Page 9 of The Kiss of the Nightingale

CHAPTER NINE

Champagne and Biscuits

DEAFENING APPLAUSE FILLS the hall as the curtains fall. The cheers are a magnetic pull, demanding that we step back on stage for multiple curtain calls. I’m wrapped in a daze when Maestro Mette gives the signal and the entire row of singers bows once more.

Rose petals land on the stage, and the trance between me and the audience quickly meshes with reality as a colorful bouquet is delivered to my hands. My heart hammers in my chest, the rush of the performance stretching a wide grin on my face.

“Brava!” The shouts ring out as we step once more off the stage.

“Last time! Just for Lady Adley!” Maestro Mette orders.

I’m too entranced to pay any mind to the muttering of the other singers as I once again step in front of the crowd, this time by myself. The cameras erupt in blinding flares and curling smoke as Maestro Mette gestures to me. I take a step forward alone, bending at the knees so deeply I almost lose my balance.

The orchestra musicians are also on their feet now, their standing ovation adding to the thunderous applause of the crowd. I turn to the Maestro and gesture to him, but instead of bowing himself, he takes my hand and kisses the ring on my finger; the glow of the ruby bathes his face in a red hue .

The crowd cheers. “Bella! Viva la diva!”

Both hands on my heart, I lower myself into one last sweeping curtsy, savoring the moment as the curtains envelop the stage one last time.

“A star is born,” Maestro Mette proclaims.

Around us the orchestra is already moving, breaking into chatter. But I’m still floating—the admiration of the crowd, an opium I can’t get enough of.

“Fantastic, ma chérie!” José is by my side. “I always knew Adley had a special Talent, but it shines even brighter with your voice.”

The other singers are scattered around the stage, congratulating each other on the successful evening. I try to catch their names and faces, but my mind is hazy, my heartbeat still synced with the beat of the music and the pulse of my ruby ring.

“Come, ma chérie, let’s go have some wine and meet your new fans.” José offers me his arm and I take it with a smile, my cheeks already sore.

We follow the steady stream of musicians away from the stage. Soon we descend a massive marble stairway: the famous Grand Escalier of the opera house. My jaw drops. The foyer is bustling with people drinking wine and champagne, while servants carrying silver trays present them with a variety of hors d’oeuvres.

Having only used the artists’ entrance so far, I have never seen this side of the opera house. Its grandeur is striking. I slide my hand down the elegant banister, the spider-veined marble chilling to the touch. There is marble everywhere, stretching across the entire space and dappled in gold. My eyes skip from the grand columns to the bronze and crystal sculptures that rise above the mingling crowd. Murals in shimmering colors are reflected in giant mirrors, making me feel as though I’m a part of the art, not just walking alongside it.

“Lady Adley!”

As soon as I’m spotted, I’m surrounded by people. Fans . They call for José as well, but most of them fixate on me—wishing to tell me how wonderfully I sang, how grateful they are for my voice, how they can’t wait to hear me again. They are the Elite of Lutèce, the highest, most Talented members of society. I’m not just accepted among them, I’m cherished by them. Recognized. Adored.

My dream, truly realized. All thanks to the ruby.

“What a splendid opening for the summer.” A woman in a deep-purple gown takes both my hands in hers.

“Yes, she’s a marvel, isn’t she?” Maestro Mette is beside me. “I didn’t know you were back in the city, Lauretta.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this! Besides, what better way is there to spend a Thursday evening?” The woman lets go of me and exchanges a set of kisses on each cheek with the Maestro. She tilts her head as she pulls back. “Isn’t this the same tailcoat you wore to our réveillon two years ago?”

Maestro Mette’s smile tenses a bit. “I don’t recall.”

“Yes, it is! We were together at Baron Thomas’s and you had the foie gras.” As she speaks, I notice her amethyst earring glowing. “We should plan another dinner soon. You both must come.”

“We would love to.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and I nod along.

“Oh, are those gougères I see?” The woman turns to look at the passing servant, her eyes widening at the sight of the cheesy pastry. “Will you excuse me?” She bows her head before heading after the tray.

“Lady Lauretta Toussaint—one of our richest patrons,” Maestro Mette whispers to me. “I’d recommend avoiding her dinners unless you’re interested in a detailed recounting of every social event from the last five seasons. I do not envy her husband with that Memory Talent of hers.”

I let out a polite chuckle at his joke, but inside I’m trying to wrap my head around the concept of a Memory Talent. I knew these types of Talents existed—any honed skill can become one, be it memory, public speaking, or even negotiation. But these Talents are very rare and uncommon among the working class. After all, you can’t use your memory to put food on the table. But here, I guess, anything is possible .

Maestro Mette grabs two tall glasses of champagne and hands one to me. “To our best season yet. Santé!”

I take a timid sip and vivacious bubbles burst across my palate, nearly making me giggle with surprise. The champagne tastes fresh and slightly sweet, matching its delicate scent of lime blossom.

The buzz around me has finally dwindled, and my heart starts slowing down. So many people approach me, their faces all mix in my head. Yet there is clearly one face missing. Vicomte Lenoir hasn’t come to congratu-late me. Not that I care for his praises. But, in fact, I haven’t seen him at all this evening.

As much as I want to revel in my success, my work for the night is not done. Worry gnaws at my stomach. Could he have left already?

I scan the grand foyer before turning to Maestro Mette. “It was a pleasure to see all the patrons tonight. I’ve only officially met Lady Toussaint and Vicomte Lenoir so far.” I take another sip of champagne, trying to sound casual. “Is he here tonight?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen him about,” the Maestro says. “But you should meet our more cordial patrons. Allow me to introduce you.”

Before I can protest, he heads toward the stairs, obliging me to follow him to one of the higher floors. We walk down a corridor with a set of small balconies that overlook the foyer. Standing and chatting by the nearest balcony is a group of ladies. Madame is among them, and so is none other than the modiste Josephine Garnier herself.

The adrenaline of the evening has managed to subdue the pain from her dress, but at the sight of Josephine’s round face the boning of the bodice digs deeper into my skin. No doubt I’ll have bruises when I get home tonight. How has she even attained such a high position in society to be invited here tonight?

“Lady Adley!” Josephine bows her head as we approach. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

Madame gulps her red wine, emptying the glass. “See her, or your dress?” She sneers, her cheeks flushed from alcohol .

“Well, it is a masterpiece of mine!” Josephine boasts, as if unaware of Madame’s tone.

“I thought I recognized your style, Miss Garnier,” says a short woman with chubby cheeks in a pink frilly gown. She turns to me. “You looked so beautiful on that stage!”

“Lady Adley, allow me to introduce you to Lady Hardy and Lady Paradis.” Maestro Mette gestures to the short woman and to a second lady leaning against the rail of the balcony. “They are two of our most esteemed patrons, and they are both professors at the Grand Collège.”

“An honor to meet you,” I say, noticing the glinting gems on their rings. They must be Teaching Talents, either for their subjects or for the art of tutoring itself.

“You are a true revelation, Lady Adley,” Lady Hardy continues. “I suggest you start carrying a pen with you. Soon enough you won’t be able to walk down the street without being stopped for autographs. A true idol in the making!” She flashes a wide grin before turning to Maestro Mette. “Lamar, you’d better have something special in store for the upcoming season now that Lady Adley is here.”

“I have indeed,” he says.

“Oh, you have to give me a clue!”

I know I should listen to the conversation; they are talking about my future, after all. The promises of fame and adoration are almost too sweet to dream of. What is his plan for me? Will he turn me into the lead soprano? A prima donna? Yet the discussion doesn’t hold my focus for long. My eyes dart to the shifting crowds on the floor below—the vicomte has to be among them.

“Good luck!” Madame grabs yet another glass of wine. “The Maestro is a fortress. He won’t even tell me his plan.”

Lady Paradis chimes in from her place by the railing. “Lady Adley’s voice will go fantastically with José’s, don’t you agree? Oh, speak of the devil. José, dear!” she calls, waving her hand in the air.

I turn just in time to see both José and Véronique approaching .

“Ladies.” José raises his glass. “What brings you all here this fine evening?”

The women all giggle.

“We were just talking about the upcoming season. And how Maestro Mette won’t give up his little secrets.”

“Well, we do know one thing.” Véronique steps forward, her voluminous skirts pushing me aside. “José and I will be this season’s leading duo.”

“All still remains to be decided,” Maestro Mette says, and Véronique’s face twitches, presenting a sharp contrast to the wide smile stretching on Madame’s lips.

Lady Hardy is speaking again—something about a matinee concert—but my attention is stolen by brown curls and the glint of an unmistakable pair of green eyes on the floor below.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, not bothering to wait for a response before heading back to the Grand Escalier.

I push through the crowd, nodding and smiling as they call my name or raise a glass to me. Vicomte Lenoir seemed awfully close to the entrance, and I cannot allow him to slip away.

Broken pieces of messy plans spiral through my head in a hazy cloud: Is he wearing his gem? Maybe he’ll be drunk, and I can persuade him to tell me more about his Talent? Or perhaps I should get him drunk . . . Do I really have to seduce him? Maybe I could simply break a glass and make sure he cuts his hand so I can steal a sample of his blood—that might be easier than making him desire me.

I shake my head at the ridiculousness of my own thoughts.

The foyer is bustling with too many people. I circle around and rise to my tiptoes to look over the crowd, but the vicomte is nowhere to be seen. Dahlia will not forgive me for this.

“Looking for someone?” The vicomte’s low voice is right behind me.

I spin on my heel, my voice stolen by his closeness.

One corner of his lips is up in a lopsided smile, and his startling eyes look straight into mine .

“I . . . Monsieur le Vicomte, a pleasure to see you tonight.” I curtsy deeply, but Vicomte Lenoir just continues to stare at me, his gaze intense and unyielding.

I take a deep breath, and the fresh scent of bay rum invites me in; the warm blend of rich and spicy notes clings to his clothes. This is the first time I’ve seen him properly attired, and I hate to admit how dashing he looks. He’s wearing a crisp black jacket and trousers, leather shoes, and white gloves. But it’s his waistcoat that catches my eye—an intricate paisley pattern is embroidered on the shiny silver satin. It is tightly fitted, showing off his masculine build.

I search for any hint of a gleaming gem, but nothing reflects the light aside from his golden cufflinks. I swallow. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

I clear my throat as I catch myself staring. “Did you enjoy the concert?” I ask, trying to collect myself.

“Not especially.”

His words hit me and send my stomach churning. I should brush off his comment, not let it affect me. I shouldn’t even care what he thinks. Yet my mind spirals. Could he really have not liked my singing? Everyone else loved it—adored me, in fact.

The vicomte turns away without another word, and the pang of disappointment turns to bubbling anger. He thinks he can just walk away like that? And even though I know I’m meant to charm him, I can’t stop myself as I follow.

“For a patron of the arts, you sure don’t seem passionate about them.”

He stops next to a servant with a tray of biscuits. Collecting a few in his palm, he bites into one, the crumbs sticking to his gloves. “Want one?” He stretches his hand to me.

I only glare at him, and he shrugs. “That’s all you have to say?” I ask.

“Oh, my apologies. I should have known you’d expect me to lie by your feet and praise you for a performance you had nothing to do with. ”

I huff in disbelief. Perhaps stabbing him is the right plan to go with. How can Dahlia expect me to get close to someone like him? “Had nothing to do with?” I have to keep myself from shouting. “I sang on that stage.”

He stuffs another biscuit into his mouth, not bothering to swallow before speaking. “You mean your Talent did. With that gem on their finger, anyone could have done it.”

“That—that’s not true!”

“If you say so.” The vicomte eats the last biscuit and brushes his hands together, the crumbs falling onto the floor.

The bubbling in my chest comes to a boil; the heat of anger rises up my neck. I take a step closer to him, speaking under my breath. “If that’s really how you feel, why are you a patron at all? Why are you even here tonight?”

“The truth?” He leans so close I can feel his warm breath against my ear. I shiver, my heart accelerating, rage muted by that spicy scent of his that envelops me with surprising sweetness. “I just like the free champagne.”

I almost snort.

“Well, well, well . . . you two seem awfully close.” My stomach drops at the sound of Véronique’s voice. Is she following me around?

Vicomte Lenoir draws back with a smug grin, as though he’s actually enjoyed the argument. I can barely stop myself from rolling my eyes, but with Véronique as an audience I muster my self-control.

I shouldn’t have let myself get carried away. What was I even expecting from a man like him? But even for an arrogant, self-centered, pompous nobleman he lacks too much refinement. It’s as though each word that came out of his mouth was designed to get my blood boiling. Perhaps he’s simply bored, tired of being the perfect specimen of his Elite birth.

“How wonderful to see you tonight, my lord.” Véronique bats her long eyelashes. Her fan is open and covering a part of her face, as though she’s blushing. “It has been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Long indeed,” he says, but his tone is cold .

She reaches for his arm, thumb trailing over his muscles. “You should really come to dinner! Father will be thrilled to see you. How about this Sunday?” She shoots me a quick glance with narrow eyes before returning straight to the vicomte. “It will be lovely, I promise. Just a small family gathering.”

Her act is so complete, polished to perfection by years of training and glamorous social seasons. In contrast, my rudeness screams out like a garish, clashing color on an otherwise refined, classic palette. Yet somehow the vicomte doesn’t seem charmed by her elegant social dance.

He pulls his arm away from her, and I can’t deny the wave of satisfaction passing through me at the tension I see grabbing at the corners of Véronique’s lips.

“Unfortunately,” the vicomte says, “I already have plans. There is a new art exhibition opening I promised to attend.”

“Well, perhaps—”

“Some other time.” He gives her a curt nod before walking away.

How strange. Did he wish to get away from Véronique even more than from me? My eyes follow him through the crowd until the back of his jacket disappears through the entrance doors.

“You’re welcome.” Véronique turns to me.

I let out a chuckle. “I’m sorry?”

“No need to apologize. It’s not your fault.” She shakes her head. “You are not from the city, after all, and I’ve known Vicomte Lenoir since we were children.”

“I—”

“No need to thank me. It was my pleasure to stop you from embarrassing yourself further.”

The sweetness of her tone is sickening.

“A man like the vicomte requires finesse.” Véronique shifts her hips from side to side, her skirts sweeping the marble floor. “Our families have been pushing for our engagement for some time now. It will certainly happen by the end of the summer. ”

I raise an eyebrow. With the coldness the vicomte expressed toward her, it’s hard to imagine him getting down on one knee. True, their arrogance and air of self-importance clearly make them compatible, and socially they are the perfect match. But no one should have to marry just for status or prestige. Not even a man like the vicomte.

Besides, I can’t have Véronique claim him for herself—not before I steal his Talent. Not that she needs to know any of that.

She’s looking at me expectantly, awaiting my response to her big reveal. I plaster on a smile. “Congratulations, you are perfect for each other.”

Véronique blinks, clearly surprised by my positive reaction. The sweet taste of the small victory makes me hold my head higher.

“Well—um—” She stammers for a second. “Yes, we are.”

“If you’ll excuse me.”

She doesn’t follow me as I turn away.

Dahlia won’t be pleased about the exchange I had with the vicomte. I might not be a “promised fiancée” he’s running away from, but somehow I doubt he is any keener to spend time with me. If anything, my impertinence probably only made him resent me more. But thanks to Véronique’s interruption, I know the vicomte is attending an art exhibition on Sunday.

Now all I have to do is make sure I’m there too.