Maybe it was because I did not care about musicians like that, but it was all so foreign. However, the fact that her fans were all consumed by their own emotions made it much easier for me to blend in, even with just the glasses and a hat. When the lights on the stage rose, there she stood in a long, flowing black dress, her hair pulled back off her face, and an entire orchestra behind her.
“Odette!”
“We love you!”
“Wooo!”
I hunched over at the manic screaming behind my head. Everyone, except for Iskandar and me, was on their feet...everyone, including my secretary.
At least I will finally hear what all the fuss is about. However, Odette stood there, gripping the microphone—a little longer than I guessed was normal.
“Is her microphone on?” I heard someone ask behind me.
But I was close enough that I could see the panic on her face, despite how hard she tried to hide it.
Rising to my feet, I called out her name, too—well, sort of.
My mind was a mess.
My hands were shaking.
My hair was up because I had ruined the stylist’s efforts by running my hands through my curls and having to lie down to calm my nerves backstage.
My stomach was completely in knots, and I wanted to run.
I didn’t feel like I could sing.
It happened to me each and every time.
It was like, somehow, I convinced myself all the musical ability in me was gone. That the last song I sang was the end of me.
On top of all of my insecurities and fears were Yvonne’s words from yesterday and the epic madness that was my mother and father’s relationship. What was the truth? Should I believe Yvonne that it was much more complicated than my mother made it seem to be? Even so? How deep were those wounds? I couldn’t ask her last night. I didn’t have the guts to.
“You’re on in two, Odette,” the voice in my earpiece said, not at all helping me.
I nodded, pushing it farther into my ear.
I could see the crowds through the curtains and felt sicker.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
Why am I doing this?
My voice and music haven’t been doing well, not to mention I haven’t even been able to record as much as I’d like.
I can’t do this.
My eyes started to blur, and my nerves got worse.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Odette Wyntor!” the announcer said, and the lights on stage all fell on top of me.
I held on to the microphone because I needed it to keep me from falling, and now that the lights were on me, and everyone could see me, I felt worse. I was mad at myself for being like this. Why was I such a coward? I can’t run. But I can’t sing...
“Cinderella!”
There, in the front row, in thick-rimmed, black glasses and a baseball hat was Gale. He grinned up at me, waving.
Why is he everywhere? I couldn’t help but smile, and I remembered his letter, which made me think of his sister stomping her feet and then him in a tree.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, and I leaned into the microphone.
Her voice.
It was like being stabbed right in the heart.
It was haunting and heavy.
It felt like winter.
It was stunningly beautiful and chilled me to the bone.
When I got over that, the actual words that came from her lips...it would make Edgar Allen Poe feel for her. It was not just me. Everyone had been buzzing with energy and excitement before she came on stage. Now it was so silent that had I not looked around me, I would have thought they had all disappeared.
“This is what it looks like when their love has died. Maybe love is not for everyone. I have seen it with my own eyes. I am a witness. There is nothing left here. Look, the magic is gone. The love has died. The sun has set, and I will never rise.”
Depressed-siren music.
That was what I had told Eliza Odette sounded like, but it was much more than that. The song she sang was the “Watch of the Nightingales.” I did not understand it until I recalled the tale of the nightingale. Where a reluctant woman who kept postponing her wedding date caused her fiancé so many sleepless nights that he finally turned her into a nightingale, condemning her to a life with no sleep as he called for her. “Watch of the Nightingales” was a song about love and longing, and we were watching how that love had died.
That code.
I now understood Wolfgang’s comments from before.
For almost two hours, I—and the rest of the audience—were held captive by her voice.
“She’s very good...” My voice trailed off as she began to play the piano for her last song. I could not speak. I was not sure what they played in heaven, but I was sure it was something close. Her song, it was full of hope and joy...it was like the sunshine finally appearing after the storm. At the end, the whole place erupted into cheers so loud that I felt the ground shake.
“Thank you all for coming out and supporting me! I love you all!” she said to them, waving.
“We are Wyntor’s storm!” Wolfgang cheered beside me.
I shook my head. “Let him have his moment,” I whispered to Iskandar, who looked ready to reach over and smack him.
“Are you ready to go, sir?” he asked me instead.
I nodded. However, before he could step forward, a large round man with tattoos up both his arms came forward. He pointed to the three of us and waved us forward. Wolfgang went forward, speaking to him first before coming back to me.
“Ms. Wyntor called for us to come backstage.” He seemed more excited about it than me.
I followed them as they led us under a black curtain behind the security and through a dark hall. It took only five minutes for us to reach a plain white door, which the large man knocked on.
“Come in.”
The bouncer looked to us and nodded for us to do so. When Iskandar opened the door, she was lying face down on the couch. Wolfgang tried to enter as well, but Iskandar yanked him back out by his collar and closed the door behind me.
“You called for me, Your Highness,” I teased, bowing my head to her.
“Yes, I did, Clark Kent,” she replied, not bothering to get up.
“Clark Kent?”
She nodded, shifting only her head to look at me then pointed to her own face. “What’s with the glasses? Do you really think people won’t recognize you because of the glasses and a hat?”
“It’s worked so far.”
She sat up completely, looking at me. “Are you sure you’re not stalking me? Everywhere I go now, you just pop up?”
“You called me here, remember. If you want me to go—”
“No,” she said quickly, getting up now, too. “I called you because I wanted to know if you wanted to get dinner.”
What? I looked her over carefully, unsure of what was happening. “You are asking me out on a date?”
“No, I am offering you food.”
“The difference?”
“I am saying thank you,” she whispered, coming closer to me. “I was really nervous, and then I heard you call out to me. I also thought back to what you said in your letter. It helped. So, I wanted to say thank you.”
“You do not have to—”
“But I want to.”
The longer I stared into her brown eyes, the more lost I became, and I found myself agreeing.