Chapter Text
“What do you mean, lost her voice?” Nielsen looked apoplectic. “She can’t lose her voice! Curtain up is in seven goddamn minutes!!”
Todd, Letitia Janson’s hapless assistant, grimaced. “She’s very sorry, but she can’t—”
“Can’t?!” Nielsen yelled. “She’s Orfeo! She’s the goddamn lead!! Do you have any idea what it would do to us if we have to send people home now? We’re barely hanging on as it is; we need tonight to work!” He dug his hands into his hair, making it stick out even more than usual.
“We could appeal to the audience; see if someone knows the part,” Helena suggested. She knew what Nielsen was talking about; hard not to. The opera house was just about scraping by; a canceled premiere, of this last-effort run, would be a death knell in so many words. “It’s been done before.”
Nielsen looked frazzled, but nodded wildly and pointed at Helena. “Yes. Yes! Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Where’s Claud— Claudia!!”
“Right here, Artie,” the stage manager said from behind him.
He started and turned to her. “Get the clothes from Letitia’s room,” he told her, completely ignoring how her eyes widened pleadingly at being sent into the lion’s den. “I don’t care if you have to undress her with your own hands; get the stuff here. And Rebecca too. Tell her to have everything ready. Put a mirror in the wings if necessary; there won’t be time to go back to the dressing rooms for make-up.” He groaned. “We’ll just have to hope that whoever we might find fits the clothes.” Then he stared at Claudia. “Did you not hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Claudia said hoarsely. She gulped.
Artie impatiently flapped his hands. “Then what are you standing around for? Off with you; go, go, go!” Even before Claudia had fled, he turned to Helena. “You and me, up on the stage, right now.”
Helena inhaled – she hadn’t meant for herself to—
“Problem?” Artie snapped at her.
Helena straightened up. She was a professional. She was Euridice. It wouldn’t be on her if the show failed. “No,” she said curtly.
“Good.” He turned and hurried off.
“Hey hey hey, Mykes, you know this part though, right? You said so, right? Right?”
Myka scowled at Pete. Damn him; he had focused so much on what he called ‘opera lesbianics’ during her explanation of what Orfeo ed Euridice was all about – why did he remember this bit?
“Hey!” Pete called out towards the stage. “Here! Over here!”
Myka saw Arthur Nielsen shade his eyes to look past the stage lights, and sank deeper into her chair. “Pete!” she hissed, trying to pull him back down. “Don’t you dare—”
“You a countertenor, then?” Nielsen called back.
“A what? Me?” Pete shook his head wildly. “No! No, no, my—”
“Pete! Shut up!!”
“—friend here knows the part!”
There it was. The words were out, ringing through the auditorium. The very packed, very expectant auditorium.
“The Italian version?” Helena Wells asked, head tilted.
Pete turned to Myka expectantly.
Never ever had she blushed so hard; she felt like every single eye in the audience was on her.
“Well?” Nielsen barked.
“Yeah— Um, yes,” Myka said, clearing her throat.
“Speak up!” Nielsen called out; Wells looked exasperated already. And no wonder; any singer worth their salt would be able to project their voice over twenty rows, wouldn’t they?
Myka took a deep breath. “The Italian version, yes,” she said, loud enough and clear enough to carry to the stage. The audience, well aware that that was their cue, broke into applause.
Pete grinned and softly pummeled her arm with his fists. “Get up there, then! Time to shine!”
Myka bit her lips, but she had spoken up, hadn’t she.
The show had to go on.
Helena watched the tall, slender woman make her way down the steps in the auditorium, head ducked against the applause, face tight and body tense – but she cleared the steps to the stage two at a time, with a noticeable spring in her step. The audience clapped louder, and the woman tucked her head further into her shoulders, but gave a gesture of acknowledgement at least, and half a smile. Then, biting the inside of her lip, she made her way to Helena and Nielsen. More applause, and a few camera flashes, as she arrived.
“You are a godsend,” Nielsen told her, pumping her hand up and down much longer than necessary. “A godsend!”
Helena nudged him with her elbow to get him to stop, and smiled at the woman as she took her hand in turn. Truth to tell, the woman looked the part: tall and slender, in the coltish, lanky, tomboy way that lent itself to a hosenrolle – and indeed she was wearing pants, black ones, and flat shoes of the same color. Halfway dressed already, then, and Letitia’s shirt – a man’s dress shirt, also black – would fit well enough. She wore barely any make-up, either; Rebecca would have an easy time of getting her ready for the stage. Curly hair tied back in a low ponytail, clear hazel eyes: different coloring than Letitia, who was white as milk with hair so pale it gleamed silver under the stage lights; Rebecca – and Jack, her husband, who did the costumes – had raved about the contrast to Helena’s black hair. That difference was much less pronounced now; the woman’s hair was chestnut, and curled where Letitia’s had been even straighter than Helena’s. But contrast in the other direction was still contrast; Helena had no doubt that Rebecca could work with this, if the woman let her.
Helena was still holding the woman’s hand – the woman hadn’t released hers, either. They both seemed to realize it at the same time, and let go with embarrassed smiles.
“Myka,” the woman said quietly.
Helena blinked.
“My name,” Myka elaborated.
“Oh!” Helena gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Helena.” Then she berated herself; unless this Myka was an absolute philistine—
Myka was blushing fiercely. “Well. Yes. I know.”
“Alright!” Nielsen said loudly, clapping his hands. He turned back to the audience, arms wide. “Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen! I have to ask for a few minutes more – we’re gonna have to dress and make up our new Orfeo—” He gestured for Myka to step up next to him, and looked at her expectantly.
“Myka Bering,” Myka replied, to more camera flashes. And, yes, that was stage projection, easy and practiced.
Helena exhaled softly, loosening her shoulders.
“Myka Bering! We’ll be back in five, ladies and gentlemen; don’t leave your seats!”
Applause accompanied the three of them off-stage.
Behind, chaos waited. “Five minutes!” Rebecca shouted, already pulling Myka by the arm to where someone had indeed set up a small table and illuminated mirror. “Five minutes! I’ll need at least twenty; what does he think, that I can work miracles?”
“Do you need to warm up?” Helena called after the two women. “Myka! Your voice?”
Myka gave her an absentminded nod, following in Rebecca’s wake. “I’ll do what I can.”
“You will keep your mouth shut while I put lipstick on,” Helena heard Rebecca grumble, then her view of the two of was eclipsed by Jack and an assistant with Orfeo’s costume at the ready.
It took thirteen minutes, all told, until the curtain rose to thunderous applause. Helena stood in the wings stage right, watching as, along with the fabric going upwards, so did Myka’s posture, even though she was not on stage yet either, waiting for her cue in the wings stage left. Right up until that moment, Rebecca and Jack had fussed around her like tugboats, and Myka had looked frazzled and tense – but now?
Now Orfeo stood ready, dressed all in black, hair open and wild.
The overture ended, and the choir began to file on-stage, in their roles as attendants of Euridice’s funeral. There had been no time to go over any blocking or choreography, of course, but Helena could see Myka taking in the stage: the two tiered areas stage left and right that were clearly the choir’s destination, the bare, sarcophagus-sized block of plaster stone center front where Euridice would be laid out, the rectangular opening in the stage floor center back where she would be laid to rest, the tombstone-shaped slab of stone half across it. Claudia, standing next to Helena, raised a hand to get Myka’s attention, then gestured for her to go on stage; Myka nodded her understanding.
Helena had seen quite a few different takes on this scene: Orfeo storming towards the block of stone; Orfeo crawling towards it; Orfeo flinging himself next to it or even across it.
This Orfeo walked towards the block, steps measured, face stony, posture tense, hands balled into fists, eyes on the ground.
This Orfeo did not acknowledge, with not a single twitch or glance, the audience’s thunderous applause; this Orfeo was grieving, holding on to his composure by the skin of his teeth.
Claudia swore softly, then turned to Helena, wide-eyed, open-mouthed. “Are you seeing what I am seeing?”
Helena inclined her head to the side. “I want to hear what there’s to hear first,” she said, but she couldn’t deny that she was impressed.
“Sure,” Claudia shrugged. “But remember where you’ll be when that happens; be sure to hold on to yourself, ombra bella.”
Helena nodded; her “pall-bearers” stood ready behind them, and she let them lift her up onto their shoulders. Claudia waited until Helena had laid her hands on her chest, then tugged Helena’s dress into place – soft, off-white satin to contrast Orfeo’s severe black, just as Orfeo’s hair contrasted Euridice’s perfect funeral coiffure. For Letitia, that contrast had been the straightest, severest braid imaginable hanging down her back; for Myka, it was wild, untamed curls that barely touched her shoulders. No casket for Euridice – the audience had to see her, after all, and so would Orfeo. The pall-bearers walked out on stage, following the same path the choir had taken. The choir was now in their two areas, singing their dirge, all eyes on Euridice – who could not see in turn.
The dead don’t have their eyes open, after all. She only knew this blocking from rehearsals.
Letitia, during those self-same rehearsals, had stood with her back to the auditorium, shoulders twitching in pretend sobs. Letitia had, for that first, plaintive “Euridice!” of Orfeo’s, raised her hands and sung against the backdrop, loud as hell to make her voice bounce back towards the auditorium – certainly a choice, but one that had always made Helena wince. “Look at me,” that choice said, in her opinion. “You might not even see my face, but it is clear that I am the lead character in this story, even if this is someone else’s funeral!”
Now, that “Euridice!” came from a different direction, but no less heart-wrenching.
Helena’s jaw almost dropped; she caught it at the very last moment. The audience had no such compunction; it broke into applause again, no matter how much this was not done in the middle of a song.
Helena could not fault them, though; hell, Myka’s delivery made her grieve for herself.
Four notes, perfectly hit, perfectly projected, perfect Italian pronunciation – but that wasn’t what the audience cared about. In those four perfect notes, four!, Myka Bering fully conveyed Orfeo’s disbelief and how it dissolved at seeing his wife’s lifeless body being carried to her grave.
Helena knew the second “Euridice!” would come as the pall-bearers would lay her down on that slab of stone; knew that Myka would be much closer. Letitia’s Orfeo had thrown himself over his wife’s corpse; then she had almost deafened Helena with her second outcry. She wondered what Myka would do.
Turn away, as it turned out.
This “Euridice!” went out into the auditorium, away from Helena, as if Orfeo couldn’t bear to look at Euridice – loud, and wild, and full of pain, Myka shouted his grief into the world; masterful, it was masterful, and a clear reference to what would happen further on in the story.
Bloody hell.
Helena had never heard the name “Myka Bering” before, and she was seriously wondering if it should have rung a bell; this woman was clearly a trained singer, clearly talented as all hell, to deliver this kind of performance on such short notice.
The third “Euridice!” came softer, closer, roughened from the previous outcry – Orfeo had turned after all, was standing over his wife, heartbroken and despairing. Again, Helena couldn’t help but contrast Myka’s choices with Letitia’s; where the latter had disturbed Euridice’s funerary posture by grabbing one of Helena’s hands and lifting it to turn back to the audience, the former stood behind the stone, facing Euridice’s head, not touching at all. Then, there was a featherlight caress to Helena’s forehead, trembling fingertips trailing down her cheek, and a thud as Orfeo dropped to his knees. Curls tickled the side of Helena’s arm; Orfeo had laid his head onto the slab, and his hand had come to rest on Euridice’s, not disturbing anything.
In her mind, Helena swore, alternating between disbelief and delight – who would have thought, that a hail-mary appeal to the audience would end in this!
As the scene went on, Helena was picked up again and carried towards her “grave”, into which her pall-bearers lowered her carefully. Here, out of sight of the audience, Helena had her first close-up view of Orfeo’s face as he stood at his wife’s (presumed) final resting place: it was filled with despair, visible, palpable despair, and something akin to confusion; Orfeo did not understand, could still not believe, even against the evidence of his own eyes.
Masterful.
Myka’s acting was sparse; a shift of her weight, a twitch of her hand, not even fully lifting it or reaching out but letting it sink right away, balled into a fist again; a face shuttering the more the song wound down. One of the extras stepped up – Letitia’s Orfeo had received hugs from his friends, one after the other, as if holding court at the grave; Myka’s Orfeo held out his other hand, barely at hip height, a clear gesture of refusal: don’t console me or I will break. The extra, Liam, caught on quickly and stepped back – you wouldn’t know that all of this was improvised, that was how smoothly it went.
When Orfeo launched into his aria, Helena made her way underneath the stage back to the wings; she wanted to see from a better angle what Myka brought to the role. Again, Myka moved less than Letitia – but she wasn’t stiff, or static; she did act, just differently. Tension spoke from every line of her body at one moment and dissolved into softness the next, just like anger over loss will soften into tender, aching memories. Just like Orfeo had caressed his wife’s lifeless face, he now caressed the tombstone; just like he had broken down next to her, he now fell to his knees next to the grave. The caress was repeated; now it was the ground that was stroked, or rather the air an inch above it – on a cemetery, that hand would have run over blades of grass, and here on stage, Helena could almost see them.
“Dude,” Claudia breathed next to her.
Helena started; she had not noticed the stage manager appear.
“I mean I say that Serendipity is my stripper name,” Claudia went on quietly, “but this, this is more than luck; holy shit. Are you seeing this?!”
Helena nodded. “Hearing it too.”
“Holy shit,” Claudia said again, turning to go – probably to find Leena, who’d be on as Amor any minute now, telling Orfeo he could win his wife back, just one condition. “Where has she been all my life, that’s what I want to know.”
Helena found herself wondering the same thing.
Myka wondered if she would survive this. Sure, yes, she knew the part, she’d even been able to warm up her voice a little, but—
God.
She hated being in the spotlight.
It was okay while someone was singing, or while the orchestra was playing, because the audience was quiet then. The upside of bright stage lights was that you couldn’t see the seats behind them; you could simply imagine no one was there; no one was listening to you sing.
But her songs would get applause, every single time, and that crushed the illusion, and Myka had to hold onto her stage voice with every ounce of her control.
She swore she heard Pete wolf-whistle, twice, and oh, she would kill him after this.
And now Orfeo had arrived at the Styx and was being denied entry – a scene in which she, Myka, didn’t have to sing at first but only to act, against the furies guarding the entrance. Not all that hard to figure out that she had to try and get past the extras who played them; bit harder to not push too strongly and bowl someone over, or mess up the choreography in other ways.
They were helping her as much as they could, with body language, surreptitious gestures, even whispered words when she was close, but—
God.
She was almost glad when it was her time to sing again.
Orfeo now tried to make his way past the furies not by darting or ducking but by pleading with them – she had always liked this part; it was a beautiful song between him and the choir. The choir was excellent, as was the blocking and costuming; damn, but she’d been looking forward to seeing this production! And now she was in the goddamn middle of it, singing for her life, as it were. Or, well, Euridice’s, of course – Helena Wells! Myka had records of her at home! And she’d shaken her hand (for perhaps a bit longer than she should have), and been invited to use the soprano’s first name! And now she was about to stand on stage with her to hear her sing!!
She put her incredulousness into Orfeo’s posture as the furies, swayed by his pleas, opened the gates of the Underworld for him. He walked towards them slowly, hesitantly, with many a gaze left and right to see if he would be stopped – and then (Myka had seen the stage manager in the wings waving to her) he broke into a run, all the faster to get to his beloved wife.
“Can I marry you?” the stage manager, Claudia, asked her when she arrived in the wings. “I’m joking, of course, but holy shit, can I marry you? You are single-handedly saving us; I could kiss you.”
“Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse there a little, Claud?” one of the technicians teased her. “Usually it’s kiss first, marry later.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Steve-O, why don’t you go and kiss your fury,” Claudia groused back. “Don’t you have props to carry?” she whisper-called after him as he hurried onto the stage to change the scene. Then, moments later, she poked Myka’s arm. “Ready?”
Myka felt distinctly not ready, but saying so wouldn’t help anyone, so she nodded.
“Neat-o. I’ll be back later with rings and a priest, okay? Love you. Go slay.”
And now Myka had to go and sing about how lovely Elysium was, playing an Orfeo fully suffused by the beauty and peace of the Islands of the Blessed – and by his love for Euridice that had brought him here. She took a deep breath, settled the aria in her mind, and walked back onto the stage.
It went well enough, she thought afterwards, when the choir began to walk on. Well enough, even though once again the feeling Orfeo sung about was not really one that Myka herself had ever felt. But she’d seen and heard it sung before, and had read her fair share of heroic love stories – and, oddly enough, singing it herself made her experience it vicariously, as it were. Beauty, peace – but no Euridice. Not yet; that was what the choir had come for: to tell Orfeo that his wife was on her way to him.
Which meant that Myka had to figure out another choreography. Because the choir had brought the extras along that had played the furies only moments before, and now they, as spirits of Elysium, danced around Orfeo, welcoming him, reassuring him, and she had to not be in their way or trip them up. Then again, Orfeo would be just as baffled, wouldn’t he? Would look around him, trying to keep an eye on these otherworldly beings? Would not quite trust the hope that the choir’s words had woken in him, and let that insecurity show on his face?
Would his shoulders not tremble with nerves, standing where the spirits had led him, staring out into the auditorium and not turning around for anything in the world, mindful of his task to not, not ever, in no circumstances look at his beloved wife?
Would he not flinch, feeling her touch on his arm? Turn his face away, for fear of seeing her by chance?
Would he not hurry to tell her how to get out of here, as much as he was allowed to? Come, quickly, follow my steps?
Would his heart not break, over the confusion in his wife’s voice, at her treatment, at his coldness, his refusal to even look? At her pleas to give her even just the slightest proof that he was indeed here out of love, when he wouldn’t even look at her?
Helena’s voice was incredible. Myka didn’t really speak Italian – she could pronounce it well enough, sure, and she knew the lyrics and what they meant, but that was all. And yet even so, through Helena’s singing, she could feel Euridice’s anguish, her fear, her confusion and finally her anger. That voice would be incredulous with happiness, would rejoice, would come clearly first from here and then from there as Euridice tried to catch a glimpse of her husband’s face, so that Myka knew exactly where Helena stood, from where Orfeo would need to avert his face; it would rise in a pitiful plea to her husband to turn around and look, just one look—
Has the color in my cheeks faded, my love? Are my eyes no longer as bright? Why do you deny me one glance when, by rights, a husband’s embrace and kiss should be mine? Don’t you love me anymore?
Oh God.
That was Helena’s hand in hers – and that was the angle of her hold changing as she stepped even closer – and that was her voice shifting and telling Myka that they were now back to back – and that, God, that was a body’s warmth against her back, a body’s weight and touch – Helena was leaning into her, and all Myka could do was lean back into it, and close her eyes and implore the heavens.
Is it worth it, to return to life, when life is this now: a husband that doesn’t even look at me? Death was easy, peaceful oblivion – this, I cannot bear. I fade, dear husband, I am dying once more, will you not look at me even now? Give me one final embrace?
Myka couldn’t fault Euridice, not one single bit. This was her favorite version of the myth: the one where Eurydice didn’t know and Orpheus wasn’t allowed to tell, the one that wasn’t just a test of his love but of her trust as well. She did her best to match Helena beat for emotional beat, all the while awed by the soprano’s talent, feeling inadequate at best and an embarrassment at worst.
It was easy, as Orfeo, to cower, to curl into herself, to press her face into her own hands to hide her eyes as Euridice sang.
Helena had never sung this scene with so much sheer emotion. She knew she had to pace herself, watch her breath, ramp up Euridice’s feelings bit by bit – meanwhile Myka poured her heart and soul into Orfeo’s lines. What could Helena do but match her? As she watched those shoulders alternately shaking and still with tension, that head that stubbornly turned away from her or tilted pleadingly upwards, she could feel Euridice bleed into her in return, the doubt, the confusion: who was this woman, who had come out of nowhere to deliver an Orfeo this perfect? Helena both adored and resented her. This scene had never gone so well; Helena had never actually turned her back to leave until she heard Orfeo’s voice call her back, because Letitia had always hogged the stage and Helena hadn’t wanted to cede it. She had never felt the slightest urge to touch Orfeo, tug on his hand or throw her arms around him, had never leaned into Letitia’s back for any of Euridice’s pleas much less cupped the woman’s cheek from behind, yet here she was, doing exactly that, doing things she never had rehearsed at all. And Myka Bering responded to it, took Helena up on it every single time until, invariably, her Orfeo tore herself away again. How on Earth could this happen, with someone Helena hadn’t even known an hour ago? How could someone just pop up out of the audience and give her this kind of Orfeo?!
It wasn’t fair.
But it was beautiful.
And Helena had to end it. She had to be the one to fall back, to slink to the grave that was still open on the stage, to sink into it and let her voice dwindle away – she had to be the one to cause Orfeo to turn and look. Myka played the final conflict so beautifully, with her sparse motions, her tense stance, anguish in every line of her body and every note she sang, stalwart and swaying, as if she had played nothing else her entire life, as if she wore Orfeo like a second skin.
Helena’s own heart felt like breaking when she softly, gently, delivered the final blow: beloved, remember me, she begged, as if it hadn’t been the strength of that very remembrance that had brought her beloved here.
Orfeo stilled.
That was a take Helena hadn’t seen before. His aria spoke of raving, of ranting, of trembling, but the only one of those motions actually showing in Myka’s body was the latter – and yet, even from behind, Helena could see every iota of the storm that raged within Orfeo. And when Myka turned, softly, inexorably, when Orfeo finally laid eyes on his wife, Helena was hit by the ardor in Myka’s gaze as if by a bolt of lightning.
She almost forgot to sing Euridice’s death – hopefully the long, endless gaze between Orfeo and Euridice would be seen as part of the script rather than Helena missing her cue. Her delivery was far from perfect – hopefully that would be seen as Euridice’s death rattle rather than Helena botching her notes. Myka’s back was turned to the audience – nobody could see her expression but Helena; there was no need for Myka to act. And yet Helena could see how the realization hit Orfeo – that he had failed, that he had failed, that he had doomed his wife to yet another death. One step forward that was more of a stumble caught at the last moment, four more steps, each more hurried than the last, a desperate lunge, and Orfeo was at the grave – and Helena chose this exact moment to let herself sink back, out of the audience’s sight. She was almost glad when she closed her eyes; glad to get away from that gaze.
And then she felt herself lifted right back out again; strong arms underneath her shoulder and head, gentle, gentle, cradling her, pulling her onto Orfeo’s lap. She barely remembered to keep her eyes closed and play dead; she was held so tenderly, while above her the storm of Orfeo’s remorse tore from Myka’s vocal chords. Close as Helena was, she could feel the force with which Myka’s diaphragm moved – and she could also feel that beyond that, Myka wasn’t moving at all, just sitting there, defeated, singing one of this opera’s most famous arias utterly still except for her hand, which was stroking Helena’s cheek unthinkingly.
Again, Helena felt like grieving for herself, for this Euridice, so fervently beloved.
Dear Lord, the skill of this woman.
And then, in the pause right after Orfeo’s profession of devotion and with aching tenderness, Orfeo bent forward and deposited his wife back in her grave. The entire auditorium was silent, as was the orchestra – Nielsen had to be watching, had to be deliberately giving Myka this moment.
Helena, out of sight of the auditorium, nevertheless held still – and yes, a moment later she felt Myka’s fingers, arranging her hands across her chest just like in the beginning, smoothing down her hair just so, and then, finally, running a finger, trembling, from forehead down to chin once again.
Helena would not open her eyes for fear what she might see, for fear what it might do to her – she felt herself halfway in love with this Orfeo already; she could not, would not, look on his face right now.
She knew when Myka rose; the lights fell differently into her grave, and off to her side, underneath the stage, she could hear Steve start to breathe again – as in the first act, he was standing by in case Helena needed help in her grave.
Myka was still quiet. A quick glance upward showed Helena that Orfeo stood facing the audience now, head bowed, fists clenched, shoulders slumped in utter defeat. And then Orfeo cried out for his Euridice again, just like in the very beginning. Just like then, the first cry was soft; this time full of despair rather than disbelief. The second one… The second one, coming from a body hunched over and a mouth facing downwards, rang to the very rafters.
Only after another awed pause did Nielsen set in with the accompaniment again.
Helena shuddered and turned her head to look at Steve, who mouthed a “wow” that Helena felt sold the situation just a little bit short.
Luckily, in this version of the myth, Amor, God of Love, decided to intercede and revive Euridice before her husband, in his grief, could go through with his plan to join her in the Underworld. When Leena, as Amor, began to sing, Helena knew it would be her cue in mere moments, and did her best to compose herself and steady her breathing.
Once again, Myka stood with her back to the audience as Helena rose from her grave, at Amor’s behest. Once again, her facial expression was visible to no one but Helena. Once again it almost robbed Helena of her ability to sing.
Myka’s eyes were really very expressive.
Orfeo foundered, and Amor reached out to steady him; then, slowly first and then all in a rush, exactly like his dash to her grave just minutes before, Orfeo ran to his wife, stopping himself at the very last moment, reaching out a trembling hand to trail his finger down Euridice’s cheek once more. “Wife?” he sang, stunned, not quite daring to believe his eyes.
Helena felt herself soften; Lord, this woman’s skill. “Husband,” she replied, just as hushed as Myka had sung.
“I may … embrace you?” Orfeo sang, looking back at Amor for confirmation.
“I may … pull you to my breast?” Euridice sang as well.
Amor gestured eloquently, and Orfeo, still disbelieving, still shy, let his hand fall to his wife’s waist. His fingers twitched against the fabric. He took a deep breath, and then, in a rush, embraced Euridice and lifted her.
Not really something Helena had rehearsed, but putting her hands on Myka’s shoulders and throwing her head back in happy laughter was what came natural, and so she went with it.
Then Orfeo set Euridice down, gentle and careful as if she was made of glass, and turned to Amor. “My gratitude,” he sang, and when Amor acknowledged it, Orfeo turned back to his wife and never took his eyes from her again from that moment on, through the last change in scenery, through the last song of choir, Amor, and the happy couple, right up until the curtain fell and the audience exploded in applause.
Myka blinked. Myka shook herself slightly. Myka smiled a smile that was half relief and half embarrassment.
Nobody had ever looked at Helena like that, on stage or off.
Myka cleared her throat. Myka said, “Sorry.”
And then it was Helena’s turn to blink and come back to herself. “Sorry? What on Earth for, darling?” She pointed at the curtain, and the accolades behind it; anything to stop Myka from looking at her, anything to get a moment to compose herself. “That?” she laughed, stage-laugh though it was.
Myka’s smile turned self-deprecating, and she shrugged. “Yeah?”
Before Helena could say anything, Claudia came racing towards them, and finally Myka looked away. “You gotta get out there or they’ll storm the stage,” Claudia said breathlessly, pointing at the curtain just as Helena had done.
Helena nodded and was readying herself for the curtain call when Myka spoke up. “One condition.”
Claudia laughed helplessly. “Christ on a cracker! Okay, fine, name it!”
“When this is done, you get me out of here through a side entrance or something. I know there’s journalists in the audience, and I do not want to run into them.”
“You will get your picture taken if you go out on that stage,” Helena warned her.
“Please don’t tell me you won’t go and take a bow,” Claudia groaned. “The stage being stormed is still an option, you are aware of that?”
Myka inhaled sharply through her nose, and nodded. “No, I’ll go,” she reassured Claudia. “They already have pics; no point not giving them a few more. But I don’t want to talk about this until I’m ready.”
“Side entrance it is,” Claudia said with a double thumbs up. “No guarantee for your way home, though, or tomorrow, or Monday. That name of yours is pretty unique.”
With a laugh, Myka rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it.”
Her laugh was really very beautiful.
“Claudia! Where are they?!” someone shouted from the wings.
Claudia took them by their arms and pulled them to stand right behind the curtain.
Helena, in preparation for their bows, took Myka’s hand and squeezed, and Myka never let go from that moment on, through a barrage of flashlights, through two curtain calls, through Nielsen hurrying onto the stage and kissing her cheeks and then presenting the two of them to the audience for another bow, through three more curtain calls for them, and two more for the ensemble.
Helena wouldn’t have begrudged the woman an individual curtain call - it was her due and more than, after this - or, hell, three or four or five, but Myka kept holding on to her hand, and so what could Helena do but run along with her onto the stage, and present her with her free hand, so that Myka would at least take an individual bow? And of course what did Myka do but present Helena in turn, so that she had no choice to take her individual bow?
And all the while, her hand was in Helena’s, and Helena did not even mind one little bit.
Two weeks later, Myka’s phone rang with an unknown number. She let it go to voicemail; another reporter, she was sure of it. Her impromptu performance had immediately become the “stuff of legends,” as Pete kept calling it, and the demand for interviews, while less than in the days right after, had not quite died down yet.
It had been… fun. Mortifying, yes, given her stage fright, but also…
She had sung with Helena Wells.
Not just watched Helena Wells sing.
Sung. With Helena Wells.
Pete had sent her a bootleg video (because of course there was); she had not found the courage to watch it.
Her phone buzzed with a notification; doubtlessly the voicemail—
It was a text. “Helena Wells here – I found a card in my dressing room just now, with this number on it, signed “Wingman Pete”. Any idea what this is about?”
Myka groaned and buried her face in her hands. There had been at least three blog posts about that night that had insinuated, or outright claimed, that Helena and Myka were lovers. Because obviously two performers could not look at each other like that without something going on between them in real life. Obviously. And, yeah, Helena Wells’ openness for all genders was no secret, and Myka… well, nobody knew, like, from the media or anything, but, yes, Myka was queer too. But that still didn’t mean that something had to be going on between the two of them.
Granted, for a moment there, on that stage, the boundary between Orfeo and Myka had been… permeable. A bit. A little. But that was only because of Myka’s admiration for the soprano, nothing more!
And here was Helena, texting her, with the help of Pete – of course with the help of Pete; he’d made kissy noises all the way home. Wingman. Sure.
Myka sighed and picked up her phone again. The least she could do was reply; that was just common courtesy.
“Come on, you lovebirds, at least a record together? Can we have that?” Claudia pleaded, complete with clasped hands and puppy dog eyes. “No audience, Myka. I promise. Just a recording booth, you and Helena, and a techie.”
“Let her talk, darling,” Helena murmured, head tilted towards Myka’s. “You don’t have to do anything. That is my promise.”
It was enamoring, how easily she could make Myka blush. This time, it was a triple whammy, as Claudia would call it: low voice, invasion of personal space, and promises of protectiveness. Not to mention the “darling” - that never failed, either.
They’d managed to see each other for a few months before the secret came out, and Myka did not like the spotlight at all, just like she hated the stage lights. By now, Helena knew that Myka had tried to pursue an operatic career, but had given up on it when her stage fright had proven too strong to overcome. She had kept practicing because she loved singing – but only by herself. She wouldn’t even sing for Helena.
Myka grimaced at Claudia. “Ask me again in a year or so,” she said.
Claudia groaned. “Fine. Fine! After the wedding, then.”
Myka blushed again, crimson this time. “Wedding? What wedding?” she protested. “There is no wedding. Who said anything about a wedding?”
“Relax, darling,” Helena laughed, wrapping her arm around Myka’s waist and squeezing.
“Are you talking about a wedding?” Myka asked her, now clearly bewildered.
“I am not,” Helena said, all serious now. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Yet.”
Blushing was good for the cardiovascular system, she had heard.