When he got home from his bike ride, he saw that his favorite opera blogger had put up a fresh post.
Despite stories to the contrary, Olivia Shore will be taking the stage tonight for the Muni’s premiere of Aida.
*
Olivia arrived at the Muni early. She’d somehow managed to convince Mitchell to change his mind about her appearance tonight by reminding him how angry the season ticket holders would be if she didn’t sing. Eventually, he’d capitulated.
Last week, when she’d still had hope, she’d ordered beautifully boxed mini–opera cakes as opening night gifts for her fellow cast members. Now she traveled dutifully from one dressing room to the next with her gifts and “Toi, toi, toi . . .” for the others who’d arrived early.
Everyone treated her carefully, as if she had a terminal illness. Only Sarah gave her a long hug. “Toi, toi, toi, my friend. Let’s make magic.”
Magic was a long way off, but Olivia was done with the burden of responsibility she’d been carrying for too long. It was time to do what she loved, even if she did it badly. She’d honor Amneris, Verdi, and herself in the best way she could. If the critics massacred her, so be it. If she shredded her reputation, it was hers to shred. She’d let her fear of failure rule her for long enough. Tonight, she would be as fearless as Amneris vying for the love of Radamès.
Which ended very badly for everyone.
She shook off that unpleasant reminder.
Good-luck gifts from the others were waiting in her dressing room: a gag key chain from Arthur Baker; an alabaster statue of Isis from Sarah. Lena had left a fragrant package of Egyptian incense sticks and a note saying it was a pleasure watching her work. Jose Alvarez, who was singing the high priest, Ramfis, gifted her with chocolates, and the maestro sent flowers.
After makeup and costume, she closed the door of her dressing room for her solitary preperformance ritual: a few vocal warm-ups, a quick double-check of the notes she’d made, and a teaspoon of Nin Jiom cough syrup in warm water to keep her throat clear.
Yesterday’s vocalizations had been promising, but her chest still felt tighter than it should. No more fear, she told herself. Public humiliation was better than private cowardice.
She wished Thad could see her now. In her formfitting amethyst-blue gown with its elaborately jeweled collar piece, she looked every inch a pharaoh’s daughter. Fortunately, the collar piece wasn’t as heavy to wear as it looked from the audience. A wide white sash embroidered with gold papyrus hieroglyphs extended to the gown’s hem. She had dark, winged eyebrows and a fierce lapis-blue cat’s eye outlined in black extending to her temples. The long, intricately braided black wig bore a gold cobra on top, poised to strike. With gold sandals on her feet; big, lotus drop earrings; and her own gold cuff at her wrist, she was a portrait of fierce Egyptian royalty—a woman entitled to have everything she desired, except the man who’d claimed her heart.
Another gift had appeared on her dressing table while she was gone, a small box wrapped in white tissue paper. She glanced at the wall clock—twenty minutes to overture—slid her finger under the tape to pull off the paper, and opened the lid.
With a gasp, she dropped the box.
A dead yellow canary fell at her feet, its single black eye staring up at her.
She shuddered. Who would do something this depraved?
There was a scent. A strong scent she recognized. But not from the dead bird. No. She picked up the box that had contained its corpse. The cardboard held the smell of Egyptian incense.
Rage bubbled up inside her. There was only one explanation, the one she’d been refusing to accept. The wrapping paper was different, but the box held the identical scent as the incense Lena had given her.
She picked up the bird in her bare hands, too furious to grab a tissue, and marched through the hallways, the dead canary extended in front of her. She stormed past the extras on their way to be costumed for the Triumphal March, her gold sandals striking the tile floor, amethyst gown swirling around her calves. They took one look at her and backed away.
She stormed into the stairwell, lifting her gown with her free hand so she didn’t trip on the hem. Up one flight, out into the hallway, and down the corridor to the room where the covers were required to stay during a performance so they’d be close at hand if they were needed. If, for example, a famous mezzo-soprano was so traumatized by a dead bird that she lost her ability to sing.
They were gathered in the lounge, a golf tournament muted on the television. The tenor covering for Arthur Baker played a game of solitaire. Sarah’s cover was doing a crossword. Others were on their phones, while Lena sat at a table reading a book.
Their heads came up in unison as she stormed into the room—her gown rippling at her ankles, dead canary in her hands, gold cobra on her head. She marched across the floor and dumped the bird in Lena’s lap.
Lena shrieked, leaped to her feet, and then fell to her knees in front of the bird. “Florence?”
The rawness of Lena’s emotions—the way her expression shifted from horror to shock to grief—gradually penetrated Olivia’s fury. She began to realize she might have made a mistake.
Three people she didn’t recognize were in the room. Someone’s wife or girlfriend, an older woman who might be one of the singers’ mothers, and a person she did recognize. A man Lena had introduced as her husband, Christopher.
Instead of showing concern for his wife’s distress, his eyes were on Olivia, as if he were assessing her—or wary of her. As if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
Lena’s husband . . .
It all came crashing back to her. Rachel had worked with Lena in Minneapolis. She’d said the couples had hung out together. As much as Olivia adored Dennis, he was a gossip. How many conversations had she had with Rachel where she’d said, “Don’t you dare tell Dennis”？ Rachel generally kept her word, but occasionally she’d share a piece of news with him before Olivia was ready to make it public. Olivia had talked to Dennis about it, and he’d apologized. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Rachel told me not to say anything, and I didn’t mean for it to slip out.”
Olivia didn’t know exactly how the pieces fit, but she was certain they did. Rachel knew Olivia was guilt-plagued about Adam’s suicide, and she’d suspected Olivia’s vocal issues were worse than Olivia was letting on. Rachel had put two and two together and mulled it over with Dennis. If Dennis knew, he could very well have told Lena’s husband sometime when the couples were together.
Lena hadn’t been her saboteur. It was Christopher, Lena’s husband, a man who had a sizable stake in his wife’s career. A man who wanted his wife onstage instead of Olivia.
Lena lifted her tear-streaked face to her husband. “What happened to Florence?”
“That’s not Florence!” he exclaimed.
“It is Florence! Look at the white on her tail feathers, the little dash by her eye.”
Christopher addressed the rest of the room with a fake, dismissive laugh. “Florence is Lena’s pet canary. The bird stopped eating, and Lena’s been worried, but . . .” He returned his attention to his wife. “Florence was alive when I left home. I swear.”