Power & Majesty (15 page)

‘I don’t even have a string. What are you talking about?’

Delphine handed over the elegant envelope. ‘This one’s for you.’

The envelope was expensive, with the thinnest line of gold leaf around the rim. The name
Velody
was calligraphed in flamboyant purple ink. It certainly looked like a sweetheart note.

‘I haven’t met any men in months,’ Velody started to say, then hesitated, remembering the dark eyes of the Ducomte as he knelt before her, holding her hand between his.

‘Aha!’ said Delphine triumphantly. ‘There is someone!’

‘Not at all.’

Velody opened the envelope. A blue card fell out, embossed with curlicues and gilded images of cupids.

Delphine leaned forward with a whoop and snatched it out of Velody’s hand. ‘Oh, this is grand. This is better than grand, it’s downright elegant. This is the Vittorina Royale!’

‘The musette?’ said Velody. ‘It’s a theatre ticket?’

The only tickets she had seen before were the thin paper tokens you bought at two centi each for the pit, or the slightly more upmarket shillein tokens that got you a half-decent seat in the stalls on variety evenings. There was no note in the envelope. Nothing to suggest from whom this unexpected gift had arrived.

‘It’s a box theatre ticket!’ crowed Delphine. ‘This is better than all my baubles put together, sweetie-my-sweet.’ She waved the card back and forth in front of Velody’s face. ‘
The Mermaid Revue
this evening—and, best of all, you can bring a friend!’

V
elody was certain that using the tickets wasn’t a good idea, but she hadn’t been given much choice in the matter. Rhian was her only valid excuse for staying home, and Rhian had been in a firm state of denial all day, refusing to admit that the previous nox’s antics had bothered her at all. She had accepted a potion from the midwife, and insisted that Delphine and Velody not give up their chance to sit in a musette box on her account. Sometimes Velody couldn’t help wishing that Rhian was a little less selfless.

So Delphine and Velody had raided their wardrobes for the most elegant finery they possessed—only Velody’s original designs, of course. More than a chance to watch a revue in luxury, this was a rare chance to advertise for potential clients by being seen and noticed by Society.

Velody wore a lavender gown that fell to just below her knees. The hem was beaded, and she wore a matching headband over her long dark hair. It was the fabric that would catch the eye of fashion hounds—hopefully—as it was imported and unusual, a crumpled crepe that was not readily available anywhere south of Atulia.

Delphine’s frock—sky blue shot with silver—was cut in a more daring fashion. It not only revealed her bare arms and the upper swell of her small breasts, but it had a diagonal hemline that would guarantee she was noticed. On her right side, the hemline reached three inches below her knee, more than a respectable length; but on her left side it was at least three inches above the most racy of the current fashions. The more conventional set, who had gasped when hemlines began brushing the knee six months earlier, might well faint at the sight of Delphine’s dimpled thigh. Velody could only cross her fingers and hope no one prevented them from entering the theatre on the grounds of indecency.

Delphine had thought of that though, teaming her frock with a long fringed stole that would elegantly cover her left side while the Master of the House accepted the ticket and escorted the two young demoiselles to their private box seat. Only once he had gone, leaving them with Orcadian bubbled wine, a platter of sugared apricots and a box of ciocolate fondants wrapped in silver tissue, did Delphine drop the stole and stand forward so that the gathering theatre crowd could see exactly what she was wearing. She arched her neck and turned slightly to reveal the dress from several angles.

Velody sat near the gilded railing, noting which faces tilted upwards to see Delphine’s dress and which gossiped to their neighbour. The centi crowds in the pit and shilleins in the stalls were of little interest, but there were plenty of stares—and the occasional admiring glance—from the more affluent dress circle.

After less than a minute, Delphine sat beside Velody, covering her knees with the stole again. ‘Always leave them wanting more,’ she said in a sly whisper. ‘Those who didn’t see me will probably hear about it between now and the first intervale.’

Velody grinned. ‘I imagine you’ll want to take a little walk to stretch your legs about then?’

Delphine smirked back at her. ‘You know, I just might.’

The costumes in the show were more lavish than those at the Argentia, the little musette in Giacosa that sometimes gave Velody costume contracts, but the content of the revue was the usual rubbish. There were comic songs, most of them lusty, and the occasional drag or animal act. Classical scenes were enacted as an excuse for an actress or songstress to remove parts of her clothing—or for her historically re-created garments to be ripped off as if by accident. Tumblers and mimes were sent on in between the more substantial acts, to perform in front of the curtain and enable sets to be changed.

The first intervale came and went. Delphine walked up and down the theatre, allowing several gentlemen to buy her oranges and cups of rosewater. She managed to whisper the name and address of her dressmaker into the ears of several curious ladies.

With that job done, the two of them could get on with enjoying the show. The wine was excellent, the fruit and fondants a welcome treat, and the entertainment could not be faulted for being a little stale—there wasn’t much that was original on the stage these days. The glorious painted eaves and mirrored ceiling were far better appreciated from these lofty heights. None of that explained why Velody couldn’t relax and enjoy the decadent experience.

The obvious explanation was guilt—how could she be out at the theatre with Rhian at home, incapable of joining them? But this didn’t feel like guilt. It was more like dread.

Velody’s skin prickled in the stuffy heat of the theatre as two clowns exchanged bawdy jokes behind gilt cosmetick and striped satin pyjamas. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel as if a storm was coming, or an army of bailiffs, or a pack of wild animals? Her hands were shaking, and she hid them in the meagre folds of her dress before Delphine noticed.

The clowns made grandiose bows and somersaulted into the wings, to great applause and catcalling from the stalls.

‘And now, my lords and ladies,’ bellowed the thickly moustached ceremonial, striding across the stage in crimson and gold livery for all the world like a toy soldier at Saturnalia. ‘It is my great pleasure to present for you the star of our little revue, the one and only Mermaid’s Fancy, the Pearls Beyond Price, the Golden Voice, the favourite son of the Vittorina Royale, his humble highness—the Orphan Princel!’

The crowd went mad, whooping and slamming their feet against the creaking floorboards in rapturous applause.

‘Never heard of him!’ said Delphine. ‘Must be good though.’

Chords began, a simple melody from the stage organ, played by an invisible figure in the orchestra pit. As the crowd subsided, the music swelled. The ceremonial smartly removed himself, leaving that rarest of things, a completely empty stage. The set was simple—a backdrop suggesting an anonymous back alley. Velody had never before heard the tune that was playing, but it was strangely compelling.

‘I want to go home,’ she hissed in Delphine’s ear, but her friend just swatted her as if she were an annoying insect.

A new, perfect note broke into the rising orchestral music, and Velody was distracted for a moment as she tried to work out what kind of instrument it belonged to. Then the Orphan Princel strolled across the stage and she realised that the sound was his voice, still held in that perfect note, unwavering.

Didn’t he need to breathe?

Even as Velody thought that, the figure on stage snapped out of his single note, danced a quick four-step jig and barrelled into his song.

It wasn’t anything special, as songs go. It was a fairly standard musette act. He was a grown man dressed as an
urchin boy in short, ragged trousers, capering across the stage. The song told of how he was really a princel who had been kidnapped from his Palazzo and ended up on the street in a strange city, begging for crumbs and half-starving to death. It was an odd mix of pathos and comedy. He drew tears out of the audience with a verse about his misfortunes, then winked merrily to assure you not to believe a word of it.

Standard stuff, yes—almost as hackneyed as the tale of a common orange-seller (or florister, or streetwalker) with a heart of gold who dreamed of being whisked away from her life of cheerful poverty. The difference was that this performer—this Orphan Princel—was mesmerisingly good. His voice was as hypnotic as the bright blue eyes that stuck out of his funny-looking face. The audience was riveted to his every canter and twirl.

Velody sweated as she watched him. She could feel moisture pricking her skin as the Orphan Princel carolled his tune to the dress circle. At one point, he turned and doffed his shabby hat in the direction of their box, and she almost stopped breathing.

There was something familiar about all of this, but she couldn’t for the life of her think what it was. All she could do was watch in amazement as this ordinary, silly little performer sang in his angelic voice and danced his perfect steps. Then, when it was over, she applauded and cheered along with everyone else, clapping her hands so hard that they hurt.

The Orphan Princel’s next number called for assistance from the chorus line. Here, he was a clownish figure desperately trying to paint the portraits of a group of snooty columbines, who ignored him and turned elegant pirouettes in the background while he sang of his troubles and strife. The third number was a serious solo, the old musette favourite ‘Lonely Boy’, which he performed with such sadness and perfection that Velody found herself crying, and wasn’t the only audience member to be so
affected. Delphine was rubbing her eyes on her fringed stole by the end of it.

Finally, by popular acclaim, he returned for one last encore as the Orphan Princel, cheeky and charming all over again, singing about how he and the rest of the lovable, chirpy street characters celebrated the various city festivals, from Lupercalia to Saturnalia.

When the Orphan Princel was gone, bowing and teasing his way off stage as the audience hollered for more, Velody felt quite empty.

Delphine breathed a deep sigh and reached for her wine glass while a herd of mimes and acrobats tumbled across the stage. ‘It’s going to be a bit of an anticlimax after that, don’t you think?’

‘How long does it go on?’ Velody asked.

‘Oh, goodness knows. Hours. I think I heard someone say there were six intervales in all.’

‘Six?’ said Velody. ‘I don’t think I can stand it. I mean, it’s good…’

‘I know,’ said Delphine. ‘Too much of a good thing can make your stomach ache.’ She tilted her empty glass. ‘Besides, we’ve finished all this.’

Relieved, Velody folded the last of the fondants into a piece of tissue to take home to Rhian. The improvised parcel fitted perfectly into her satin purse. ‘Let’s go.’

As they turned towards the curtain that hung across their exit, it swished suddenly aside. A large usher stood there, so muscled around the shoulders that he barely fit into his formal suit. ‘May I help mesdames?’

‘Demoiselles,’ corrected Delphine.

‘We’re just leaving,’ said Velody.

She had hoped to slip out without making it obvious to the performers on stage.
Too late
, she realised as she looked back. The mimes had spotted Velody and Delphine making their escape and promptly launched into a spot of improvisation in which two haughty ladies made their distaste of the show clear by walking out of the theatre
between intervales. The audience were laughing, sharing the joke as they too eyed the demoiselles trying to escape the private box.

Blushing, Velody dived for the curtain, sliding around the large usher and out of view. Delphine giggled and lowered her stole, giving a little turn to show off her scandalous dress one last time. Several wolf-whistles followed her out, at least one from a mime on stage.

Velody was not cut out for these publicity stunts. Her heart was beating fast just from being the centre of attention for half a minute.

‘If the demoiselles would follow me,’ said the usher, ‘one of our performers wishes to present his compliments. He hopes you gained pleasure from the tickets he sent you.’

Velody hesitated, but Delphine lunged forward, smiling her prettiest smile at the usher. ‘Not the Orphan Princel? He’s adorable,’ she added back over her shoulder at Velody.

‘Is he?’ asked Velody, trying to ignore the shiver that ran through her body at the sound of his name. What was wrong with her? Since when was she attracted to skinny, funny-looking men with angelic singing voices? Every instinct told her to run, to go home and bolt herself into her bedroom as Rhian did every nox. But this theatre was a maze, and they were already being led into unfamiliar territory, back and behind the stage.

Surely it wasn’t usual for audience members to be taken backstage during the show? Afterwards, yes, but not during. Velody had been invited backstage at the Argentia once so that the Peacock Queen, a well-known opera singer, could compliment her on the dress she had made for the final number—stitching in extra panels at the last moment to accommodate the singer’s rapidly increasing girth from an unexpected pregnancy.

Behind the scenes at the Vittorina Royale, the performers were on edge, snapping at each other and running around like mad things, hissing about the wrong shade of cosmetick or repairing torn costumes with
desperate haste. On their way through, Delphine and Velody witnessed several tantrums, two lovers’ tiffs and a horde of half-naked clowns climbing into animal costumes.

Finally they were in a quiet corridor underneath the main stage. A large, tacky gold star was fixed to the door, with the name ‘The Princel’ inscribed on the rough wood in chalk, and then below, in a different colour, the words ‘and don’t you forget it!’ in a rough scrawl.

Part of Velody wanted to turn and run, to crash her way through the scenery and costumes until she was out on the street and away from this place. But another part of her was desperately curious to meet the man who had sung ‘Lonely Boy’ with such sadness and longing.

The usher knocked on the door.

‘Enter,’ said a light voice.

It was an ordinary dressing room, as much as Velody had ever seen such a thing. A large mirror and dressing table, various sprawling boxes of cosmetick, half a hundred assorted costumes. A narrow bed.

Their host sat on a straight-backed chair, devoid of make-up. He appeared quite ordinary—skinnier and more funny-looking in person, to tell the truth. He looked older than he had on stage.

Delphine stepped forward in full flirtatious flight. ‘How darling of you to invite us.’

‘Not at all,’ said the performer graciously. ‘I hope you enjoyed the show.’

‘Oh, we did, didn’t we, Velody?’

‘Yes.’

Velody’s eyes were drawn to an old theatre poster that was stuck to the corner of the mirror. It depicted a sketch of two laughing, bawdy demoiselles in feathers and sequins under a banner:
Visit the Mermaid and See the Pearls Beyond Price!

‘I’m so glad,’ said the Orphan Princel. Now Velody’s eyes were drawn to him and his very blue eyes.

‘Why did you send the tickets?’ she blurted out.

‘Vee!’ Delphine elbowed her. ‘It’s not polite to question gifts.’