Dark Enchantment Read Online Free Page A

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