his hands.
"Little Lottie, let her mind wander. Little Lottie thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?'" he said.
Rose tensed. "Who is it?"
"The one who fetched your red scarf from the sea, all those years ago."
"Jack—?" Still, she relaxed into his touch.
"Or of riddles or frocks?" he continued, as if he had never been interrupted.
"Those picnics in the attic," she interjected.
"Or of chocolates?"
"Father playing the violin."
"As we read to each other dark stories of the north."
"No," said Rose. "'What I loved best,' Lottie said, 'was when I'm asleep in my bed.' And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head," she sang softly.
Jack's voice twined with hers as they sang piano: "The Angel of Music sings songs in my head."
"You sang like an angel tonight," he told her.
Rose turned in her chair, faced him. "Father said, 'When I am in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, Father is dead, Jack, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music."
He couldn't stop the small laugh. "Oh, no doubt of it. And now, we go to supper."
Rose put a hand on top of his. "No, Jack." Her voice was suddenly stern. "The Angel of Music is very strict."
He forced himself to sound playful: "Well, I shan't keep you too late." He laughed again.
"Jack, no."
Stepping back, he ignored her. "You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lottie."
"No, Jack, wait!"
Rose reached out a hand to stop him, but he was already heading out the door. Jack had only made it a few steps before he thought he heard another voice inside Rose's room. Hurrying back, he pressed his ear to the door.
Inside her room, Rose had just come out from behind her wardrobe curtain with her golden hair—done up in curls for tonight—hanging around her face when a cold wind suddenly swept around her room, snuffed out the candles. He was here.
"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor sharing in my triumph!" Jack, outside the door, heard a male voice declare angrily.
"Don't say that!" Rose protested.
The voice softened, turned curiously masterful:
"Rose, you must love me!"
Jack could hear her voice, sad and trembling, as if accompanied by tears, as she replied, "How can you talk like that? When I sing only for you!"
His heart pounding in his chest, so loud he was sure the two of them could hear it, Jack pressed his ear even closer to the door panel.
"Are you very tired?" the male voice asked.
"Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead!"
"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child," replied the grave man's voice (did it have an English accent? Or was it Scottish?), "and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight."
There was silence for a few moments. Jack, however, did not go away. He stepped back, decided to wait until the man would leave the room. All at once, he was irrationally jealous. Just who was this man to speak to Rose in that manner?
Inside, oblivious to the eavesdropper outside her door, Rose ducked her head. "Then at least allow me to see you. Please. After everything you've done for me . . ."
"Flattering child, you shall know me," the voice said after a couple heartbeats. "See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror. . . ."
As if in a trance, Rose started moving towards the mirror. Yes, she could just see a face hidden in shadows, could just make out a mask . . .
". . . I am there inside."
In her trancelike state, she could see that, in fact, yes he was inside the mirror, one hand starting to reach out . . .
"Angel of Music," she pleaded, "guide and guardian, grant to me your glory. Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange angel."
A gloved hand was reaching out, stretching beyond the glass, beckoning her . . . "I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, angel of music," the masked face—her Angel—intoned.
Jack rattled the door, suddenly afraid for Rose, and found the door was locked. "Whose is that voice?" He rattled the door again. "Who is that in there?!" he yelled.
"I am your Angel of Music. . . ."
"Rose! Rose!"
"Come to the Angel of Music. . . ."
Rose, oblivious to Jack's protests, reached out and accepted the hand, stepped through the mirror. Her angel turned, covered her with his long black cloak, and they disappeared into his domain.
Jack managed to burst open the dressing room door moments later. He closed the door, found himself in absolute darkness. The candles had been blown out and the gas turned off.
"There's someone here!" His voice echoed back at him in the dark room. "I know there is! Show yourself, you coward! What are you waiting for?"
He struck a match. The blaze lit up the room . . . but there was no one there besides himself. A quick search turned up nothing.
Nervous now, Jack shook his head in defiance, as if he could deny what his eyes were telling him: that he was the only one in the room. Rose had just been in here; he'd heard her! The same with the strange man, too. How could they have just vanished into thin air?
"I must be going mad," he said aloud.
He stood there for at least five minutes, then went out, not knowing what he was doing nor where he was going. Occasionally an icy draft struck him in the face on his wayward progress back to the others. Eventually Jack found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which, behind him, a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher, covered with a white sheet.
"Which is the way out?" he asked one of the men.
"Straight in front of you; the door is open. But let us pass."
Pointing to the stretcher, Jack asked, "What is that?"
"'That' is Peter Zwölf, who was found dead in the third cellar, hanging between a farmhouse and a scene from the Roi de Lahore."
Jack bowed his head, fell back to make room for the procession, and went out to join his half-brother.
