Chapter 4: EYES IN THE OPERA

Madame Elladine’s expression grew sharper as she studied me.

"Well?” she pressed. “What did he do?”

I gathered what was left of my composure. “He adjusted my breathing.” The second part of the sentence stuck in my throat. "And... my bodice.”

Her brows shot up. “Of course he did.” She let out a sharp sigh and turned down the corridor. “Come. We have ensemble rehearsal in twenty minutes. We'll pretend you're ready.”

I followed her, though my legs felt unsteady, as if Avel's presence wrapped around them like dark silk.

As if his voice still brushed against my ear.

'You are here to obey me.'

Heat rippled down my spine, both unwelcome and intoxicating.

The theatre buzzed with morning chaos. Sopranos warmed up with scales, dancers stretched their limbs in long, deliberate arcs, and stagehands shouted instructions as set pieces rolled across the floor. The noise was dizzying.

I felt raw.

More alive than I’d ever felt.

More vulnerable than I’d ever been.

The main rehearsal hall opened before us. It had high ceilings, tall windows that let in muted winter light, and mirrors lining two full walls. Dozens of performers moved around, but all chatter faded when we entered.

Or rather, when they saw the choker.

Whispers darted around the room like sparks.

“Is that her?”

“The new girl…”

My skin prickled. I kept my chin up.

Madame Elladine clapped her hands sharply once. “Positions! Sopranos on the left, altos near the piano. Miss Wynn—front row.”

“Front—?” My voice cracked.

“That is what I said.”

The front row meant all eyes would be on me—judging me—resenting me.

I stepped forward anyway.

Several singers glared at me like I’d intruded on sacred ground. Others stared at my throat and quickly looked away, still whispering.

One woman, beautiful with sharp features and chestnut hair pinned in a perfect twist, openly sneered.

“You must be very talented,” she said sweetly, “to earn the Lord's favor on your first night.”

“It wasn’t taken,” another corrected. “It was given.”

Their laughter poked at my ribs, but I kept my voice steady.

“I simply auditioned,” I replied.

“Of course,” the chestnut-haired woman purred. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

I stiffened.

Madame Elladine appeared at my side in an instant. “Miss Wynn,” she said quietly, “this is Marienne Roux. Our prima soprano.”

Ah.

The cruelty made sense. Prima roles required talent, but the holders often demanded blood.

Madame Elladine glared at Marienne as if she had drawn a knife. “Your warm-up isn’t good this morning, Miss Roux. You’re flat by a quarter-note.”

Marienne’s cheeks turned red with anger. “I—Madam, I—”

“Fix it,” Madame Elladine snapped.

She stormed off, doing a poor job of hiding her humiliation.

“Do not engage her,” Madame Elladine whispered to me. “She’s a thorny rose. Pretty from a distance, thorny up close.”

I managed a tight nod, but the unease lingered.

Everyone was staring at me. Not for my voice.

For him.

---

Warm-ups began.

We moved through scales, arpeggios, and breathing exercises. My voice felt different; freer. The loosened bodice allowed deeper breaths. Each inhale carried a quiet whisper from earlier:

'Better.'

Avel’s word haunted me.

It made my tone warmer, my vowels rounder, and the resonance at my sternum richer.

When the ensemble began singing in harmony, voices mixed like gilded threads. I felt a hum beneath my skin, as if the opera itself recognized me.

As though it approved.

Marienne glanced back, heard the sound of my voice, and glared.

The director, a wiry man named Brenton, paced the floor, keeping time with claps and adjusting pitch.

"Sopranos, open your throats on the climb. Altos, hold the vowel—hold it—yes, good. Miss Wynn—”

My heart stuttered. “Yes, sir?”

He looked at me as if he hadn’t expected my voice to be so close. “You’re projecting unusually well. Any training?”

“No, sir.”

“Remarkable.” He pointed at me. “Stand by the piano. I want to hear your clarity on the third verse.”

“Sir, she hasn’t learned—” Marienne interrupted.

“She has now,” Brenton snapped. “Miss Wynn. Sing.”

All eyes turned.

My mouth went dry.

But I inhaled—steady and deeper than I ever had.

Avel had taught me how.

I began the verse. The tone surprised me with its strength. There was a raw clarity, a resonant ache.

Brenton’s eyebrows rose. Several singers murmured, and Marienne’s glare sharpened to daggers.

As the final note lingered in the air, something strange vibrated through the hall—a faint tremor in the wooden beams. Too quiet for most to notice, but I felt it.

The opera house was listening.

Brenton nodded briskly. “Excellent, Miss Wynn. You will alternate with Miss Roux for the second solo.”

“What?” Marienne exploded. “She’s—she hasn’t—she’s barely—”

“She is chosen,” Brenton stated. “And I trust the patron’s instincts.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Chosen.

The word sliced through me with a mix of dread and heat.

---

When rehearsal ended an hour later, I moved quickly, hoping to escape before Marienne or the others cornered me. But just before I reached the doors, a familiar voice stopped me.

“Miss Wynn.”

Silas Thorn stood near the wing corridor, looking immaculate as ever, his hair pale gold against the dark wood paneling. His posture was composed, but something flickered in his pale eyes: curiosity, concern, or something more.

“The Lord wishes to see you.”

My heartbeat quickened. “Now?”

“No.” His voice softened. “Tonight. After supper.”

A flutter rose in my chest—anticipation tangled with something darker.

I nodded.

Silas’s gaze briefly flicked to my throat.

The choker.

"I see you’re still wearing his gift,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I?” I asked quietly.

His expression didn’t change, but something in the air grew tense.

“It suits you,” he said simply, though there was something unspoken in his tone.

As I moved toward the exit, a hand grabbed my wrist. I spun—too quickly—and found myself face to face with Marienne. Her eyes glinted with hatred.

“You think you can just walk in here, little orphan, and take roles I’ve bled for?”

“I didn’t take anything—”

“Oh, spare me your innocence,” she hissed.

“Men like him don’t choose girls for their voices.”

Anger crackled through me, sharp and unwelcome. “You don’t know him.”

“Oh, no?” She leaned closer, her breath hot with jealousy. “I know exactly what he does to his little pets.”

Blood drained from my face.

Marienne smiled. “Wear his gift proudly, then. It will be a necklace today. A collar tomorrow.”

Before she could say more, a harsh cough interrupted us.

Madame Elladine again.

“Miss Roux,” she said coolly. “If you have enough breath to antagonize new vocalists, you have enough to redo your exercises from the top.”

Marienne froze. “I— I was only—”

"Do it,” Elladine snapped.

Marienne stalked off, humiliated but not defeated.

Elladine turned to me, lowering her voice. “Be cautious. You’ve stirred things. Not intentionally, but power rarely moves without consequence.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I whispered.

Her eyes softened just a little. “No one ever asks for him. Yet here we are.”

I left the hall shaken, my emotions tangled in a knot I couldn’t undo.

As soon as I stepped into the grand foyer, the air shifted as if someone’s attention had found me.

My breath stalled.

The balcony overlooking the foyer was empty.

Yet I felt a presence, dark and electric—Avel.

Watching.

Not approaching.

Not speaking.

Just… watching.

Heat crept beneath my bodice. My pulse raced. And, though I hated myself for it, I didn’t look away.

Silas found me again just as I reached the main doors.

"Miss Wynn,” he said gently. “May I walk you back to your quarters?”

I blinked. “Is that… necessary?”

“No,” he said, offering his arm. “It’s simply wise.”

I hesitated, then took it.

His arm felt warm, steady, and comfortable in a way Avel’s presence never did. Yet something in his posture was guarded, as if he held secrets just as carefully as he opened doors.

“Was rehearsal overwhelming?” he asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I didn’t expect…”

“To be handpicked?” he finished quietly.

I nodded. His jaw tightened. “He does not choose lightly.”

“What does it mean?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Silas’s eyes flicked to me—sharp and unreadable.

“It means,” he said, “that everything in this opera just shifted around you.”

A strange chill washed over my skin.

"And that,” he added softly, “you should brace yourself.”

“For what?”

But he only shook his head. He paused at my door, slowly releasing my arm, as if reluctant to let go.

“Tonight,” he reminded me. “After supper.”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

He nodded once. “Then prepare yourself, Miss Wynn.”

“For what?”

Silas gave me a small, cryptic smile.

“For whatever Lord Avel Morcant intends to take from you next.”