Much to her chagrin, Sara and the troupe nearly collided with Carla Cheney, a well-known sponsor of the theatre, who had been instrumental in promoting Sara to principle dancer. Sara's mind began to race wondering how much of the macabre events of the night she might know.
"I was just coming to find you," she said clutching her fur stole. "Oh, Sara, what an evening! Did you hear the performance by that new young tenor? Such a triumph!"
"Do you mean Christopher Day?" Marcus said as he squeezed his way between them. "That's impossible. Six months ago he used to sing like a cat in a bag. But please let us by. We're going to see about the poor woman found dead behind the footlights."
Sara cringed as Ms. Cheney's gloved hand flew to cover her mouth. At that moment the acting manager hurried by. He stopped in his tracks, having just heard the young boy's declaration. "What? Is word out already? Dear, oh dear. Please let us not speak of it just yet, especially to Deb and Polly. We don't want to ruin their night. Let's keep it quiet until at least tomorrow, shall we?" Without waiting for a reply he vanished up the stairs without another word.
"Please, Ms. Cheney," Sara said. "If you will excuse us?"
"Of course," she replied giving a piteous glance to the children as they passed by.
Despite the pall over the evening, Sara had to admit, the performances had been spectacular. Everyone had outdone themselves, each work a masterpiece in its own right. But the true star of the night, everyone agreed, was Christopher Day. Many who saw him said he laid his soul upon the stage that night. This had been the first night the young Tenor sang a featured work in the Opera. His voice was rich and full, but with an unparalleled nuance. His rendering of Mephistopheles brought the house down.
As the crowd erupted with shouts for Encore, Christopher slipped backstage, having taken his bows. He managed to make it just off the stage before he collapsed against the wall to catch his breath, momentarily overcome by the reaction. The other performers surrounded him.
"Go on, Chris. Go back. They are calling for an encore!"
He kept it together long enough to return to the stage for another bow. Prior to that night, the role of Mephistopheles had been famously performed by Elias Valentine, who had fallen ill earlier in the week, freeing up the part. Already the theatre sponsors began to whisper that such a talent was kept from them intentionally by the outgoing managers. Perhaps most mysterious of all was the knowledge that Chris did not, to anyone's knowledge have a singing tutor to teach him.
Carla Cheney listened from her reserve box as if one possessed. The spell only broken to join the thunderous applause as the last notes drifted over the upturned faces of the rapt audience. Ms. Cheney had been involved in the theatre to some degree for most of her adult life. At forty-one years, she remained an attractive woman, though known for her hard expression and sometimes cold demeanor. As the erstwhile matriarch of the Cheney family, Carla had worked hard to make a name for herself in the society circles, picking up the mantel of her family when their father died, difficult as it was.
Her two brothers and her sister, Rachelle, would not hear of dividing the estate, each waiving their rights to their claim on the property. The brother's both married, as expected to well-bred society girls. Rachelle, however, had not been so easily tamed, defying her societal upbringing and spending all her spare minutes at the seaside. She returned always with sun-pink cheeks, laughter and scuffed stockings. She did not do well as a debutante but proved herself in other ways by graduation with honors. Her first foray from home was with a three-year science expedition to the Arctic.
Rachelle's relationship with her sister was unlike that of other siblings, being twenty years her junior. Carla Cheney doted on her, taking every opportunity to spoil her on her few furloughs home. She was proud of the young woman and all she had accomplished in her young life. Yet she tried as she could to expose her to the privilege and benefits of her societal status, taking her to the theatre and introducing her into the prerogative of the gentry lifestyle. Perhaps part of her hoped she would marry or find some other reason to move back home. She had picked this evening specifically to take Rachelle to the gala, to allow her to rub elbows, to meet the dancers and experience a glimpse of the lifestyle she may have if she returned home full time.
"Rachelle, my dear, are you alright?" she asked. The girl had gone strangely pale after the performance by Christopher Day.
"Yes," came the reply. "We must go backstage immediately. I insist upon it. I've never known him to sing in such a way."
Her eyes remained locked on the performer, taking his second bow upon the stage.
Ms. Cheney felt puzzled at her sister's reaction but stirred with a glimmer of hope at her excitement. They arrived a moment later at the door leading to the hallway of the dressing rooms. Theatre members, stagehands, and backstage guests moved through the small hallway, forcing the two women to push their way through. Rachelle arrived at the dressing room amid the surrounding throngs bustling to catch a glimpse of the tenor, Christopher Day.
The doctor arrived at the same time as Rachelle, called in by the cautious stage manager to check on the star. Blood sugar, Chris insisted, nothing more, but protocol had to be followed. Chris laid on the elevated dressing room chair, with a cloth over his face and eyes, a pinnacle in the center of the room, oblivious to Rachelle and the others.
"Doctor," she said, positioning herself close to Christopher's head and commanding an authoritarian tone. "We should clear the room. Don't you think?" This was not a question.
"You're quite right," the doctor muttered without much consideration. He waved everyone out, except for Rachelle and the attending man-servant.
Back in the hallway, Carla Cheney chuckled to herself watching the whole sequence of events. Rachelle had within moments made herself indispensable, taking charge and receiving no resistance to her authority. "Hm! Perhaps she is a Cheney after all," she muttered to herself. She left then, hoping to catch up with Sara French, whom she found forthwith along with the frightened junior troupe at the stairs landing.
Christopher Day opened his eyes, seeing through the mirror's reflection the doctor first. His eyes turned toward Rachelle standing behind him, seeking her out in the false distance the mirror implied. He made no immediate reaction but considered her presence. Rachelle tried to calm her racing heart as he turned, taking in the room, counting each person and examining the purpose of their presence, glancing over each of them, the doctor, the man-servant, and back to Rachelle.
"Who are you?" he said with a flat searching voice.
Rachelle crossed to face him, forcing his eyes from her reflection to her natural face. She took his hand and smiled. "I am the little girl who went to sea to rescue your cap."
Once more no sign of recognition appeared in his countenance. The doctor and man-servant exchanged a glance, trying perhaps to decipher Rachelle's cryptic statement. Rachelle felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She stood and took a step back. Christopher sat up, smoothing back his disheveled hair.
"It is clear, Mr. Day, that you don't recognize me," she said in attempt to regain the authority which got her into the room in the first place. "Perhaps we could speak together privately for a moment."
"Yes, of course," he replied as he sat up. "But not just now. Do you mind?"
His words caught her off guard.
"In fact," he continued, standing and leaning his fingertips on the dressing table, "I'd like to be alone just now. The, um, the performance has left me rather spent."
"Yes," the doctor chimed in. "I must tend to him. If you all don't mind-"
"No, Doctor. I'm fine now, please," Christopher rubbed his face over his eyes, turning towards them all and with sudden urgency waved them all out the door. "I'd prefer to be alone right now. All of you."
The hallway had been largely deserted by this time, most of the inhabitants having gone to the gala. The doctor said good night and went his way. Rachelle expected Chris should attend the gala and decided to wait for him in the shadows of the empty hall. She felt such a heartache at his rebuff and wanted to put it right before another moment passed. When the dressing room door opened, her breath caught, but it was only the man-servant, carrying out the costumes bundled in his arms.
"Pardon me, sir," Rachelle asked. "But is he alright? Will he be out soon?"
"Oh, he is quite well," The man replied. "But he must be left alone right now."
I wonder, Rachelle mused, if he is waiting for me to return He did say he would speak with me when he felt better. He sent the others away for that reason, I am sure.
Her heart pounded as she stepped towards the door, leaning forward to hear his reply as she raised her hand to knock. What she heard next froze the blood in her veins. A woman's voice, as clear as a bell, speaking from inside the dressing room, her tone breathless, as one within the throws of passion. "You must love me, Christopher," she said.
"You know I only sing for you," he replied in a desperate whisper.
Rachelle leaned against the wall trying to steady her weakened knees. The blood coursed in her veins by some magic beyond herself, as if the silence of the hallway had been overcome by the sound of her heartbeat. She briefly wondered if they would hear it inside the room, opening the door to laugh at her desperation.
"Are you tired?" The woman's voice continued filtering through the door.
"I gave you my soul," Christopher replied. "Being on stage tonight was like a little death." The sound of his voice brought hot and unexpected tears to Rachelle's eyes.
"Kings and Queens in all of the ages have never been given such a gift. Tonight you made the angels weep."
Rachelle backed away from the door, feeling at once as if she were eavesdropping upon a quiet private moment between two lovers. She returned to the shadows where she had stood a moment before, daring not to leave just yet. Her heart remained, despite the apparent facts before her, locked inside that room.
An eternity of seconds passed before the door opened again, revealing Chris, hands deep in the pocket of his long black coat, eyes covered with dark glasses. He glanced up and down the hall, closing the door behind him. Rachelle remained unnoticed as he disappeared towards the foyer. She crossed the now deserted hallway and opened the door to the dressing room. For a flicker of a moment, she realized the absurdity of her actions, slinking about like a schoolgirl with a crush. She should have waited. And what did she expect would happen if she came face to face with this woman? Closing the door behind her she found herself in darkness. All the lights had been turned out.
"I know you're in here," Rachelle called out. "No reason to hide."
No response but the darkness and silence. Rachelle's hand fumbled against something cold and metal, a lighter at the edge of the dressing table. With a quick motion, she flicked the top and ignited the flame, shattering the darkness and throwing dancing shadows on the wall. There was no one else there.
"I've lost my mind," Rachelle whispered taking a tentative step forward. "I've absolutely lost my mind."
She squeezed her eyes shut and steadied her breath, calming herself enough to think about turning on the lights. The fluorescent bulbs popped to life, further revealing the emptiness of the room, save for the lingering scent of men's cologne. Chris. She searched the room, careful not to disturb anything. The costume cabinets, the dressing area, the cupboards, all revealing nothing more than their intended contents. At last, she admitted defeat, confusion replacing the intensity of her emotions.
No one spotted her leaving the room. Not until the staircase did she run into another soul, a procession of workers carrying a stretcher, covered in a white sheet.
"Pardon me," she asked one of them. "Which is the closest way out?"
"Just this way," he gestured towards the open door. An icy gust caught her breath. "But do let us
pass by first."
"What is this?" Rachelle asked. "What has happened?"
"This is Janice Flowers, found this very evening behind the footlights."
Rachelle stepped backward, placing her hand over her heart as the pieces fell into place. She let them by, waiting until they cleared the building before she exited into the darkness of the cold night.