Page 10 of The Kiss of the Nightingale

CHAPTER TEN

Headlines

A TRIUMPH FOR Le Nouvel Opéra de Lutèce!

Last night’s opera gala is one to be remembered, not only as a fantastic start to the summer, but as the beginning of a new chapter for the grand opera.

This morning, the name on everyone’s lips is Cleodora Adley—the young successor to the great soprano Dame de Adley herself.

But who is this new prima donna, whom many are already calling “Lutèce’s Nightingale”?

Coming from a country estate to the big city, the young Dame conquered the stage as soon as the first note flew from her lips. Not a single eye in the audience could have missed the glow of the ruby on her finger. Five levels of seats were flooded with her sweet soprano notes as her petite figure, clad in black and white, swayed with the emotions of her song. The most precious of silences followed her performance, as if the air itself wished to hold on to the spell. It lasted for only mere seconds, though, before the hall was rocked by the force of applause, echoing all the way from the first row to the top-most gallery.

At that moment, a star was born.

Read more in an exclusive interview with Maestro Lamar Mette, the musical director of Le Nouvel Opéra de Lutèce, on page 5 .

“A positive review, I’m certain, my lady?” the head butler asks as he sneaks a glance at my copy of Le Petit Journal while filling my cup with hot cocoa.

I nod, utterly speechless.

“That’s wonderful, my lady. You ought to celebrate.”

Just like the rest of the estate’s staff, he is far too young for his position, barely into his twenties, with only a hint of a mustache gracing his upper lip.

Another servant enters the dining room, carrying a silver tray with fresh pastries. Without waiting, the butler places them on the already heavily laden table.

“Thank you, Godfrey.” I muster a smile before glancing once more at the page.

Breakfast delicacies surround me, yet I’m queasy. Last night’s memories are like a dream, something that couldn’t possibly belong in my life. But it is my photograph that stares back at me from the front page, just between an ad for ladies’ riding hats and an announcement about traveling cheques. I’m on the stage in mid curtsy, holding my bouquet. I trace my finger over the black lines. If I didn’t know this was me, I wouldn’t have recognized myself, and not only because of the grainy texture of the photo.

Lutèce’s Nightingale , I read the name again, and the memory of Dahlia’s kiss brushing my forehead fills my mind. “My little nightingale” she called me. It’s so specific, I wonder if she had a hand in suggesting the public nickname. A smile tugs at my lips at the thought.

I put the paper down. “Is Madame scheduled to arrive later today?”

“No, my lady. Madame usually spends the day after any event at home,” the head butler clears his throat, “. . . recovering.”

The image of Madame’s wine-flushed cheeks resurfaces.

“I see.”

I stare at the pool of gold sunlight falling on the mahogany table. The dining room is on the ground floor, and its massive arched windows and airy drapes welcome the garden greenery into the room. I’m looking over the rose hedges when a familiar face peeks out of them.

I stand up so quickly that I push the table, spilling the cup of hot cocoa over my full plate. Instinctively, I grab a clean cloth and dab at the spill, but all I manage to do is burn my fingers. “Merde!” The curse slips from my lips before I can suppress it.

“My lady!” The head butler rushes to me. “Are you hurt? Please allow me.”

I step away from the table, flashing another glance at the window. The face is already gone, but I know what I saw.

The head butler shouts orders to the servants, the tiny topaz gem on his cufflink gleaming—the Organizational Talent that earned him his position springing into action.

“I’m so sorry, my lady.” He turns to me while the other servants are already running to the kitchen to replace my ruined breakfast. “If your ladyship would like to go and change her dress, we will arrange for your breakfast to be brought to your room. I will have Pauline sent up to you at once.”

Looking down, I notice the brown stains marking the pink lace of my gown. “Oh . . . that won’t be necessary. I’m not that hungry anyway. And please allow Pauline to finish her breakfast. I will change on my own.”

Without waiting for his response, I hasten out of the room and up the staircase to my chambers. I’ve just managed to close the door behind me when Lirone jumps off my bed, cutting short a low melody he was humming.

“What took you so long? And what happened to your dress?”

“You showed up mid breakfast.” I keep my voice low. “I thought we were supposed to meet tonight.”

“You were asleep when I arrived yesterday.” There’s something accusing in his tone. “This can’t wait.”

“You mean . . . you were in my room while I was sleeping?”

Lirone shrugs .

“What about my privacy?”

He ignores me. “Lady Sibille enjoyed your performance last night.”

“She was there?” I’m not really sure why I’m surprised by this point, but the knowledge that she saw my triumph in person is undeniably exhilarating. If nothing else, it strengthens my position despite not making enough progress with the vicomte.

“She hopes you like your new nickname.” Lirone keeps talking, as if I didn’t say anything.

Lutèce’s Nightingale . It really is her doing.

“But how did you do with the vicomte?”

“Well . . . things didn’t go quite so—”

“Damn it, Cleo. I told you, you needed a plan.”

I flinch. “Hey, watch your tongue.”

“Merde!” he spits back at me, his tiny face full of defiance. “What, were you too busy getting drunk?”

“No!” I cross my arms. Who is he to talk to me this way? He’s just a kid.

“Was talking about your big upcoming role more interesting?”

I open my mouth and close it, stumped for a second. “Upcoming role?”

“Don’t play dumb, it’s right here.” From within his patched-up jacket, he draws a copy of today’s paper. “That conductor talked all about it in the interview.”

I swallow my surprise over the fact he even knows how to read and snap the paper from his hand, spreading it on the bed. Just as Lirone said, there it is.

Maestro Lamar Mette announces a newly commissioned opera to open the upcoming season, starring tenor Chevalier José Muratore and soprano Dame Cleodora de Adley.

“He chose me?”

“You really didn’t know?” Lirone asks.

I shake my head .

“Well, now you do. But this won’t help you when Lady Sibille realizes you aren’t doing your job with the vicomte.”

I tear my eyes from the paper. “But I am doing my job. I know where the vicomte will be this Sunday.”

“Where?” He puts his fists on his hips. Somehow that makes him look even skinnier than he already is. When was the last time he had a meal?

“Some gallery, for a new art exhibition.” I fold the paper confidently. “I need you to find out which one.”

“Me?” He scoffs. “Why do I have to work double because you can’t do your part properly? You’re on your own.”

Before I can say another word, he turns his back to me and disappears behind the tapestry and through the secret door.

But I can’t let him leave. I race after him.

“Lirone!” I whisper as the door closes behind me, leaving me enveloped in shadows.

A soft click precedes the tiny flame of Lirone’s lighter.

“What?” he asks.

“There are so many galleries in the city, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Not my problem.” He turns away, the tiny flickering light moving farther down the passage with him, leaving me in darkness.

I follow him, running my hands along the scratchy walls to avoid falling. “Please, I can’t exactly ask anyone else. I don’t want anyone to know I’m interested in the vicomte.”

“I don’t work for you.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes at him, but I’m not sure he can even see it in this light. “You want to be promoted by Dahlia, right? Isn’t making sure we both look good a part of it?”

He halts at once, and I know I’ve won. “Fine,” he huffs, walking back and closing the distance between us. “But you better get this man interested this time. You got a plan?”

I’m about to lie again and claim I do when I meet his eyes. “No. ”

“So we better come up with one.”

“We?”

A sudden noise makes me freeze. Something between squeaking and hissing. Could there be someone else in the passage? The thought makes my heart quicken. I’m about to ask Lirone about it when something furry scurries over my foot.

My scream echoes from the narrow walls around me as I jump, almost tumbling backward.

“Shhh!” Lirone grabs my arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

“R-rat.”

“And here I thought you were just pretending to be a spoiled lady.” His voice is teasing, the fire gleaming mischievously in his eyes.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He draws out a wrinkled envelope from one of his pockets.

Even in the faint light, I recognize the handwriting at once. Anaella. The seal is already broken, but I have no time to question it. My fingers tremble as I take out the thin page, each stroke of ink carrying a piece of my sister within it. I hold it to my face, taking in the aroma that lingers from her touch—a faint scent of mint and cinnamon.

Lirone steps closer, allowing the light to illuminate the words, and yet it takes me several moments to be able to comprehend them and not just stare.

My dear Cleo,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I was so happy to receive a message from you. It has been too long since I saw you, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I know you’re doing all of this for me, and I’m grateful, but I miss you.

Nurse Dupont treats me well, she is kind and skilled. And the doctor has already been here twice since you saw him. He says I’m getting better .

Maybe I could come visit you soon? Nurse Dupont told me you work for a fine lady here in the city. I can’t wait to hear all about it!

P.S. Is Father’s book with you? I can’t find it anywhere.

Love,

Your Ann

A lone tear leaves a warm trail on my cheek before landing on the page and smearing a part of the ink. Everything inside me is spiraling, the emotions crashing into each other like cruel waves.

My sister is going to be okay. She is getting better. My relief is like a breath of fresh air. Yet the pain of the separation cuts through me.

This is the sacrifice I made. My burden to bear.

The weight of lying to her sits on my chest like a ton of bricks. But at least I’m not left in the dark . . . Anaella is all alone in this, confused and abandoned.

Perhaps taking Father’s book with me was selfish. I knew Anaella was attached to it; she used to sleep with it under her pillow for the longest time. But I didn’t think about any of that when I took it. I just wanted a piece of home with me—a slice of memory of my parents and Anaella.

“Here.” Lirone hands me a dirty, oddly damp handkerchief.

I dab at my running nose, wiping the tears with the back of my hand. “Thank you,” I say.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

“More than words can say. She’s the only family I have left.”

Lirone turns quiet. I’ve never seen him so still, so unlike his usual hyperactive self.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have a family?”

“Lady Sibille is my family.”

“I meant a mother or father? Siblings? ”

He hardens for just a moment before taking a step farther into the dark tunnel. “I’ll be back tonight with the information about the art exhibition, so we can start planning.”

“But—”

“Don’t fall asleep before I come.” He dashes away, disappearing around a corner and taking the only light source with him.

Snatching my skirts, I scurry toward the hidden door. I don’t know if anyone heard my cry, but I’ve been in here too long already. The letter is heavy in my hand—a treasure I must hide and protect. A piece of home. Of my true identity.

Soon my free outstretched hand lands over the rough surface of the tiny door. I just manage to grab the metal doorknob and pull when another sound sends chills down my spine. But this time it’s not a rat, and the sound doesn’t come from the dark passage behind me. It comes from inside my room.

The tapestry hides me from view as I hold on to the open door, heart pounding in my ears. The butler must have sent Pauline, or one of the other maids, after all. Should I head back and try to find a different way out? The idea of retreating into the rat-infested darkness where I could tumble to my death makes me shudder.

No. I’ll stay here and wait until whoever it may be leaves.

But a thumping of boots startles me. I lean closer. These are the steps of a man, not a maid. The sound of shuffling, like someone is rifling through my things, is clearly audible from behind the tapestry.

Could it be a thief? None of these riches feel like mine anyway, so there really is nothing in this room I’m attached to. Except . . . Father’s book.

The thought of someone finding it or stealing it turns my blood icy. I can no longer stand still. Inching closer, I pinch at the fabric, trying to sneak a peek at the intruder.

A sliver of light illuminates the darkness of the passage as I stare at my sunbathed chambers. My view is narrow, and for a moment I don’t see anything aside from my vanity and the pink carpet. Then a tall figure en-ters the frame. His back is toward me, allowing me to take in only his brown jacket and casquette hat. Even before he turns, cold spreads through my body all the way to my toes. And when he finally does, it takes all my self-control not to cry out loud once more.

I let the tapestry drop and hide me just before the coachman’s eyes can meet mine.