Sing Sweet Nightingale Read Online Free Page A

have to admit he’s right; I would hate it if he stopped challenging me. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know me.”
    “You are my favorite subject to study.” Orane settles his hand on the small of my back and pulls me closer. Which I don’t mind at all. He’s always so careful with me, keeping a tiny bit of distance between us. My pulse picks up speed. Maybe tonight will be different.
    I trace the lines of his angular jaw, his dimpled chin, the exaggerated arch of his eyebrows. Orane stands patiently under my fingers, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips.
    Turning his head, he kisses the tips of my fingers, and I lean into the soft caress.
    “What else would you like to do, Mariella?” he murmurs against my hand. “We have some time before you must leave.”
    Closing my eyes, I rest my head against him, breathing in his soft, floral scent. I hate thinking about leaving Paradise. Every night since two weeks before my eighth birthday, I’ve been invited into this dreamworld. And every night I have to leave again. It’s the leaving I hate most.
    “We haven’t been to the opera hall yet,” I say.
    Orane grins and leans down for a kiss. His touch sends a frisson of energy down my spine, and I can barely contain the desire to slip my hands under his linen shirt and finally explore the skin that has been forbidden to me for so long. But like each time since our first kiss two years ago, he gently pulls back, planting one last, light kiss on the tip of my nose.
    “I hoped you would suggest that.”
    He offers his arm. As I take it, the air around me shimmers, changing my riding clothes into a flowing, white lace dress, accented by a wide black belt with flowers decorating the front. I run my hand along the textured fabric and sweep my long blonde hair over my shoulder.
    We walk along the shore of the lake, passing the towering willow tree and the orchard of cherry trees in full blossom, their flowers not simply the usual whites and pinks, but a wild rainbow of reds, blues, and golds. The sky above us is trapped in a perpetual twilight, never fully dark, but never quite day.
    In the distance is our destination, the opera hall he created for me years ago. The cream-colored marble is carved in intricate designs, and the dark wooden doors stand open. I don’t have to close my eyes to picture the interior. I helped him design it all.
    Statues stand in nooks along the walls, and hundreds of seats covered in red velvet fill the auditorium. A luxuriously soft, black-velvet curtain hangs from the proscenium arch, and despite the empty orchestra pit, the finest music I’ve ever heard will rise into the air the moment I begin to sing.
    Once we’re inside, Orane tells me about the modifications he’s made to the acoustics—the better to amplify my natural talent, he promises. He leads me through the door, down the aisle of the auditorium, and up to the stage. Once I’m in place, he retreats into the darkness of the orchestra seats, his face lost under the glow of the stage lights.
    “What will you have tonight, monsieur?” I ask, sinking into a deep curtsey. “Opera? Jazz? Contemporary folk?”
    “Sing a song about love,” he calls.
    “That narrows it down to about all of them.” I laugh, standing straight and mentally sifting through my repertoire. “At least give me a style.”
    “In the style of Etta James then,” he replies. “So long as you sing, nightingale, I do not care.”
    Etta James? Perfect. I concentrate on “At Last,” my favorite of her songs, and the invisible orchestra begins to play, the opening chords rising into the air around me.
    I take a deep breath, and my voice rises up, carrying the song to the farthest reaches of the theater. Pushing the boundaries of the melody, I take it higher and higher, pouring myself into the song and giving it to Orane. My performances are a gift. My gift for him. I sing for hours, flowing from R&B to pop to folk to opera to alternative. I