Dark Enchantment (3 page)

‘Get dressed,’ he told her.

As she obeyed ineffectually, tugging her skirt down and fumbling the torn edges of her robe across her breasts, he followed his own command and donned his armour and cloak. He didn’t look at her. Automatically, she smoothed her hair.

‘What … ?’ she whispered.

He put his finger over his lips, casting her a sharp impersonal glance. Then he went to the door. As he opened it his body blocked the gap, and she was not in the line of sight of anyone in the corridor.

‘Captain Felic,’ he said, the hoarseness of his voice more
marked
than ever, ‘I want you to see to the body.’ He ushered another man into the room, then shut the door behind him. Surya saw a soldier whose long hair was greying and she shrank a little into her seat, conscious of her torn clothes. He looked her in the face and raised his brows.

‘Sir?’

Mershen put his hand on the captain’s shoulder and spoke to him in a voice so low that Surya could make out none of the words. The instructions took some time. Felic chewed the inside of his cheek and blinked hard, but showed no other sign of emotion. Then Mershen turned to look at her one last time. ‘Wait till nightfall,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘Sir.’

The Glorious General left without another word to her, without a smile, without explanation. The soldiers’ boots drummed on the corridor boards, and when they were gone Felic went and sat himself in a chair, stretching his legs out. His expression was mostly one of resignation.

‘What was his command?’ Surya asked.

‘We wait. Until nightfall.’

My name is Raihn and I am third concubine to Lord Mershen. I was born Surya, daughter of General Imerho, may his star look down upon us, and when I was eighteen I was slain and reborn. I was brought secretly to Lord Mershen’s private house on his ancestral estate, where I now live. It was four months until I saw him again. He is risking everything by keeping me alive and we have to be careful.

I live with Mershen’s other concubines. There are only three of us. They’ve treated me kindly, to my surprise; they know nothing of my true history and nothing he or I do must arouse suspicion. He does his best to keep up with us all. It’s a good thing he has a most spacious bed.

I am happy, though I miss using my bow. It is a noble-woman’s hobby not normal among other classes.

I tell you all this now, my child, while you are still within me. It must never be spoken aloud. Mershen says that when you are born he will adopt you. But the Radiant Emperor must never know that the bloodline of Imerho lives on.

Pique Dame

AT LAST MY
governess and the other girls go. Pauline lingers for a while, anxiously, but I don’t encourage her. It’s a relief to be on my own
.

My words are sweetly plaintive, falling like raindrops through the air
.

I remove my house gown, preparing for bed. I’ve told the maid to leave the French windows open, because the night is fresh now that the rainstorm has passed. I light my candle, turn back my sheet and brush my hair out. But I’m restless. I climb upon the bed then spring off again. My agitation grows. I should be looking forward to my marriage to Prince Yeletsky, but I cannot. Ever since that chance meeting in the Summer Gardens, my heart has been thrown into turmoil. That lowly soldier who looked at me with such burning eyes – what spell has he cast on me? Why am I trembling at the mere thought of him? Why can’t I think about anyone else – even my betrothed? There is a flush on my girlish cheeks now that has never been there before; it’s like fire has taken the place of blood in my veins; it’s like my mind is no longer my own. His handsome face haunts me. I touch my breasts, feeling the stirrings of strange new yearnings in them. I run my hand across the flat of my belly, aware that it is another’s touch I really need, but not truly certain what it is I would want him to do
.

There is a noise at the shutters
.

Hand on my heart, I retreat in fear. Someone has climbed to
my
balcony from the garden below. I see his figure framed against the night sky as the doors are thrown open and I cry out in recognition. It is the soldier – Herman
.

Into the room he strides, pain and desire in his wounded eyes. He loves me, he declares. But he cannot have me; I am too far above him on the social scale. He is only a lowly officer in the Tsar’s army, and I am the granddaughter of a countess. If only I would take pity on him! But no – he must never think that he might be able to attain my love, so he has come to bid me farewell. This night he will kill himself, so that the agony of lifelong separation might be avoided
.

I beg him to reconsider
.

There’s a noise at the door – a knock, my grandmother’s voice. She’s heard noises from my room and wonders why I am still up. Herman dives back behind the louvered shutter as she enters, and I try to look nonchalant. The Countess chides me and orders me back to bed, and as I pretend to acquiesce she departs
.

In half-a-dozen strides Herman is across the room, kneeling at my bedside, seizing my hands in supplication. I tell him he must go. If he goes it will be to his death, he declares. If only he could know that I love him as he loves me, that the same fire burns in both of us. If I would kiss him – if I would only yield my lips to his – if I would only answer his passion with mine, then he would live in everlasting joy
.

He’s on the bed now, his arms around me. I protest, but feebly. He is strong and insistent, his eyes and his voice holding me captive as much as his hands. I arch beneath his taut body, my breasts heaving against his chest. He has one hand in my hair now, and I can’t tell if he’s holding me up or bearing me down. Though I try to wriggle free, every movement I make somehow opens me further to his caresses and works me further into his embrace. He wants me. He cannot bear to let
me
go. He must have my love now. And as he bears me to the mattress and moves upon me I yield helplessly before his passion and my own, sliding my arm about his neck and sinking back as he takes full possession of me. His lips hover over mine
.

The curtain falls on Act 1
.

That moment almost hurt. The transition was wrenching: all at once I was no longer virginal Russian noblewoman Lisa, but back in my own somewhat older body. My hair wasn’t golden but a light brown – it just looked blond under the stage lights – and it wasn’t the dashing obsessive Herman whose weight was upon me but Elliot Wells, the lead tenor.

We held our places, trying to control our breathing, because it’s not totally unknown for a stage curtain to go bouncing up again so it’s best practice to freeze in place for a while. He was heavy on my thighs and the heat of his body was making me tingle. Not that I was objecting. The stormy passion of the scene, the soaring vocals of our duet, the fearsome intensity of his eyes – I’d hardly been acting as I portrayed Lisa’s arousal. I wondered again at the perversity of the director’s decision not to let us kiss before the curtain fell. Over and over during months of rehearsal, this same music, played on a tinny piano, had brought us to this climactic point without ever permitting any resolution.

It’s easy to get lost in a passionate role. There’s a reason why actors and singers aren’t so good at monogamy.

Stagehands hurried on all around us, grabbing the props. Beyond the heavy curtain applause was still raining.

‘OK?’ said Elliot, still not moving, still not taking his eyes from mine. Between the tight rows of his braids his scalp gleamed with sweat: this was hard work.

I nodded, panting. The aftermath of our duet burned inside me.

‘You were amazing,’ he murmured. From a professional like him to an amateur like me, on our opening night, that’s a high compliment. I felt myself blush beneath my stage make-up.

‘Elliot! Tanya!’ Our stage manager Leo had scurried on. He had to keep his voice down but his enthusiasm was unmistakable. ‘Did you hear that? They love it!’

Reluctantly, it seemed, Elliot heaved himself to his feet and held out his hand to help me up, while I straightened my dress, trying to cover the fact I was feeling flustered. ‘Tanya’s got real ability,’ he murmured. ‘You should try out for a professional company, you know.’

I was damp between my legs I realised, trying not to squirm.

Leo squeezed my shoulder. ‘Don’t say that! I need her here!’ His head whipped round. ‘Careful with that!’ he hissed at two hands who were wheeling in a draped pillar for the ballroom scene and almost tipping it.

Distracted for a moment, I lost track of Elliot. When I looked around he was heading into the wings.
Pique Dame
is a particularly hard opera for the principal tenor because Herman is on stage and singing in every scene. My own part was somewhat briefer, as Lisa would commit suicide when she realised that Herman’s true devotion was to gambling and that he was using her to acquire her grandmother’s card-playing secret. That role was quite enough of a challenge for me. But at least we were singing the French version rather than the Russian; memorising our words had been that much easier.

Leaving Leo to chivvy the backstage crew, I slipped through the wings and down the stairs to the female dressing room to glug bottled water and get changed into my ball dress. The second act would be upon us before we had time to cool down.
Dizzy
with excitement and adrenaline, I was still thinking about Elliot Wells, wondering if his lingering touch was entirely method acting. We’d only met six months ago and had only been rehearsing hard together for three. I’d found him, well,
reserved
– perfectly polite and very professional, but slow to thaw, as if an operatic arrogance went with that artsy little beard. Maybe that was my own fault for holding him so much in awe. He was in the chorus of the English National Opera and I, like the rest of the cast here, was only a keen amateur. Don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t slumming it down here with the Danley Opera Company, he was advancing his own career. Professional singers vie for lead amateur parts because they want the roles on their CV. But I was lucky to get the chance to sing with someone so good and we both knew it.

And I was lucky in another way entirely: that he was so handsome. Most tenors in my experience were short, fat and balding. I don’t know why that should be, but I’ve always found baritones to be much better looking, even though they don’t often play the romantic leads. A tall charismatic tenor is a happy surprise. A tall
black
tenor is as rare as hens’ teeth. Opera, that most middle class of art forms, is not exactly full of singers from ethnic minority groups.

Working with Elliot was not doing anything for my peace of mind.

I hurried through the changing room, nearly tripping over the ballgowns that were being flung on in a last-minute panic. One end of the room was screened off for the Countess and myself, the contralto and soprano principals: that small privacy and our own chairs were all the privilege we were afforded.

‘You looked good out there, dear,’ said Mary, the chief wardrobe manager, over an armful of taffeta. I’d gathered she’d been backstage on every production this company had done since it was started. ‘Very nice.’

‘Thanks!’

‘I never realised what hot stuff this Tchaikovsky was, you know.’

I grinned and lifted the curtain to our little chamber. The mirror lights had been switched off and the space was in shadow. Just for a moment I thought I saw a slight, dark figure sitting in my chair, head in hands. Then the light from the room behind me shifted in as I changed my stance and I saw that the room was empty.

Odd, I thought. But I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had to get into my costume for the masked ball, and meet my betrothed.

The opening night was a thorough success and I couldn’t have been more pleased; this was my first principal role with an opera company this big, and though it was an amateur company it was a top-of-the-range one, with costumes and sets as good as any you’d see in a professional show. It was only the participants who didn’t get paid for what they did.

After the final curtain fell some of the cast went to the pub to celebrate while others went home and the backstage crew scrummed down into a technical discussion. I hung around chatting for a while, but ended up getting changed back into civvies alone, humming to myself my riverbank aria. I was just putting my earrings on when Elliot lifted the curtain and looked in on me.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi there.’

We stood smiling at each other, not entirely sure of ourselves. Elliot’s silence before he next spoke was just that little bit too extended. All of a sudden the room felt too warm.

‘I was wondering if you would like to go out for a drink,
Tanya.’
His invitation was measured and polite, but it could not be construed as casual. His eyes said everything.

‘A drink?’

‘There’s the bar at the Hilton.’

‘I’d love to.’ I ran my hand over the back of a chair. ‘But I can’t.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hm?’

‘I’m …’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m married.’

‘Ah. Fair enough.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘So am I,’ he admitted.

‘I’d have liked to though,’ I blurted out as he turned away. ‘You know.’

He held me with his gaze one beat longer. ‘Yes. I know.’

A moment of aching frustration passed between us, unspoken. Then he stepped in towards me and I thought that he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He took my hands in his and I thought how big and warm his were compared to mine. And I thought I was sure I was capable of denying myself – but not if he pushed it, not if he took control, not if he touched me. Please, I thought, just kiss me and it won’t be my fault.

Stooping, Elliot brushed his lips to my cheek. ‘I think it’s probably a good job we’re not on tour together, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Goodnight, Tanya.’ He left me breathless and shaking – and alone.

I sat down heavily, feeling the air go out of me like from a punctured tyre. I should phone home, I told myself, my fingers fluttering over my face. I should speak to Tim and his voice would remind me who it was that I loved, who it was I could come home to every night and find always pleased to see me, pleased to slide into bed beside me, pleased for my success and my passion and my pleasure in an art he understood not at all. Tim would have bought a bunch of flowers to congratulate
me
on my opening night, and would have a bottle of my favourite wine open. We would make love because I’d be too wired and hyper to sleep, and it would be quite wonderful and satisfying.