Chapter 32
***
The practice was canceled.
Luckily, Christine was unharmed.
After checking on the lead singer, the conductor called a short break to clean up the mess. As the singers dispersed, the conductor, noticing the dreadful atmosphere, said.
"You. You did this on purpose, didn't you?"
Daisy exclaimed, her face bright red.
"Of course I didn't do it on purpose, it was a mistake, a mistake."
Clearly, she had tripped on purpose. It was a good thing Christine hadn't been hurt during the rehearsal, or she would have hit her forehead on the corner of the table next to her.
"Mistakes, that's it? Make a mistake that makes sense!"
Daisy glared menacingly at her opponent.
As if that weren't enough, the mezzo-soprano continued her sarcasm with an outright sneer.
"Be afraid to perform with her, she's going to go out and get someone. Isn't that right, guys?"
One of the younger members of the troupe chimed in with a slyly inciting remark.
"So be careful, sister. The Count of Gounod has asked for a thousand pounds, and I don't see why he should be so noble on such a subject."
"You!"
Daisy stomped angrily, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater.
"Don't. Daisy."
Christine quickly grabbed Daisy's wrist.
There was no point in wasting physical strength on something unnecessary. Besides, it would ruin the show if they went onstage with hurt feelings. Explanations wouldn’t change the cold atmosphere.
So it would be best if they didn’t get caught up in it.
"Let's go."
Christine hesitated, but then grabbed Daisy's wrist and led her offstage.
"First Count Gounod, and then His Royal Highness the Crown Prince. Can you give me a technique of what to do to serve three thousand pounds?"
The actors burst out laughing.
Christine, who had stopped walking at that moment, slowly turned around.
One of the girls, who had joined the troupe around the same time, had her arms crossed and was glaring at her with a mixture of envy and accusation.
She'd felt it in practice that everything was all out of place. The lines and movements that were supposed to fit together were subtly out of sync, not moving like tightly interlocking cogs. Not to mention, they were threatening.
Fiona Bennett.
Come to think of it, she was supposed to be the one who'd been offered to perform at the Duke of Deimos's charity auction.
Christine sighed deeply inwardly.
She stared at the group with disdain, and then she started to walk away. Her worn skirt swished around her ankles as she moved. She was a far cry from the glamorous label of the crown prince's lover.
"Are you going to tell me here?"
The mocking remark was followed by a wave of giggles before Christine quietly called out the other woman's name.
"Maggie."
Her voice was low and soft.
"All I can do is do my best on stage."
"Where do the smugness come from?"
"If I felt I wasn't good enough, I'd try harder. I'll do my best to make sure that Violet, as I play her, isn't a burden to you all, I promise."
There was no more laughter from the backstage as silence descended.
"If I'm still not good enough in your eyes, I'll quit being Violet. Again, I mean it."
The eyes of the troupe surrounding Christine widened.
"You.................. really mean it?"
"I swear to God."
Green eyes narrowed in determination.
Clasping her hands together, Christine bowed respectfully to the group. Black hair cascaded over her shoulders.
"I want to get along with you guys like we used to."
There was murmur around her. Christine bowed even deeper.
May her words reach them.
If it didn't reach them, she'd try again.
The mood among the troupe slowly shifted as their eyes softened toward Christine Peildon. Maggie, under Fiona Bennett's tutelage, fell silent, hiding her defeat.
A prima donna was bowing her head with respect.
It was quite the ego-stroking tactic, but it was also a respectful and down to earth way to showcase her time as a finalist.
It made a deep impression on the group.
The slow, compassionate way she stood up made her look like a saint, especially compared to the arrogant, fierce Fiona Bennett.
***
The greyhounds drove the pheasants from their hiding places in the weeds, and they flew in unison into the burning sky.
Bang, bang, bang!
A series of sharp gunshots rang out, shaking the winter forest. Grayish-blue smoke drifted through the air on the chilly wind.
The hounds barked and sprinted toward the spot where the target had fallen.
The Crown Prince was not interested in his kill. The swift greyhounds began to hunt pheasants for Arthur, who had skillfully adjusted the barrel of his gun.
The pheasants were flying again.
The area near Grita was the finest hunting ground in Bern, created at the behest of the hunting-loving King Joseph VII.
The birds lived up to their reputation, streaking the red sky with black.
The incessant gunfire ceased as the sun began to dip behind the ridge. The winter breeze through the barren forest seemed to carry the faint scent of blood.
Arthur handed the slender shotgun to his aide and removed his hat. His disheveled platinum hair spilled over his forehead. Fixing his hunting cap, Arthur turned his horse's head and spurred him toward the manor.
His thirst was unquenchable.
Why did he feel so deficient, even as the cold wind bit at his cheeks and filled his lungs with chill?
Arthur dismounted from his horse, smelling the strong odor of gunpowder. Handing the reins to the waiting servant, he unbuttoned his collar and strode briskly up the porch steps. Arthur took a slow breath as he climbed the stairs, his face grim.
With his gloved hands, he unbuttoned the tight collar of his shirt, which was pressing against his neck. With the collar open, he felt like he could finally breathe.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair and let out a long sigh.
But it still wasn't enough.
He had every right to feel numb now.
Some wounds only get deeper with time. Arthur glanced down at his wrist for a moment, swallowed a sigh, and set off again.
As he climbed the main staircase and reached the landing, he paused in front of a large portrait on the wall. A beautiful child with deep blue eyes called out to him.
"Let's make a bet on whose snowman will survive the longest!”
“You, who never tire of losing every time, you provocateur.”
Even in the mountain hut, where he trembled with fear. He laughed and always said: “If you want to, whenever you want.”
Standing in the sunlight, now fading to violet, Arthur took a long look at his twin brother.
“I haven't built a snowman since he died. For the winters have been terrible and unbearable.”
“Your Highness must be even lonelier than I am.”
As he was deepening in thought, the woman who had caught his eye even in an out-of-date dress whispered sweetly to him.
Christine Peildon.
Her name rolled off his tongue, and the wild throbbing of his throat slowed to a halt as if in response.
Narrowing his eyes, Arthur removed his hunting cap. As the shade of his hat vanished, his revealed eyes like shards of ice.
"Call her."
Arthur rubbed his fingertips across his tired eyes, commanding flatly.
The aide's face hardened instantly.
"I don't think you should. It's not appropriate today."
Now that the memorial service was over, King Alexander would proceed with the Crown Prince's engagement. The last thing he needed at this point was an unsavory scandal. Moreover,
"As Your Highness already knows, she is in some way connected to the Duke of Deimos, and the possibility of her selling information to him cannot be ignored-."
The steady footsteps ahead stopped. In the deafening silence, the Crown Prince turned slowly.
"Do I need to say it twice?"
Overwhelmed by the lowered voice and icy gaze, the aide swallowed hard.
It was impossible to read anything on the Crown Prince's face, which was completely stripped of unnecessary emotion.
But it was clear that Christine Peildon was a dangerous woman. She was the first to make him waver, even slightly, in his absolute convictions.
A woman like that.
The aide met the Crown Prince's eyes, which had sunk into the darkness outside the window, and bowed politely.
"As you wish, Your Highness."
***
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