Chapter 25

Despite what people expected after the special performance, The Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo did not retire from the stage after that night. Two days later, she was back on the stage for Fidelio, and it was truly like she had never collapsed before the theater patrons.

I secretly attended all twenty-six of her performances. Four times I saw her perform on the stage as I sat in Box Five; the other twenty-two were from beneath the stage as the de Chagnys had returned to claim their coveted spot. Each time she sang, there was so much passion in her voice I was moved to tears. She knew it was the end of her career and she wished to leave her audiences stunned.

After each curtain call, I knew it was only a matter of time before her cousin Carlotta Vicari took her place. It saddened me greatly, especially since Cathedra still sat in the chapel and spoke frequently to me, her mute ghost. I wrote a final note to her, but to be frank I was too afraid to leave it for Senora di Carlo. I worried that the note would cause the singer undue stress-or worse yet that Madeline would catch wind of what I had done and confront me. The buzz regarding the notorious opera ghost had died down considerably and I had no desire to stir up trouble. Someone else was doing a damned fine job of that, it seemed.

Cathedra's cousin was young-only a few years older than me-and had been training for the stage since she was six years old, a detail she made certain everyone knew. While Cathedra had most certainly earned her place as well as more than a little arrogance with her years of performing, Carlotta walked into the theater expecting to be waited on hand and foot. She had Cathedra's confidence without the ability to back it up.

Or at least that was what the rest of the theater's performers, dressers, seamstresses, kitchen staff, ballet girls, stagehands, set designers, and manager said under their collective breaths when the new diva trounced across the stage.

Even Madeline seemed somewhat annoyed with the new addition, but she voiced her disdain politely-at least compared to others.

"She is a cow," Madeline said through her teeth one morning as she came to bring me food.

From all of the conversations I overheard, that was the nicest thing anyone had said about Signora Vicari. I chuckled to myself every time I pictured a cow singing on the stage.

Carlotta was the furthest thing from a cow, however. I saw her several times through the doorway where I had stopped and made eye contact with Cathedra, but unlike her cousin, Carlotta did not notice me. She was far too busy making certain everyone noticed her to spare me a glance.

Carlotta was built like a sculpture had painstakingly chiseled her from stone. She was tall for a woman with generous, round hips, a slim waist, and according to more than one stagehand, very well endowed. She had large, dark eyes, a slender nose, and very red lips, red as rose petals. What she possessed in beauty and grace on the stage she lacked in everything else. If nothing else, Carlotta played the role of diva off the stage and never broke character. When she wasn't singing, she was yelling at someone for doing their job improperly.

With the slow transition from Cathedra to Carlotta imminent, I spent as much time as possible on the theater side of the lake where I felt as though I were part of the Opera House. I overheard tantalizing gossip and learned when the halls and theater were crowded and when not a soul stirred.

When there was no one else around I walked the flies above the stage, rifled through the costumes and wigs, and stole strings for my violin. To make up for the strings, I also repaired a door on a piece of scenery that was in danger of falling off its hinges. I felt a sense of belonging, even if no one knew I was there.

My contentment with this new daily routine was short-lived, however. I could feel the turbulence deep inside, the aching in my heart biding its time to be noticed once more. It was like taking medication for pain; for the moment the discomfort was dulled, but once the effects wore off, the agony would return.

By late October, with days before Gaetan Giry was set to leave, I felt myself on the verge of panic. No matter what I did, the feeling would not release its tight grip.

To compound my misery, a storm settled over Paris and refused to budge. It thundered and poured for three days straight and the smell of rain reached across the lake during the middle of the day, undoubtedly from the doors to the alley being left open.

The earthy smell seemed to settle inside of me, and despite my attempts at focusing on music, I could not shake the image of digging a grave. When I closed my hands into fists, I swore I felt the mud beneath my nails and the blisters on my fingers. My hands trembled so severely I could not hold the bow when I tried to play the violin.

For a solid week sleep became impossible, food lost its taste, and I was restless. Madeline spent the last week exclusively with the commander when she was not in rehearsals or on stage. Of course she had given me plenty of notice, and although I had no desire to be alone,I had nodded through everything she told me without listening to a single word. More than anything, I did not wish to be a burden on her.

Without Madeline's company, solitude became unbearable, and I struggled to find my uncle's guiding voice through the static in my thoughts. I was too exhausted to swim across the lake and feared without any rest I would either stumble on the wet rocks and injure myself or drown, which meant my days were spent exclusively in the cavern.

The smell of rain hung in the air. I closed my eyes, curled up in bed beneath my blankets, and felt the chilled breeze from across the lake against my hair and the back of my neck. I thought of how it had rained the day my uncle had passed, how I sat with him in the tent and helplessly watched the life leave his yellowed eyes. No amount of begging or praying changed his fate or mine. No amount of tears shed brought him back. No amount of time passing lessened the pain I felt.

I realized I was forgetting the details of the man who was so dear to me. I could no longer recall how his hand on top of my head felt, or the warmth of his shoulder against mine as we sat and ate supper around a fire. The sound of his voice had faded and the words I thought I would remember for the rest of my life were jumbled in my head. He was fading from me, even in memory, and the realization tightened my chest.

"I miss you," I said as I choked back a desperate sob. "My God, how I miss you."

I would have given anything to hear his voice one more time, to hear him tell me I was a remarkable musician and a fine young man. One more word of praise and I would have finally believed he spoke the truth.

Alone in the dark, I allowed myself a moment to break down and feel the heaviness of my loss. I agonized over his final moments and wondered if he had heard me say I loved him. I wished I had offered him my blanket to keep him warm, that I had held his hand or kissed his forehead in an attempt to comfort him. More than anything, I still wished that I had closed my eyes and never opened them again.

"I love you, Uncle," I forced myself to say aloud. "I loved you more than my father. More than I have ever loved anyone else. More than I will ever love anyone."

I sobbed so hard I could not catch my breath. The aching in my heart writhed, and I felt both empty with loss and yet overflowing with emotion. The day he had left me, there had been no time to fully process my grief as I went from sobbing over his body to digging his grave and immediately being placed in irons once I covered his body with dirt and stones. Numbness drew me in and I did not shed a single tear for him, not in the ten months I spent on display from city to city.

"Erik."

The sound of my name startled me. I sucked in a wild breath and my eyes popped open, my arms flailing beneath the sheets. Foolishly I had hoped to find my uncle standing over me, even if he was nothing more than a ghost paying a brief visit.

It took me a long moment to register who had called to me as I was in such a haze that did not recognize Madeline's voice, but the moment I saw her face in the lantern light, I furiously attempted to wipe away my tears.

"A moment," I said, my voice so tight I barely realized the words were mine. I started to sit up and move away from her, desperate to compose myself.

Ignoring my words, she sat beside me and motioned for me to lay down again. The lantern light glowed around her, a soft halo befitting an angel.

"No," I said weakly as I shook my head.

Madeline placed her hand on my pillow and lightly tapped her fingers. Her features were calm and relaxed, her movements slow and patient. I knew she would not relent until I did as she requested. At last I gave in and nodded. Tears slid down my cheeks and I sucked in a ragged breath before I laid down once more and buried my face in my pillow. Every bit of tension welled up within me begged to be released, but still I clung to agony, forced it down and willed my emotion to stay put. If I could focus on each breath I took, eventually I would settle down and stop making a fool of myself in front of her.

Without a sound, Madeline placed her hand on my head and smoothed my tangled hair. I shivered at her touch, at the memory of my uncle elicited by one stroke of her hand. She pulled the blanket up to my shoulders and gently ran her hand up and down my back, not once telling me to settle down.

Nothing would have stopped the raw flood of emotion. I felt cut open, a hemorrhage of grief flooding from a wound that had needed to open. I inched closer to her, felt her knee against the middle of my back, and imagined myself as a son seeking comfort from his mother.

I cried until there was nothing left, utterly howled with grief I had kept inside for so long I felt as though I had been poisoned. All the while, Madeline remained beside me, the comfort of her simple presence unlike anything I had experienced before. No one had been this gentle with me, not even my uncle. His presence was firm but kind while Madeline was every bit a doting mother.

"My uncle," I said once the lump in my throat subsided. I felt I owed her an explanation for my emotional state, but my breath was sliced by hiccups every few seconds, which made it difficult to continue. Frustrated, I turned away, feeling the heat of rage threaten.

"I know," she answered quietly. The storm inside me stilled. "I know."

I took a deep breath and nodded.

"It's cold tonight," she said. Those were the last words I remember hearing her say. The backs of her soft fingers stroked the right side of my face and the shell of my ear. I took a deep breath, but my nose was running and I couldn't smell her perfume. I realized I could no longer smell the rain or the heady scent of dirt, either.

My eyes fluttered shut to her touch, and for the first time in a week I fell into peaceful sleep, my racing heart and mind settled by the rhythmic motion of her hand sweeping up and down my spine and through my hair.

As my mind wandered, I wanted to tell Madeline I loved her, loved her more than my own distant mother. I wanted to tell her that I was incorrect in telling my uncle I would never love anyone else because I loved her just as much as I had loved him, but my lips quivered and my tongue felt thick. If I spoke a single word, I knew I would not be able to finish my thought. Emotion had hit me much harder than I anticipated. It was worse than a fist to the gut.

Despite my exhaustion, I forced my eyes open one last time, looked over my shoulder, and found Madeline smiling back at me. She nodded once, silent reassurance that I could close my eyes.

I had no idea how long she stayed with me. When I woke again Madeline was gone. In her place was a handful of candies and a vase of flowers on the bedside table.

We never spoke of that moment. After a while, I was almost certain it had been nothing more than a dream.