Authors: Xander Daniels
2: The Contest
Two nights later, she smoothed the front of her midnight blue dress nervously as she stepped out of the Bentley that had picked her up at sunset. The velvet was just light enough for the weather, clinging to her at the silver-threaded bust and then spreading out into a full skirt gored with brocade. Simple silver slippers on her feet; white gloves to match her dove-feather mask, and a silver band holding her curls back from her face. In the mirror, being fussed over by Claudia’s makeup artist, she had felt like an Italian princess. Now, mounting the steps to the grand hotel where the party was being held, she wondered if she could pull the look off as well in public.
Just think of it as a role to play. Tonight I’ll show these rich weirdos that music isn’t just for girls sized like underwear models.
She walked in, looking around at the masked and gowned figures milling in the lobby. Of course there was no way of telling who these people really were...but they had no way of telling who she was either. The anonymity comforted her a little. She found her way to an elevator, following the crowd toward the rooftop ballroom where the party was to take place.
The ballroom, Gilded Age as well, shimmered with light: the carpet plush and golden, the windows tall and shining and draped in pale silks, the chandeliers enormous affairs that glittered with what looked like a thousand lights held by spidery golden arms. At the very center of the ballroom, surrounded by dancing couples, a grand piano stood on a dais, played by a man in black.
She paused in the doorway, staring at the tall, lean figure in the white domino mask and black tailcoat. She could see nothing of his face, of course, but the figure he cut was memorable regardless: black velvet, shining porcelain mask, the face beneath it pale and set in lines of concentration. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his hair fell to his shoulders in crisp dark waves that threw back auburn gleams, and his long-fingered white hands danced over the keys unerringly and without hesitation, as if he and the instrument were one. She had witnessed some very good piano performances during her education and auditions, but the simple waltz he played outshone most of them in virtuosity alone.
She headed that direction. She didn’t expect any of these people to ask her to dance, or speak to her; she was a stranger here, and a less than conventionally pretty one. But she could certainly kill a few hours listening to the man’s music. And so, on pretense of staying near the punch bowl, she stationed herself as close by as she could while staying unobtrusive.
No one much noticed her as she sipped the wine-based punch and quietly listened. Sometimes he played dance music; sometimes he performed requests; sometimes he simply played something from his own memory as background for the conversations going on. Lucinda listened more to him than what the others talked about, which was all business, money, buying this, avoiding tax on that. Boring one-percenter talk so far from her realities that it both irritated and amused her. Better to focus on the man--er, rather, his music. Though he himself wasn’t hard to focus on either.
What will I sing?
she wondered as she watched him. He seemed to like Mozart a great deal. She knew some arias...including one that lesser singers didn’t even dare tackle. Lucinda considered, then lifted her chin, her resolve firming. Mozart wasn’t kind to his singers; in fact he had written one of the most famously difficult arias ever performed. It was one she had pulled out a few times in audition when offered free choice of song; once, she had broken into it in a fury when told her voice was nothing special, and left her critic gaping at her as she walked out.
"Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen", song of the Queen of the Night from
The Magic Flute,
was not for amateurs. And with a Mozart lover on the bench, chances were he would know how to accompany it.
I’ll do it. Let’s see anyone else win this one once I trot this baby out.
In the back of her head she knew she was pumping herself up to leave no room for self-doubt, but...she really could do the song justice.
A blonde in scarlet brocade and a golden quarter-moon mask had been eyeing her from the dance floor. The woman had made a business of dancing with a succession of men, walking away dismissively from each when each song was done, as if they were toys she quickly grew bored of. Now, staring at Lucinda with open skepticism, she went over to the pianist and hissed something in his ear.
The man looked up in her direction; she caught sight of pellucid blue eyes behind the porcelain, and glanced away shyly. He spoke to the girl, who frowned petulantly and chattered at him some more. He shook his head, smiling gently, and spoke again, causing the girl to blink at him in shock. Then she smirked and eyed Lucinda a last time before walking back to the dance floor.
The pianist was still looking at Lucinda, his expression unreadable behind the mask. She couldn't do more than offer a tiny, shy smile, glad the mask hid her blush. He smiled in return, and there was something oddly sad in it. Then he went back to playing, and she to watching him.
Eventually servants in gold livery came out to take the names of the singing contestants. She gave her name and the name of the piece she was singing. The servant gave her a startled look and told her he had to check with the accompanist.
This time the man at the piano looked at her in shock, and had to ask for confirmation. When he got it, he stared a few moments longer, then nodded slowly. The servant returned to her, and said quietly, "The Maestro knows the accompaniment. But he has offered to play with you on one condition--that you are willing to play last."
Lucinda swallowed. The last performance was the one that everyone would remember most clearly. It was no dishonor to be asked to sing last; anything but, in fact. She wondered why he had made the request. Maybe she would get the chance to ask once he accompanied her. She nodded after a moment. "Please tell the Maestro that I agree to perform last."
The contest went by in a blur of voices, faces, costumes, applause. Her ears could always pick out the Maestro’s playing, but Lucinda’s nerves drove her to distraction as the other nine contestants took their turns. The blonde was among them, her voice crystalline, angelic...but without a sense of rhythm, competing with the Maestro’s playing and making him chase her tempo. Lucinda would have felt badly for her, but she kept shooting spoiled-child glares at the Maestro, as if she somehow blamed him for her rhythmless performance. The Maestro however simply played along, absorbed in the music, keeping as best he could to the proper tempo despite the blonde's rushing.
And then it was Lucinda's turn. And she drew a deep breath, and stepped forward when announced, and felt the Maestro's eyes on her as he played the opening notes. And her mind went back to every audition, every time that she out-sang everyone in the room but was shut out for petty, shallow reasons that had nothing to do with music.
Instead of letting it hurt her, she used it all as fuel. German was a great language for expressing anger. And as she sang the first words, and conversations around the room died and faces turned to her, she fell into the role of the furious Queen of the Night and didn't look back.
The music poured from her throat, flawless, full of rage, every note perfect in tone and timing. She put everything she had into her performance, and neither voice nor memory failed her. And somehow, that whole time as her strange accompanist played flawlessly along, she knew that he never took his eyes off of her.
Applause slapped her ears, startling her. The performance had ended. In the crowd, Claudia smiled at her from behind raven feathers. Among the contestants, the blonde glared. And the Maestro had stood up behind her, and applauded along with the rest.
She needed a breather after that. One of the servants led her to a dressing room in back, with dozens of masks hanging from the walls and the tops of the mirrors. They started at her empty-eyed as she sat down and tried to convince her heart to stop pounding.
Five thousand dollars. She kept checking her clutch purse to make sure that the prize money was still there. It was enough to get her out of debt and even a little ahead for once. It wasn't a recording contract or a part in a Broadway musical, but it was a success, and that had been a long time coming.
"Miss?" called a soft male voice from the doorway. "Miss...Waters, was it?" The voice had a light German accent and sounded strangely gentle. She looked up--and saw the Maestro standing in the doorway. "I hope that I am not intruding?"
"Um, n-no, you aren't. Please come in." She got up hastily, hands twisting together nervously.
He smiled and stepped through the door. One long fingered hand reached up to his mask and removed it.
Oh God. Did he have to be talented and beautiful too?
His face was long and white, with smooth skin and pointed features that could have belonged to a man of twenty or forty. His lips were a narrow Cupid's bow, his blue eyes large and fathomless, and without the mask the contrast between his white skin and dark hair was a little shocking. She blinked at him, realizing that she had been staring, and looked away, blushing.
"I am Yohan," he introduced himself, his tone almost...shy. "May I see your face?”
She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice at the moment, and took off the silver band that held her mask on, then slid the mask down and away. She looked up at him, and all she could think in that moment was
please don’t let me have been a klutz and smeared my makeup. It was nice looking presentable for a change.
“M-My name’s Lucinda.”
“Ah,” he murmured softly, and walked toward her. His eyes gleamed in a strange, compelling way, and she felt her body relax inexplicably under their gaze. “Hello, Lucinda. I had to come, you see, and compliment you in person. That was...well beyond the quality of our usual fare at these contests of Claudia’s.” He stopped a few feet away, just a touch nearer than was civil. Her heartbeat picked up, and she chastised herself inwardly for the gentle warmth that rose in her chest as he drew close to her.
Lucinda knew better than to fall for a man like Yohan. Beauty, influence, talent, wealth...he had it all, and men like that felt entitled to certain things. Mostly, the same certain things required by Broadway casting directors. They were never seen with any woman who couldn’t have sustained a modeling career with her looks. She had given up on letting herself get crushes on beautiful, perfect-seeming men, because their shallowness invariably ruined their perfection--breaking her heart in the process.
But why, then, did this one’s expression light up when he saw her face? Why was his manner growing more intimate as he looked at her, his body drawing just slightly closer to her, a look of fascination in his brilliant eyes? What was that about? And why did she simply relax more as he moved nearer, instead of her usual shyness kicking in and making her jumpy?
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said sincerely.
“What I need to know more than anything,” he said as he leaned on the makeup counter, practically standing over her, “is where on Earth Claudia managed to find you. And where I might find you again.”
“I’m staying at the Continental,” she murmured, completely confused as to what his interest might be. She doubted he was going to offer to help her with her career; there was nothing in it for him. But the way he looked at her left her dizzy.
What are you doing, Yohan?
she wanted to ask, because even as she mentioned her poor-artist’s address, his gradual approach did not slow. Here, his hand, the fingers long and smooth and cool, just gently brushed the back of hers as it lay on the counter. There, he leaned a little closer, that strange brightness in his eyes only growing.
“Ah yes. One of Claudia’s hopefuls, then.” He brushed her curls off her shoulder with one hand, his eyes practically glowing as they fixed on the pale skin of her neck. “Chasing the footlights.”
Her heart contracted painfully at the reminder of all she had pursued and could not gain, and it must have shown in her face because he stopped, head tilting slightly.
“...Why do you look so sad?”
His confused tone sent silent tears down her cheeks, and she suddenly, inexplicably wanted to tell him everything. The struggle, the roadblocks, the discrimination. Her voice, which she had trained to perfection; her acting chops, which she had fought to make as solid as possible; her work ethic, which was strong enough that it was killing her--none of them were what determined success on Broadway. That song from
A Chorus Line
was right: good looks ruled over talent. Tonight, she had proven how foolish it all was. Tonight, she had a small victory, and five thousand dollars in her pocket. But it didn’t change the basic facts of life.