AVSAII Chapter 09

Chapter 09

 

 

A clear and melodious voice floated into the afternoon air. Without it, identifying the woman might have taken a while.

Stripped of her heavy makeup, ornate hair accessories, shimmering jewelry, and glamorous stage attire, the woman looked utterly plain. She wore an old hat and coat that were far from fashionable, along with faded gloves and a scarf. She looked as if she’d emerged from the ashes of a ruin, cloaked in dull, gray tones.

Her appearance stood in stark contrast to other mistresses who lived extravagant lives. It was… refreshing, in a way.

Arthur recalled his aide’s earlier report:

A woman with striking features, radiant skin, and bright red lips. Now, in the dreary courtyard, stripped of grandeur, the woman looked her age—just twenty. Despite falling from the spotlight in a single day, reduced to singing without an audience or orchestra, she still shone brightly.

Arthur lit his cigarette, his aide discreetly pocketing the matchbox.

“For someone who supposedly has the flu,” he murmured, exhaling smoke, “her voice is lovely.”

His tired face briefly showed an expression—one that wasn’t just surprise but something else.

“Who’s the soloist for the upcoming banquet?” Arthur asked, his eyes fixed on the woman.

The banquet, set for Friday night, was to honor Prince Arsen and his wife. The evening’s first performance was a solo recital.

“Miss Deimos has been chosen,” the aide replied.

“Replace her with Christine Faledon. I think it’ll be more entertaining.”

The aide hesitated, startled by the unexpected order. It was opposite to Arthur’s earlier stance of merely observing from afar.

Though he understood the prince’s intent, the banquet was a formal court event, and Christine was unsuitable for such an occasion. She was practically a novice—a soprano who had only starred once as an understudy.

“Is that a problem?” Arthur asked coolly, still watching the woman. His words carried the weight of a command.

“I’ll arrange it,” the aide finally conceded.

Arthur took one last drag of his cigarette, tapping the ashes into his portable ashtray. Through the thin smoke, the image of the woman lingered like an afterimage.

“Did I do well?”

The flushed-faced girl asked eagerly, her breath visible in the cold air.

“You were amazing!” Christine said with a wide smile, warmly holding the girl’s gloved hand. Suddenly, they were interrupted by the sound of deliberate clapping.

Startled, they turned to see Arthur, his platinum blonde hair glowing in the sunlight.

Christine froze, disbelief coloring her face. The man from the frosted window that night—the crown prince—stood before her. She instinctively rose to her feet.

Arthur plucked the boutonniere from his lapel with a calm grace. If this woman was merely a benefactor, the banquet would be boring. If she were something more, she’d make an excellent gift to Duke Deimos.

“Miss Christine Faledon,” he called her name softly.

Christine’s eyes followed the flower he held, then trailed up past the gold embroidery of his uniform to meet his brilliant, ocean-blue gaze—so unfamiliar, so enchanting.

“It is an honor to be your only audience,” he said.

Her chest tightened.

There are days like this, Christine thought. Days when someone’s slightest gesture could bring tears to your eyes. Days when you desperately yearn for a sliver of warmth.

On such a day, the crown prince appeared.

My only audience.

Christine’s trembling hand reached out for the flower, her fingers brushing against the smooth leather of his glove.

“…The honor is mine, Your Highness.”

Gripping the flower tightly, Christine felt her heart swell. As winter’s breeze swirled around them, the sweet scent of the gardenia he offered seemed to carry the promise of spring.

Three days later, Christine returned to the theater.

During her absence, rehearsals for Camellia had continued as if nothing had happened. The grand stage, lit by chandeliers and footlights, moved on without her.

Christine felt the sting of isolation keenly. She was once again relegated to the unlit chorus seats—a place the spotlight didn’t reach.

She’d expected this outcome, yet the sharp ache in her chest surprised her. Worse than her demotion were the glares from her fellow performers.

Amid her muddled thoughts, she remembered the gardenia she had placed in her favorite glass.

“It is an honor to be your only audience.”

It was the first time anyone had ever given her flowers—and from none other than the crown prince. She still felt an odd joy lingering in her heart, despite her bewilderment at the time.

The aria began—a somber melody signaling the doomed heroine’s final moments:

“Beautiful, radiant dreams of my past,

Have you come to bid me farewell?”

But Christine couldn’t fully absorb the music. Her eyes were on Fiona Bennett, standing confidently under the bright lights.

Christine made herself a promise. Someday, she would reclaim that place.

Her whole life had been a series of waiting: for auditions, for practice, for her time on stage. Waiting was second nature to her by now.

She would wait again, with patience and optimism, until that day came.

“Christine!”

Fiona’s sharp voice snapped Christine back to reality.

“Where’s your head at?” Fiona barked, hands on her hips. “Didn’t I tell you to bring water to my dressing room? Or were you ignoring me on purpose?”

Despite having a personal maid, Fiona had spent the day treating Christine like a servant. It wasn’t fair, but no one interfered. Even the conductor stayed out of backstage politics.

This industry had a way of turning pyramids upside down.

Without a word, Christine turned and walked to the break room.

Crash!

The porcelain cup shattered against the wall, shards and water scattering everywhere.

Christine calmly wiped her wet face with the back of her hand, showing no sign of surprise.

“Bring another,” Fiona snapped. “It’s too hot! Or are you trying to ruin my voice? Honestly, are you that useless?”

It was the third time Fiona had thrown water at her. Christine knew Fiona didn’t care about the water. This was about putting her in her place—teaching her what happens when you step out of line.

Christine clenched her teeth, remembering the day she’d boldly approached the conductor:

“Let me sing. I know, the lines, the blocking—everything. Please give me a chance.”

It was the first time she’d ever summoned such courage. She’d wanted so desperately to succeed and escape the shadow of Duke Deimos.

Was that ambition too much?

Now, she was paying the price, reminded of her audacity every day.

Endure.

Christine picked up the empty tray and turned to leave, only for Fiona’s mocking voice to stop her.

“Aren’t you forgetting something? Clean up this mess. Or were you hoping I’d trip and give you my role?”

Fiona’s smirk deepened as she lounged back, her red hair spilling over the armrest.

“No, I’ll fetch cleaning supplies,” Christine replied quietly.

“No,” Fiona said, her lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Use your hands.”

Christine stared at her for a moment, then knelt, silently picking up the shattered pieces.

The price of her brief moment of glory, it seemed, was far from paid.