The train horn bellowed throughout the gorge, echoing off the dark hills before her eyes and cutting through the night's chill with thunderous intent. Over the last hours, Christine had become accustomed to the sound, and now all she heard, all she saw, all she felt was the all too distant sound of her father's violin amongst the clatter of the rails. A hollow ghost of a memory. Insubstantial and unimportant.
Wrapping her heavy scarf tighter around her throat, she let her fingers linger in the yarn's folds. The well-read note she'd been carrying throughout her journey crumpled further. In the distance the warm orange glow of the coal town beaconed. It was to be her home now.
Mauch Chunk. The strange little name of a sleepy little town hidden in hills anthracite black. There would be no more singing for dukes and earls in Paris, no more singing for rich robber barons in New York. She would raise her voice for company men and the bawdy workers who most likely drank too much near the river's banks. She'd had many promises in her life and now she was sure, every single promise ever made to her did not matter. Every single one had been hollow words, foolishly spoken.
Impossibly, the wind blew colder through the rail station, the breaks hissing to a stop. Though the train had met its destination, the station and downtown before it sat in sleepy blackness, none of the glow from before in sight. A thin, sharp woman stood alone below the single station light, her eyes persistent in their searching. Christine's heart stopped. It was as though a ghost had come to meet her. The woman so looked like her long-ago ballet mistress. When the woman's eyes fell upon Christine, they lingered, a small nod of the head her only confirmation that this must be Molly Weaver.
Clutching her few bags of belongings, she made her way toward the exit. It felt good to finally move. Warm even. Never mind that the woman Christine was to meet looked like she blew winter itself from her lungs.
"Mrs. Weaver?"
"Madame Weaver." A questionable French accent gracing her voice.
Christine tried for a smile, "Vous êtes français alors?"
"Come, child." Unimpressed, Christine watched as Madame Mol spun on her heal and took to a brisk pace up the town's main street.
"What about my trunk, Madame?" Christine hollered at the woman's back.
She didn't even bother to turn, "It will follow you in due time. Come now! The hour is late and I have things to do."
Christine filled her lungs and blew the air out through puffed cheeks. She wondered if full grown women were able to reincarnate into other full grown women. By the time the breath was released, she was upon Mol's heals.
The short walk up the avenue to the Hotel American was uneventful, yet Christine's frozen feet could not help but fill with slivers of pain at each step. She'd sat too long on the cold train and now her limbs were realizing it. It was nearly a forgone conclusion that she would be ill in the morning. Had she any money on her person, she would have upgraded to the indoor car. Perhaps she should have tried harder to impose upon the kindness of a handsome stranger. No, her mind answered firmly. That was never an option, and she pushed such stupid thoughts away.
Still, an opera diva with no voice was not an auspicious start to a small town debut. Molly Weaver directed her up the front stairs of hotel with no ceremony, opening the door and entering before her. The lobby of the hotel glittered in red and gold, sumptuous in its décor. Heat all at once oppressed her person and, though she wanted nothing more desperately than to slink into the large armchair by the fire, Christine moved to stand by the open window as Mol checked her into her room.
"Breakfast is at seven sharp in the dining hall to your right. You are expected at the Opera House no later than eight o'clock to begin rehearsal. Unlike in the city, divas here would do well not to be late. Do you have your music?" When Christine did not move fast enough, she continued on, "Never mind. He will be able to play whatever aria you intend without the customary advanced notice. Tomorrow you will dine with the Cummings. It is important you impress Mrs. Cummings, but remember she is the opera's patron. Not yours. Sleep with your window open tonight if you want your voice acclimated for tomorrow."
Mol dropped a small silver key into Christine's hand and left without a second look.
"Madame Weaver, it is customary for me to meet with the managers before rehearsal begins." Mol straightened the front of her bodice, her frank gaze calculating over Christine's person.
"You have met the manager. I manage the Opera House for Mr. Y in all things. We will discuss your terms in the morning. Before rehearsal." A curt smile cut the woman's lips and she exited through the main lobby door into the night.
"Well," Christine whispered to the cool night air, wholly unsure how to complete the sentence.
