Page 1 of Irene

Chapter One

Applause washed over Irene Jonson, a warm tide she basked in. She dipped a curtsey and bowed her head, then joined the ensemble cast at the rear of the stage. She clapped as Fausto and Valentina, the show’s leads, swept in from opposite sides to accept their well-earned accolades.

Fausto Casello, known to his ardent fans merely as Fausto, beamed at the various aliens who stood to cheer him. An accomplished tenor, he was known even in the far reaches of the galaxy. His fame and his insistence he be allowed to tour had sent the opera company throughout the territories of the Galactic Council of Planets’ membership despite Earth’s tendency toward isolationism. Fausto was on a mission to spread human opera. He claimed it was a gesture of goodwill to the myriad species Earth courted as allies. The government and Church had bent to his arguments, desperate to be allowed to colonize planets to house Earth’s ever-growing population.

At his side, Valentina De León accepted praise, hers the regal benevolence of a queen. She was an hourglass in red next to Fausto’s barrel torso, a haughty beauty with black hair and flashing eyes. She’d been in top form for their performance, and Irene joined in giving her due applause. When Valentina was on form, no better soprano could be found anywhere.

Irene and the rest of the company were taking their final bows, readying to leave the spotlight to its stars to be celebrated alone, when a complement of the group’s security and chaperones spilled onto the stage. James Donald, head of the tour’s security, barked, “Clear the stage immediately! For your safety, the cast must move to the backstage area now.”

The applause died. The audience looked at each other and muttered. Many looked fairly alarmed. Irene caught a glimpse of Fausto’s face, blistered red, before her chaperone appeared at her side and grabbed her upper arm. Dolores pulled…she nearly yanked…Irene to the wings. “Come quickly. Kalquorians are present, and I want you out of sight.”

Irene snorted, but softly. She had intentions to wander the clubs later that night. She needed to keep Dolores, a former nun and current emissary of the Church, from keeping too close an eye on her. They joined the crush of cast, chaperones, and security leaving the stage.

Behind Irene, Fausto’s voice boomed. “Do not fear, esteemed patrons! We will be onstage again tomorrow night without fail, ready to thrill you with another performance. Thank you, and goodnight!”

Backstage, his hearty warmth became fiery rage as he shouted at Donald, spittle dotting his dark beard like gems. “How dare you desecrate the boards with your foolishness!”

“A group of Kalquorians—”

“Kalquorians, bah! They are nothing in the hallowed halls of opera. Have you no respect for the genius of Regio’s work? For the hours we rehearsed to perfect this singular piece of art? For the effort I put into this successful performance? No one disrespects Fausto! Allow me to change into clothes in which I can swing my fists, and I’ll teach you better manners, sir.”

Few paid the pair any mind. Fausto’s tantrums, though boisterous, were rarely of any consequence. He was obeyed and coddled because of his millions of rabid fans, rather than his temper. His popularity was such, even the Church was careful about crossing him.

Dolores was among the minority who watched Fausto pitch a fit, her thin lips compressed in disapproval. “The man has no shame. I hope Mr. Donald puts him in his place for once.”

Irene managed to keep her eyes from rolling. Fausto was Fausto. He had his fair share of ego and wasn’t afraid to use his fame and charm to get what he wanted…and plenty of it. He was also sensitive under the bluster, a big gooey marshmallow who wept easily at another’s pain.

Valentina took no notice of her costar’s histrionics. She strutted past the gesticulating Fausto and patient Donald to march up to Irene, her chaperone Rosalie a couple of paces behind. “What do you think, girl? If I’d been allowed to take my bows, I would have been called back three times. Do you doubt I was born to play Esther?”

“Not at all. You were brilliant. The audience love you.”

Valentina swelled with pride. She gazed up at Irene’s superior six feet as if she’d scored a major triumph. “They did. For aliens, they know talent. You did well too,” she added as a grudging afterthought.

“Thank you.”

“But you are no Queen Esther! Someday, perhaps, but not yet. Probably not for some time.” Valentina’s eyes glittered as she dared Irene to refute her.

Irene quelled the urge to point out the role of Queen Esther called for a woman much older than her twenty-seven years, but it would have been cruel to do so. On the cusp of forty, Valentina was hardly old, but she wasn’t taking her upcoming birthday well. It didn’t help that her performances were inconsistent, her singing and acting only as good as her mood. Fausto had included her in the touring company out of loyalty…they’d performed together for nearly two decades. Why he’d promised her two-thirds of the leading lady roles, Irene couldn’t quite understand. When they’d performed exclusively in New York in another company, Irene had been tapped to play lead more often than the talented but tempestuous Valentina.

Irene felt no need to play upon her castmate’s fragile esteem. Especially tonight. She smiled. “You didn’t play Esther. You were Esther.”

Valentina deflated a little. High on a flawless performance, she was eager to remind her young up-and-coming competition how good she was. Irene had denied her the opportunity. She was forced to nod graciously and mutter, “Thank you.” An awkward beat later, she swept to the clustered males of the chorus to receive their accolades.

“As the Book says, pride goeth before a fall,” Dolores muttered. “Mark my words, Valentina will fall far when God is done with her.”

Irene was tempted to correct the former nun’s quotation, which actually read “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” Knowing it would open a different can of worms kept her silent.

“I’ll check the dressing room and see how crowded it is,” she told her chaperone.

“Judging from how few of the women are here, it’s probably bursting at the seams.” Dolores cast a sour eye at the half dozen young actresses remaining in the main area, vastly outnumbered by men. Judgment was etched on every line of her pudgy face despite the fact each woman was accompanied by either a husband or a chaperone.

Irene nodded toward Meg, a diminutive member of the chorus. The lucky girl’s mother was an assistant seamstress to the wardrobe department and functioned as her chaperone. The pair shared quarters near Irene’s. “It may be a while before I can change, and you’ve had a long day. Why don’t I walk to my room with Meg and Mrs. Hoffman, and you can turn in early?”

The relief in Dolores’ gaze was unmistakable. Irene was no more than an assignment to her. The cheerless chaperone was untouched by opera, thinking it a den of sin despite the fact only biblical subject matter was performed. She disapproved of those who performed it, and outright despised the flirtatious Fausto and temperamental Valentina.

Irene had been careful to give Dolores no reason to suspect her of indecorous activity during the year the company had been off Earth. Her sporadic illicit forays, which had begun six months after leaving their home planet, had been meticulously planned and rarely indulged.

The complacency she’d infused in her chaperone was evident as Dolores hesitated a mere beat before heading to the door at the back of the room. “I’ll com you in half an hour to verify you made it to your quarters.”

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