listening to birdsong while pondering Sarah’s parting words. How could she elicit an emotional response in her listeners when she used music to deflect emotion? Opera embraced the drama of life, exposed the vulnerabilities of a person’s heart through fear and loss and pain. If she wanted the respect of the musical community and Boston society, if she wanted the celebrity of Sarah Jeanne, she would have to deliver a piece of her she’d locked away years ago.
In the turbulent years of her childhood, music had been her escape, her way out of her emotions and thoughts. The first real traumatic event she recalled was the murder of her father. Afterward, she’d gone to live with her sister, Jess, whose brutal husband commanded her to silence. Marlena had learned quickly to be invisible. When she wanted to cry, she’d sing softly to herself instead. Besides, she hadn’t the right to cry. All of the tears in that household belonged to Jess, who had earned them in her three years of abuse. When Marlena saw that the sound of her voice was a great comfort to her sister, she sang all the more.
Music was her escape and comfort, but never her way to connect, and she’d never, ever, wanted to be a concert artist, until she saw Sarah Jeanne perform. She’d made is seem so effortless, so easy. But it wasn’t for Marlena and she wondered. Could she do this?
Her stomach clenched painfully in doubt. She’d left her family, learned five languages, six if she counted the language of music, studied books upon books of etiquette, how to converse properly, how to sit properly how to dance properly, and signed away her free will for another five years. The idea that it may have all been for naught made her nauseous.
The teacup trembled in her hand and she swallowed the rest of its contents in one gulp before setting the porcelain down. Her footsteps echoed around the room as she paced, attempting to calm and reassure herself. Music was her one strength, and she’d always been confident in it. She wouldn’t doubt it now, no matter what Sarah said. She’d simply have to find a way to give Sarah what she wanted. Emotion. A hot breath escaped her lungs. That was a tall order.
She paced until the room grew too hot and small to accommodate her attitude. A dose of fresh air was necessary. She left the house and ambled down Beacon Street, passing familiar faces and greeting them with the same cold indifference they showed her. She chuckled and rolled her eyes. Today she didn’t care, for her debut was set and soon after she’d leave Boston on tour and never look back.
Down one block after another, Marlena strolled until she turned a corner and bumped straight into another lady. Amid horrified apologies, she glanced up to see a familiar set of blue eyes and a shock of scandalously red hair. The women shrieked in happy recognition, leaping into one another’s arms.
“Juliet!” Marlena exclaimed.
“Good Lord,” Juliet said as she pulled back to appraise. “I always said you’d grow up to be a beauty, but you are far more exquisite than I could have imagined.” She squeezed Marlena’s hands, surveying the shimmering silk gown and ivory hair combs before she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Money agrees with you.”
Marlena’s smile faded a fraction. People only saw money when they saw the Winthrops, but she’d never counted herself as part of that camp.
“Never mind that,” Marlena said, brushing aside her consternation. “You haven’t aged a day.”
“You are too kind to an old woman,” Juliet said as she fought the smirk rising to her lips. “But I thank you just the same.”
“What brings you to Boston?”
“We’re on our way back to Virginia City. We’ve been in London these past months.”
“London?” Curiosity gnawed on her insides, but she wouldn’t ask. Thankfully, Juliet continued without prompting.
“I received a letter from my mother four months ago.” Her eyes turned sad as they fixed out
In the turbulent years of her childhood, music had been her escape, her way out of her emotions and thoughts. The first real traumatic event she recalled was the murder of her father. Afterward, she’d gone to live with her sister, Jess, whose brutal husband commanded her to silence. Marlena had learned quickly to be invisible. When she wanted to cry, she’d sing softly to herself instead. Besides, she hadn’t the right to cry. All of the tears in that household belonged to Jess, who had earned them in her three years of abuse. When Marlena saw that the sound of her voice was a great comfort to her sister, she sang all the more.
Music was her escape and comfort, but never her way to connect, and she’d never, ever, wanted to be a concert artist, until she saw Sarah Jeanne perform. She’d made is seem so effortless, so easy. But it wasn’t for Marlena and she wondered. Could she do this?
Her stomach clenched painfully in doubt. She’d left her family, learned five languages, six if she counted the language of music, studied books upon books of etiquette, how to converse properly, how to sit properly how to dance properly, and signed away her free will for another five years. The idea that it may have all been for naught made her nauseous.
The teacup trembled in her hand and she swallowed the rest of its contents in one gulp before setting the porcelain down. Her footsteps echoed around the room as she paced, attempting to calm and reassure herself. Music was her one strength, and she’d always been confident in it. She wouldn’t doubt it now, no matter what Sarah said. She’d simply have to find a way to give Sarah what she wanted. Emotion. A hot breath escaped her lungs. That was a tall order.
She paced until the room grew too hot and small to accommodate her attitude. A dose of fresh air was necessary. She left the house and ambled down Beacon Street, passing familiar faces and greeting them with the same cold indifference they showed her. She chuckled and rolled her eyes. Today she didn’t care, for her debut was set and soon after she’d leave Boston on tour and never look back.
Down one block after another, Marlena strolled until she turned a corner and bumped straight into another lady. Amid horrified apologies, she glanced up to see a familiar set of blue eyes and a shock of scandalously red hair. The women shrieked in happy recognition, leaping into one another’s arms.
“Juliet!” Marlena exclaimed.
“Good Lord,” Juliet said as she pulled back to appraise. “I always said you’d grow up to be a beauty, but you are far more exquisite than I could have imagined.” She squeezed Marlena’s hands, surveying the shimmering silk gown and ivory hair combs before she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Money agrees with you.”
Marlena’s smile faded a fraction. People only saw money when they saw the Winthrops, but she’d never counted herself as part of that camp.
“Never mind that,” Marlena said, brushing aside her consternation. “You haven’t aged a day.”
“You are too kind to an old woman,” Juliet said as she fought the smirk rising to her lips. “But I thank you just the same.”
“What brings you to Boston?”
“We’re on our way back to Virginia City. We’ve been in London these past months.”
“London?” Curiosity gnawed on her insides, but she wouldn’t ask. Thankfully, Juliet continued without prompting.
“I received a letter from my mother four months ago.” Her eyes turned sad as they fixed out
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