Lillian at first thought the woman was pleading, and she was taken aback. But in the next instant, the woman leapt to her feet and cast away the red silk scarf wound around her wrist.
Flutter!
The audience’s eyes followed the scarf, and in that instant the singing began. A rich voice filled the hall, seizing every ear and eye at once.
She declared herself to be the personal maid of some noble lady. A country-born girl, naïve, who one day caught the eye of a lady come to the village for convalescence, and was taken into service and brought to the city.
The wages were good, her mistress was kind. Her joy was to wear fine dresses and spend her holidays at the theater. She loved dancing—here she truly displayed a magnificent solo dance, without partner—, and often went to the dancehall with men.
Then one day, at the theater, she met a boy who had once lived as her neighbor in childhood. He had grown into a strikingly handsome youth.
With gestures of sudden love, she turned toward the doorway where she had entered, stretching out her arms. And from there appeared a young man with honey-brown curls, carrying a great armful of lilies. The women in the salon let slip sighs at the sight.
He entered not with the gait of an actor but like an ordinary guest. Yet after four, five steps toward the center, meeting the woman’s eyes, his tread shifted into dance.
At last they fell in love. A duet of eternal sweetness began, her fluttering sleeves and sky-blue skirts twining about him like the dance of a wind-spirit. Each time, he handed her a lily, tucking them into her girdle and bodice, as though intent to cover her in flowers entire.
It was a fine love-song and a fine performance, but Roella thought that alone would have been dull. To be invited to the palace, this much was the minimum. The male actor was unusually handsome, the female actress truly skilled—yet still.
She cast a sidelong glance at Ezekiel. His face was the same, drinking wine idly, bored.
'Could he not be made to feel jealousy?'
As she thought it, the song halted, the orchestra’s playing grew thin. In the man’s hand remained one last lily.
The strings trembled as though to end—then began a wholly different music.
“Then, that woman appeared.”
The actress spoke, like narration.
“A woman of no known name. She came as though draped in the mist of night.”
The white muslin curtain stirred.
The man, who until then had looked upon the first woman, turned, his gaze nailed upon it.
His lips parted slightly, his expression wholly changed. Even from the side seats, though they could not see his eyes clearly, all could sense the tremor of his heart.
What lay behind that curtain? The thought pressed upon every watcher.
The woman clasped him from behind. He sang in a low voice:
“Fearing, and raging, mocking, and yearning.”
She echoed softly, repeating the same lines.
Layer by layer, the curtain drew back.
“Yet still I cannot turn away, cannot cease to long, cannot cease to wish for eternity. This cannot be love.”
“Love is what we make it.”
“I love her. Then this is no love. Yet still I cannot turn away, cannot cease to long.”
At the drawing of ten layers of curtain, a silhouette was revealed—enough to know it was a woman of beauty.
The man stretched out his hand, bewitched. The whole audience shared his torment; with two veils left, they burned to see the figure hidden within.
The first woman clasped him tighter, but he took another step forward, heedless. Her strength failed, her arms slipped, and she sank to the floor.
At last the final curtain fell away.
There, with head inclined, stood a woman so beautiful it stole the breath. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed her face, but her lips and chin alone were enough to make one imagine the hidden loveliness. A black silk gown, simple in cut, fell along her form with merciless sensuality.
Roella cast another furtive glance toward Ezekiel—then turned sharply, unable to stop herself.
He had not noticed her. His gaze was lost, as though entranced. No, not lost—fixed with terrifying clarity upon the one woman, as if she were the only being in the world.
Parched, he drained his glass, unmindful of what he held.
“Ezekiel.”
Had Roella not called him, he would have risen unthinkingly. At her sharp voice, he realized he had been staring, spellbound.
“Though I knew it foolish, though I knew it sin, I could not turn away.”
The male actor’s song was not yet done. He moved toward the veiled woman, offering her the last lily. As he did, the music reached its close.
The lights went out. In the dark the actress’s final narration resounded:
“And so, that woman bewitched away my betrothed.”
The performance seemed ended. When the lights returned, the three stood before the Empress.
Silence reigned. The emotions that had risen with the man’s song lingered, refusing to disperse.
“Bravi!”
The first to break it was Marquis Zallier, a lover of opera, who leapt up in applause.
“Splendid! Though only two numbers, it was complete in itself!”
“Marvelous!”
The others joined in, clapping, as though waking from a dream. Even Empress Lillian applauded and gave words of praise.
The last woman emerged, slowly removing her hat, bowing with graceful poise.
“I am Laila of the House of Correre, from Laniere. Thank you for your kindness in enjoying such paltry skill.”
Her unveiled face was as beautiful as any had hoped. Gasps broke out across the room.
“As fair as the rumors!”
“Exquisite!”
The Marel troupe’s artistry was admirable, but Lady Laila’s bearing surpassed it.
Many had known tonight might be meant to shame her. Roella’s invitation, to a music salon no less, made the intention plain.
Yet Laila had neither sung nor danced. She had only stood behind the curtain, received the hero’s flowers. Though she had taken part, she had not acted as an entertainer. She had evaded the trap with grace.
Guests now watched Princess Roella with curious eyes. But far from anger, she sat pale as death, staring at Laila.
Empress Lillian, oblivious, spoke praise again:
“I had heard Lady Laila commanded a fine troupe, but never thought it so excellent. Have you yet more to perform?”
“For this small salon, we prepared no further piece—but our playwright and composer are already at work.”
“I should like to see it.”
The Empress turned her eyes upon the two actors behind Laila. The lady smiled.
“Of course. To present it first to Your Majesty would be the highest honor. And—may I make a request?”
“Speak.”
“That my actors may offer their respects to Your Majesty in person. It would be the greatest reward.”
The Empress, flushing faintly, nodded.
At Laila’s gesture, the two stepped forward. The actress bent low in reverence.
“I am Luna of the Marel troupe. To greet Your Majesty is the glory of my life.”
Then the young man came forth. In his hand, somehow, another lily.
“I am Sion Miller of the Marel troupe. I offer my greetings to Your Majesty the Empress.”
His bearing was less flawless than Luna’s. He tilted his head, smiling brightly, as though hoping to catch her eyes, proffering the flower with a touch of impudence that seemed almost charming.
Lillian did not chide him. She accepted the lily, her heart dropping heavy in her breast.