In the inky dark, with a soft breeze whirring from the HVAC system in the distance, she could almost have been outside. Then came the soft fluttering and rustling of people shifting around, waiting, restless. She was the one they were waiting for. Shutting her eyes, she steeled herself and took a deep breath. Then, her high ethereal voice was filling the theatre. The growing warmth of a weak spotlight made her skin glow. Finally, as she reached a crescendo, the throbbing violins flared to life behind her.
The spotlight grew brighter, hotter, and she was dimly aware of the rest of the stage being lit to show the orchestra playing away serenely. The concert went smoothly, almost too quickly. Before she knew it, Claire was being applauded and introduced as the symphony's new professional soprano. She bowed slightly in her silky lavender gown, and headed offstage.
As she approached her dressing room, the conductor overtook her. Pressing his hand warmly to her shoulder, he smiled slightly and said, "You were lovely tonight, Claire," in a low tone, his thick French accent nearly obscuring his words. Claire smiled and ducked into her dressing room. Heaving a sigh, she dropped into the oversized armchair she'd had brought in for her, taking a moment for herself before going out to join the party. Opening night always took it out of her, and opening night with a new symphony was something else again.
She had been drawn to the city with the promise of mild weather, an excellent salary, and the freedom to take on additional work whenever it didn't conflict with the symphony's schedule. She hadn't been adequately warned about the conductor, however. His name was Sebastien ("say-bas-TYAWN, NOT se-BAS-chen, PLEASE") Boulet, but he insisted that they all call him Maestro, and was somewhat gruff in that stereotypically French manner. He always wore suit pants, but would frequently be seen in a charcoal gray or white turtleneck shirt. All he needed was the beret, she thought to herself. Sebastien was unlike most conductors she had seen, who keep their backs ramrod straight and their movements harsh and precise. He swayed, almost danced, his lithe frame graceful on the podium and his baton floating and bouncing along to the music.
She could tell that he really "felt" the music, and she guessed that he would be an amiable enough person to work with. It soon became clear that this was not the case. He was never cruel, nor even too impatient, and yet he commanded such respect and attention that it was considered almost rude to come before him and make such elementary mistakes as playing a wrong note. Players were expected to practice their new pieces extensively in the month-long hiatus between season's end and summer rehearsals.
He was very exacting, and difficult to please. This caused most in the orchestra to strive even harder to earn one of his rare full smiles and compliments. Claire was no different, but it wasn't just the dearth of platitudes that drove her. From the moment she first saw him conducting, she had been very taken with him. When she came in to audition for him, she remembered, her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but some part of him exuded such sensuality that it surprised her.
Sebastien's facial features were strong and somewhat pointed. He had a thick shock of black hair, with similarly thick eyebrows shading brown eyes. His nose was a little large for his face, but not unpleasantly so. Her instant attraction should have been a reason to turn down the position. After all, stories of conductors' dalliances with their young, pretty sopranos are commonplace, and Claire didn't want that to be what she was known for. Still, the city was vibrant and attractive, and once she'd visited, she couldn't imagine living anywhere else.
In the three months since she had begun rehearsing with the symphony orchestra, she had learned to obey Sebastien's every command. When he wanted her to start, she started; to stop, she stopped. She made herself endless notes, practiced everywhere from her shower to her car. When, at the end of her third week with the symphony, he smiled adoringly at her after a particularly stirring solo, her heart fluttered. She redoubled her efforts.
She had sensed a change in him after she had made her first real error, in his eyes, being late to rehearsal. She had been running late, and was rushing to get to the symphony hall before rehearsal started. She had dashed in as the orchestra was tuning their instruments, and she saw Sebastien's shoulders tighten when the door snicked shut behind her.
"You're late," he had said tartly.
"Yes, Maestro, I'm very sorry," she had gasped out, breathlessly. He had turned to look at her, as she tried to catch her breath, a light sheen of sweat glossing over her skin. Her hair must have been a mess. The expression on his face had been inscrutable, but the look of dark knowledge in his eyes had shaken her.
After that day, their few private rehearsals had become the source of anticipation and near-terror for Claire, as she was both excited and frightened by the energy that crackled between them. He generally accompanied her on piano, or sat in the front row if their pianist was there, but it always felt like he was close. Touching her, inside her head. She had to fight to keep her concentration with Sebastien staring at her.
In group rehearsals, he virtually ignored her. But whenever they passed in a hallway afterward, he looked at her with such intensity she didn't feel she could stand it.
She was very relieved now that opening night had come. Rehearsals would still be numerous, but she would have the confidence of someone tested, instead of the constant nerves and fear that she might fail. She had been applauded, thunderously, had gotten a smile and a compliment - perhaps the season would be a breeze from here on out, but she wouldn't hold her breath.
As she thought back over the previous few months, she recalled meeting him just outside her dressing room door tonight. Why had he touched her? This was something he never, ever did. And the smile? Strange. He was rarely so pleased.
She shrugged out of her dress and into something a little shorter, a little darker, a little more scandalous. She pulled her chestnut curls up into a loose bun, tendrils floating over the back of her neck. It was going to be awkward to go out and socialize with the wealthy patrons of the symphony, none of whom she had previously met, and all of whom were no doubt going to make it a point to introduce themselves. As someone young and fairly attractive, this would no doubt mean plenty of propositions as well.
As she swung the door open to go out, she nearly ran directly into Sebastien, who looked nearly as surprised to see her, as he had clearly been poised to knock on her door. There was a pause as both composed their thoughts.
"Ah, Claire, there you are. I thought perhaps you would allow me to escort you downstairs," he said in the inflectionless way he often had. It was part of what kept the orchestra on guard, and it had the same effect on Claire. He held his elbow out to her, and she hoped the surprise didn't show on her face this time.
Offering physical contact twice in one night? What was going on? She would probably never know. Still, she rested her hand delicately in the crook of his arm.
"I'd be pleased to, Maestro." One corner of his mouth crooked upward, and he led her to the party.
It wasn't so bad, really. Sebastien introduced her to everyone as the symphony's ingénue, and though Claire blushed prettily on cue, she wasn't sure really whether to feel complimented or insulted. After a few moments, she was drawn into conversation with a wealthy couple, and lost track of Sebastien entirely. She ended up chatting amiably with a few different people over the course of the evening, but noticed once or twice that Sebastien, while in conversation with others, would nevertheless have his eyes on her. She left the party early, and was relieved to be on her way back to her dressing room, alone. A pair of running shoes was calling to her.
Singing was like the ultimate energizing activity for her. She felt so transcendent afterward that when she was much younger, she would do dangerous things like speeding on coastal roads or driving with her headlights off at night, to amplify the thrill. When she started dating regularly, she would go home after practice or a performance and fuck her boyfriends' brains out. Then she had taken up running, and never looked back. It didn't matter how late rehearsal ended, she always went for a run afterward. The symphony house in this city was downtown, near the vibrant city blocks she so loved, but there was also a large, well-lit park a few blocks away. If she really pushed herself, she could jog alongside the beach for a short time before turning back to the symphony. She took the shorter route tonight, already tired from the concert.
Claire paused outside the symphony hall to stretch out all of her muscles, and then slipped in through the backdoor to the dressing rooms. The lights had been turned off, and the shadows in the corners were thick. It was so utterly quiet. The party seemed to have ended long ago. She slipped into her dressing room and changed into the light cotton dress she'd worn to the symphony hall that day. She kept her own light off, letting the pale glow from the hallway illuminate things just enough to see. She wandered out, and noticed there seemed to be a light coming from the stage. As she approached, she heard the first pensive notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata thrumming from the piano. "Almost a fantasy," he had written at the end of the title, and indeed it had always sounded to her like a dream.
She tiptoed to it, wondering which of the orchestra players had stayed back to do a little playing. Few had pianos in their apartments, of course, and it was always a treat to play on the concert grand they had on stage.
When she peered out from around the curtain, she was therefore shocked to see Sebastien, slightly hunched over in front of the piano. He played so tenderly, his fingers practically caressing the keys. His eyes were squeezed shut and it was clear to her that he was somewhere else entirely. She wondered what he was thinking. She stood and watched him until the final notes of the first movement had died away, and then let out a little sigh.
Sebastien's head jerked up and he searched the back of the stage with narrowed eyes. Claire stepped back hastily, and when she saw Sebastien rise from the piano and head her direction, she made to leave.
"Who's there?" he called out, but she didn't answer. She had almost made it to the hallway, where she could duck into any number of dark doorways without being seen, when she felt a firm grasp on her upper arm. He yanked her around to face him, and the furious look on his face faded into something more like derision.
"Ah, mon abeille, it is you," he said softly, pushing her firmly against the wall at the back of the stage. "You should be more careful where you go sneaking about." His voice was low and dangerous.
"I wasn't sneaking," she retorted.
"Your footsteps did not announce you."
"You're not exactly in a private place, Sebastien, so you shouldn't expect to be alone," she said, not even totally believing it herself. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to her, pressing his body up against hers in a firm line.
