Page 78 of The Kiss Of Death
Dalia flinched, her eyes widening. The veneer of composure she had worn was tearing apart to revealpity. I’d vowed no one would ever look at me like that ever again. I erased the angrylines from my face and regained control of my emotions by readjusting my uniform.
“You’re scared,” she mumbled.
“Don’t ever bring her up to me anymore, or those scores,” I ordered. “Now get out of here if you’re only here for my mother.”
I could never have Dalia.
She delicately placed her violin into its case and, with measured steps, approached me instead of running away. She inched forward, and on her tiptoes, she kissed my cheek. It was soft. Warm. Tingles on my skin.
“Thank you for letting me play at the opera house tonight. It was magical.”
The reminder of her kiss lingered on my cheek. No one had ever kissed me on the cheek before.
She turned back one last time before leaving and smiled. “I didn’t meet you here only because of Lucie.”
And that was why the queen always overpowered the king in a chess game.
Mr. Delgado asked us to arrive at least four hours before the gala for the rehearsals. Though I was only the backup, the knot in my stomach tightened with each passing minute. I hadn’t eaten all day. With my gala dress draped over one arm and my violin cradled in its protective case in the other, I made my way to the grand salon of the opera house.
Mr. Delgado’s loud voice, teetering on the edge of collapse, would have felt potent enough to shatter the golden mirrors on the walls. The three other students were already present—only Maria was missing.
“Oh, thank god you’re here.” Mr. Delgado’s usually stoic demeanor cracked into genuine relief upon seeing me—that was a first. “You’ll replace Maria. She had the nerve to cancel at the last minute for some interview, so you better be ready, Mercier.”
My jaw hung open. “Yes, I—of course.”
Mr. Delgado’s discerning gaze ran the length of me, a mixture of scrutiny and, perhaps, regret already settling in. “Put your belongings in the lodge.” Urgency punctuated his words as his hands clapped together. “Chop, chop!”
“You better not mess this up. This is my moment,” Gunther’s deadpan delivery cut through the air.
Nodding in acknowledgment, I darted off to stow my gala dress in the dressing room, my heart dancing with excitement. With shaky hands, I reached for my phone to text Dad and Grandma despite everything.
Me:I’m performing at the gala! Can you believe it?? I’m a step closer to performing at the Grand Opera House!
Even if my father were to respond with his usual refrain, “You can’t bet everything on a slim hope of the opera opening one day,” it wouldn’t change my mood. I placed my dress on the makeup table, noticing a black silk box already resting there, with my name elegantly scripted in ink. My fingers eagerly untied the ribbon, unveiling the exact dress I had admired in the store just days ago.
I glanced around, searching for a clue as to who it was from, but found nothing.
Goose bumps spread on my skin. I held the dress up, twirling it in front of me in the mirror, and I let out an excited shriek.
Mom, if only you could see me now.
All I knew was that tonight would beperfect.
“So you’re performing tonight after all? I’m so excited for you!”
Yasmine enveloped me in a tight hug, the satin fabric of her red dress getting tangled with the tulle on mine. The rehearsals had left me with no time to eat, my stomach a churn of nerves, and my trembling hands betraying the anxiety gnawing at me.
That night unfolded like a twilight canvas of opulence. The air whispered tales of students from centuries past, waltzing in the middle of ancient golden mirrors that stretched along the walls. Though it was Halloween, the atmosphere felt more like a New Year’s event, devoid of scary masks—a detail for which I was silently grateful.
Yasmine’s eyes flickered to my outfit. “And that dress, is that the one from the store after all?”
“It was in my lodge. Someone sent it to me,” I whispered.
She arched her brow. “And you decided to wear it? Even not knowing who it came from?”
“Of course. If I do, the person will manifest themself. Unless it’s my dad who changed his mind, or Grandma, or—”
Mr. Delgado’s snap of fingers diverted my attention to the other side of the grand salon. He pointed at an invisible watch, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
