“Well, today is the day. I hope you like it.”
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Every singer needs to sign up at the Royal Opera House. It’s located across the river, and the quickest way to get there is by gondola.”
The gondolas were located at a pier next to the lover’s bridge. A bridge I had once met Victor on. I shoved his face out of my memory. I didn’t want to think of my ex, didn’t want to imagine his sneer or disapproving glare at me trying out.
Lorenzo handed a coin to one of the boatmen who wore a striped shirt and tapered trousers. “Please take us to the Opera House. ”
Lorenzo jumped into the boat and held his hand out for me. Carefully, I stepped onto the trembling, wooden floor of the boat. Only two days ago, I had walked everywhere. Now, I was cycling and going by boat.
The gondolier didn’t sit down but remained standing at the end of the boat and paddled with a long stick. We passed Arcadia’s multicolored houses, and I was surprised by how beautiful our city was from the water. I had always considered it was a privilege to live in Arcadia, but being in the gondola made me appreciate my hometown even more—the elegant church spires, the adorable, matching shutters and doors, the carefully crafted metal signs hanging above businesses, and the blooming flowers decorating the balconies.
We arrived at the dock way too soon. Lorenzo helped me out of the boat, and then I saw it. I had never been to the opera before, yet there was no doubt in my mind that the imposing building was it. Three tall columns with golden tops stood in front of the castle-like building that featured a massive balcony and was bigger than the cathedral in the market quarter.
“Not sure they will let me in,” I whispered, wishing I had changed out of my simple trousers and shirt into my finest clothes.
Lorenzo glanced at me. “Nonsense. They won’t deny you entry. Everyone can sign up.”
Perhaps, but I had the bad feeling that given my outfit, my chances of progressing had fallen to zero. Now that I thought about the last years’ competitions, I realized they had been mostly won by magic wielders that seemed to come from rich families or youngsters from well-established theater families.
Lorenzo continued toward the building, but I stopped in my tracks. Once he noticed I wasn’t following, he turned around, a question on his face.
“Tell me the truth. Do you think I even have a chance of winning?”
“You do. But if you don’t believe me, know this: if you don’t walk inside, you have already lost.”
He was right. Despite feeling small and unworthy, I stepped past the first and second rows of columns. Lorenzo pushed open the wide, wooden-and-glass doors that had the king’s insignia, the crown, and the glass slipper, carved into them. The inside was even more majestic. The hall was endless. Marble and gold were everywhere. The theater staff wore red velvet hats and matching red jackets with black and golden accents.
Lorenzo led the way to the ticket booth. “We’re here to sign up for the national competition.”
The woman behind the glass window nodded and pushed through a form. “Fill this out.”
The form asked for my basic information, such as my name, address, and what kind of experience I had.
It was a relief to put down that I had performed twice at Daydream. My experience might be meager in comparison to other participants, but at least I had some. After I filled out the form, I returned it to the receptionist, who looked over it and stamped it. “Take this to the competition host, Mr. Goodwin. He will give you a recording slot.”
Seeing my confused expression, she explained, “You’ll record one of your songs later this week. It will be sent to the jury. The best fifty recordings will make it into the first round of the competition.”
“How many applicants are there in total?” I pressed my palms together hard.
The receptionist clicked her tongue and looked over some papers. “About 500. Probably 100 more with everyone who signed up today.”
600. The chance to get into the first round was less than 10 percent.
Lorenzo took my hand, and some of my dread eased. “Let’s meet the competition host.”
Together, we walked down the marble hallway, past a wide staircase that I guessed led to the expensive balcony seats. Everywhere I looked, the white walls and ceiling were decorated with golden leaves. Massive, gilded-and-crystalline chandeliers illuminated the space. We stepped through grand double doors into the auditorium, which was a mixture of red velvet seats and gold accents. As we walked past the countless rows, my gaze went upward to the four stories of balconies. That’s where the king and his court would sit if I made it to the final performance. Right now, however, the seats were all empty save for the front row. One middle-aged man was flanked by a young woman to his right and a young man to his left. The trio was whispering, their gazes fixed on the two girls on the stage. No, not girls, but women. And not just any women, but the sisters from the boarding house, Georgette and Bernadette, Madam Fontaine’s daughters. What were they doing here?
“How much can we change the stage?” Georgette asked. She was the taller one, and her leading the conversation made me believe she was also the older one.
Not waiting for Mr. Goodwin’s, the competition host’s reply, Bernadette chimed in, “How many dress changes are we allowed to do for the recording?”
Then they both asked in unison, “How much recording time do we get?”
The older man in the middle sighed. “You get half an hour. You may change the stage as much as you want as long as you don’t damage it and are able to clean it up in your thirty-minute slot. The dress changes also must happen within that time slot.”
“That’s not nearly enough time!” Georgette’s face turned into an overripe tomato.
“Henry, can you please deal with that,” the competition host gritted out, and his slender assistant jumped up and hurried up onto the stage.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Henry said and gently pushed the sisters, who appeared to weigh four times as much as he did, off the stage.
“We’ll write to you with any requests we have until our audition dates,” Georgette said.
The assistant wrinkled his forehead. “But the letter won’t arrive in time.”
Bernadette pouted. “Fine. We’ll send a messenger if we have additional requests before our recording.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to accommodate any request,” Henry said patiently. “We’ll be having recordings daily, and our schedule is very tight.”
“How much?” Bernadette produced a coin bag.
Henry shook his head. “We can’t accept any bribes.”
The competition host tapped his hand impatiently against his knee and glanced around the theater, his gaze landing on Lorenzo and me.
“Henry, please escort the Fontaine sisters off the stage. Our next singers are here,” Mr. Goodwin said with relief.
The sisters shot daggers at me, but I didn’t shrink back, only stood taller. I was no longer working for their mother. It was no longer my job to make them happy. I could handle their disapproval.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t walk past me without making a jab.
“Aren’t you the maid who worked for our mother?” Georgette turned her nose up as high as she could while still being able to glare down at me.
“She was doing room service, and then mother demoted her to the kitchens.” Bernadette pointed at me like she was a three-year-old who hadn’t yet learned manners.
“Good luck failing.” Georgette stalked past me.
“Yes, good luck failing,” her younger and plumper sister added and pushed past me, nearly knocking me to the ground.
Lorenzo’s fists had gone white-knuckled.
“Leave it. They’re not worth it,” I whispered.
“What’s your name?” the director asked.
I put on my most confident smile. “Halia. And this is my manager, Lorenzo.”
4
25th July
As much as I was worried about my upcoming recording, I had no time that morning to fret over what song to choose, how to make myself stand out, or what the Fontaine sisters would do. If I wanted to show up for my recording that was a few days away in one piece, I needed to focus on my balance and staying on the bike.
While the two practice sessions with Lorenzo had certainly helped me become more confident and at ease on the bicycle, riding on my own without his pointers and the knowledge that he would be there to help me if I fell, was terrifying. The several pounds of mail attached to my bike’s back basket didn’t help either.
The temptation to push the bike was high, but I knew I’d only feel worse if I didn’t at least try. Thus, I found myself swinging into the saddle and whispering to myself, “You’ll be fine, just take it easy.”
The weight at the back added an extra balance challenge and meant I had to pedal harder. Even before reaching my first destination, I was already grateful for the plastic bag Lorenzo had handed me last night. He had said I would need the trail mix, which consisted of nuts and dried fruits. I had refused the expensive food at first but had finally accepted it, something I was now very grateful for, certain the snack would be gone an hour into my shift. Keeping my gaze on the road, I watched out for uneven pavement and others. Throughout the morning, I avoided a child who seemed determined to run into my bike, a stray dog, and a coachman who acted like the road belonged to him alone.
One by one, I delivered the letters from my basket, enjoying how my load was growing lighter by the minute. There were a few times when I almost lost my balance, and twice, I had to get off the bike and take a few deep breaths when I had taken a turn too quickly. But overall, I began to feel confident about my cycling skills and even had some fun doing it.
The best part, however, was that I managed to deliver all the letters and return to the post office for the second load by eleven.
“Bravo!” Mrs. Flanagan clapped upon seeing me. “Excellent.” She gave me the second load of mail, which to my surprise and disappointment, was almost as big as the first one.
Even though my thighs burned, my back ached, and I had to roll my wrists every time I got off the bike to deliver the post, I felt good. I had wanted this job, and I was grateful for Mrs. Flanagan taking a chance on me. As physically demanding as this was, it allowed me to work without being interrupted by angry customers or Madam.
With the midday sun beating down on me, I stopped off at the market and drank deeply from the water fountain, then rested for a bit on the sidewalk. Noticing a stand that sold straw hats, I wheeled my bike over there, deciding I could afford a hat since it was an investment I would wear daily.
“You look beautiful, senorita!” The young merchant grinned from cheek to cheek. “Which hat would you like to buy?”
“I’m not sure.”
He began showing me different options. “Try it on!” he kept saying, pushing a mirror toward me.
I put on several styles, pausing at a wide, sandy hat. I wasn’t sure I should get something quite as big, but I did like how it covered my shoulders and chest, preventing those areas from getting sunburnt. “How much?”
“For you, five marks.”
I snorted. Did he think I was a silly girl who didn’t know the market rates? “I saw you sell these hats for two marks yesterday, and we both know they’re worth, at maximum, one mark.”
Color seeped into his face. “Two marks, darling.”
“I’ll give you one fifty.” I produced the coins.
With a sigh, he took them and handed me the wide-brimmed hat. “You drive a hard bargain.”
I beamed. “Have a good day!” I swung onto my bike and pushed the pedals, a floating feeling overcoming me. I had bargained and won. No more backing down or worrying about others’ disapproval. From now on, I would stand my ground. Well, at least, in daily interactions. I doubted my need for approval and being liked would ever go away completely. Plus, when it came to my singing, I needed others on my side. As much as I had signed up for the competition to help Queen Ella, I was also entering it because I wanted to know that I could make it as a singer.
I sighed. If only I had a plan on how to stand out to the judges during the recording. I didn’t have the money or resources to create an impressive background. Even though Mikka had seemed excited to help me by creating some ice for my performances, the sign-up sheet had clearly stated that no element or weather manipulation was permitted in the opera house during the recording.
I chewed on my bottom lip. How could I come up with a breathtaking performance in three days’ time? What would be considered unique? I didn’t want to inadvertently choose a cliché the judges were sick of seeing. How would I know what was overdone? The best thing, I decided, was to go after my shift to the opera house and watch the recordings of my competition. Just as anyone could sign up, anyone could attend somebody else’s recordings.
Unlike the actual shows, I didn’t anticipate the theater being full. I doubted Arcadia’s citizens were interested in hearing everyone who had signed up for the national competition. They only wanted the top fifty.
I delivered my last letter and was about to turn to cycle back to the post office when sobs reached me. I got off the bike and pushed it toward the muffled noise.
At the end of a cul-de-sac, a woman sat on the ground. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. Her face was buried in her palms.
I stepped closer. “Are you all right?”
The woman glanced up, her blue eyes meaning mine, and I gulped. The crying woman was Doris. And she was looking much worse than she had the last time I had seen her. A blue bruise bloomed around her left eye, purple bruises covered her neck, and green bruises bloomed on her arms.
“Doris! What happened?”
She sobbed only harder in response. Setting the bike against a wall, I pulled her into a hug.
I let Doris cry for a few minutes before asking, “Who did this to you?”
She just shook her head and cried harder.
“If somebody is hurting you at the boarding house, I can help you leave.”
She brushed away the tears running down her cheeks and shook her head once more, a look of resolution on her face.
I sighed. “I really want to help you, Doris, but I can’t do it if you don’t work with me.”
She didn’t reply, simply stared into empty space.
“Please let me take you to Daydream. You can stay there tonight.”
She backed away from me as if I had suggested she come with me to a prison.
“How about if you come by just for a drink or a meal?”
She rose to her feet.
“Please, let me help you.”
Her only response was a tight smile, which I knew was a no, even before she scurried away from me.
It was clear that going after her would accomplish nothing. As much as I wanted to trail her and see what she would do next, it wasn’t feasible. Arcadia didn’t have many bike riders. I would stand out like a sore thumb. Anyway, I had to return the bike to the post office before Mrs. Flanagan wondered what had happened to me. After stopping by at the post office and debriefing with Miss Flanagan, I headed straight for Madam’s Boarding House.
I walked past the main entrance toward the back of the house where the staff entered. Praying I wouldn’t run into anyone, I made my way down to the kitchen. Doris wasn’t there, but a young guy was scrubbing away at some pots and pans.
He glanced up. “Can I help you?”
“Ahem, I’m looking for Doris. She normally works here in the kitchen.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
I hit my palm against my forehead. How stupid of me. “Well, she doesn’t speak, and Doris is the name I came up with for her.”
“Oh, you mean Cinder.”
Cinder? “Is that the name she gave you?”
The young man chuckled. “Of course not. She’s a mute. But that’s what Madam Fontaine tol
d me to call her.”
“I see. Do you know where Cinder is?”
He shook his head. “No idea, but I’m sure she’ll be back soon for her evening shift.”
“Thank you,” I said, not daring to ask him about the bruises on Doris…, no, Cinder. I turned toward the door but then decided to try something risky. Turning around and tilting my head in a non-threatening manner, I said, “Have you met Madam’s daughters?”
His face contorted. “Lady Bernadette and Georgette.”
Conspiratorially, I whispered, “Apparently, they’re entering this year’s royal singing competition.”
He put the clean pan away and began working on a deep pot, not the least bit impressed by my information. “They won’t get far if they use their natural voices. They sound worse than a cat when you step on its tail. Of course, there are other ways to advance in the competition.”
I took a few steps toward him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Madam Fontaine makes good money with the boarding house. I bet she has enough to pay a fae.”
“To do what?”
He rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. “To change the sisters’ singing voices.”
I swallowed hard. “Is that possible?”
He looked at me as if I was born yesterday. “Why shouldn’t it be? Demons and fae can do all kinds of things.”
I nodded. “I suppose.” Not wanting to rouse his suspicion with too many questions, I looked at the mountain of dirty dishes waiting for him and said, “I’ll leave you to it.”
I was by the door when he called. “Hey, what’s your name?”
I debated giving him a false one, but even though I wasn’t too keen on people knowing that I was here, I decided there was nothing wrong with me visiting a friend. “Halia. Please tell D—, Cinder that the offer still stands.”
“What offer?”
I smiled. “She’ll know.”
I closed the door to the kitchen, more certain than ever that something ominous was going on at the boarding house. It couldn’t be a coincidence that around the time our queen went missing, a terrified Doris, no, Cinder appeared, and the sisters moved in with Madam. All of this was very fishy. And why were the sisters so suddenly interested in winning the competition? If they had money, there were other ways to gain fame and prestige. I had the feeling that entering the competition wasn’t about them becoming famous singers or even becoming part of the court. They wanted to get close to the king.
Halia: Daughter of Cinderella Page 13