Chapter Text
Aurélie, 16 Janvier 1907
This is my final entry.
They say I’ve gone mad. Unhinged. Hysterical. They say if captivity didn’t break me, then the damage done to my body certainly did. I laugh at their ignorance.
Those things didn’t break me. They came close more than once. But I endured. I survived.
I don’t intend to survive what comes next.
I have no more fear in me. Nothing more to lose. I have nothing at all.
Whether I succeed or fail, I will never allow them to lay hands on these pages. These precious memories. My words. Your brushstrokes.
Our story.
It will be safe with me, mon cœur. Always.
SIX YEARS EARLIER
Aurélie, 31 Décembre 1899
My memories of you begin in white. A fresh canvas. A pristine new page. Winter had taken its time that year, but when it did finally arrive, it transformed the entire city. Snow fell in thick, pillowy flakes from the dark evening sky, blanketing the rooftops, glittering in the golden light of the streetlamps, and – of course – plunging traffic into chaos.
My driver nearly ran over a pedestrian when he tried to maneuver around another carriage. I remember my irritation with the snow, the cold, the damn horses even. Poor visibility and slippery cobblestones – such tiny nuisances! Now, of all times.
It was the 31st of December, 1899. The last day of the century. The night we met.
And I was already running late.
The opera house had been sold out, down to the very last seat. Such a thing was not unusual for the New Year’s Concert. Having an annual ticket for Le révellion de la Saint-Sylvestre was a point of pride for the cultured and sophisticated members of the upper class, and apparently, some over-ambitious social climbers as well.
But this year, it seemed as though all of Paris had decided to attend, judging by the sheer number of people crowding into the hall as the intermission bell rang for the second time. Some guests were still standing around in groups, chatting and laughing, champagne bubbling happily in their glasses.
Others had already taken their seats in anticipation of the next performance. The stunning crystal chandeliers illuminating the hall were slowly dimmed to a pleasant twilight, while the spotlights at the front flared up to flood the grand stage with a dazzling brightness. The orchestra members were filing into their rows to take their places. They all wore the traditional black and gold attire of the Philharmonie, their movements practiced and professional to the last degree.
Aurélie watched the familiar preparations absent-mindedly, her hand smoothing over her meticulous coiffure. In truth, the delicate hairpins holding it all in place had probably not shifted at all, but with so many busybodies in attendance, it couldn’t hurt to check.
Her missing the first set would already cause the gossip mill to churn, even though she wasn’t the only one who’d been late. She took a breath, still a little winded after racing to make it to her seat in time for the second set of performances.
After a sweeping look across the packed theatre, Aurélie glanced at the playbill she held. Her lips pursed when she saw that she’d missed two compositions she’d been looking forward to.
No use getting worked up about the weather again. It may have thrown a spoke in her wheel, but secretly… she enjoyed the city in winter. The peculiar stillness that fell over the streets at night. The glow of warmth and safety radiating from the windows of the snow-laden buildings, like so many little candles in the dark.
This time of the year, life moved more slowly. People made time for each other. Families reunited, quarreled, and then reunited again.
Well, some did. Aurélie sighed, pushing the thought aside as she continued scanning the playbill. Right at the beginning of the second set, something caught her eye – mainly because the denotation was just so unusual:
Élève du conservatoire: Solo de piano.
Puzzled by this lack of information, Aurélie turned the thick piece of paper around, which was silly of course – it only kept on listing all the other upcoming pieces. But those had titles, and more importantly, the names of the musicians.
“Odd…” she muttered under her breath.
This New Year’s concert was planned and performed by the philharmonic, all of whom were students or alumni at the conservatory. Aurélie knew quite a few members in person, especially among the soloists. She wouldn’t go as far as to call them friends, but they were well acquainted. Inwardly, she wondered which of the soloists had come up with the idea of a mysterious surprise performance. It struck her as both arrogant and prankish, but to be quite frank, that description fit most of them.
“You made it, chérie!”
Aurélie looked up to find Veronique squeezing herself through the row of seated guests toward her.
“Pardon, pardon! Yes, excuse me, I know it’s starting, I’ll just be through here…” The tall, stately woman kept apologizing to the people she passed, who grumbled and craned their necks around her. Eventually, Veronique reached the vacant seat next to Aurélie and sank into it with an irritated snort, just as the great velvet curtains on the stage started to pull aside.
“Thankless vultures,” she hissed between her teeth. “Half of them are only here because Yours Truly procured their tickets.”
Very true, Aurélie smirked to herself. Veronique was an opera singer who liked to joke that Paris couldn’t make up its mind whether it hated or loved her – and therefore, it did both. Aside from being unabashedly eccentric, she was also one of the very few people Aurélie trusted. Without Veronique, she would never have become a dancer.
On the big stage, the polished parquet gleamed in the light of the lamps, yet the immaculate black lacquer of the grand piano outshone it. A reverent hush befell the crowd, and the only sound that remained was the soft rustle of paper as the orchestra arranged their music sheets.
Aurélie briefly glanced down at the playbill, but a surprised “Oh!” from Veronique made her eyes dart up again.
From behind the drawn curtains, a man stepped out into the spotlights, tall and sinuous, striding confidently towards the magnificent instrument at the center of the stage. His elegant black tailcoat billowed around his legs, standing in stark contrast to the crisp white of his dress shirt. He seemed at home wearing the soloist’s formal suit, its severe simplicity not detracting from his masculine grace but putting emphasis on it instead.
While everything about his attire conveyed the impression of a neat, diligent man, his tousled, jet-black hair and full beard suggested the exact opposite. Well, it was fashionably tousled, Aurélie had to admit. There was something… roguish about him, in the way he casually flipped back the tailcoat to take his place in front of the piano. From her vantage, she couldn’t make out the details of his face, but she thought she saw him smile ever so slightly as the crowd welcomed him with a round of applause.
Aurélie opened her mouth to ask Veronique if she knew the man, but was interrupted as he began to play. His fingers flowed across the keys like water rushing over a riverbank, and the music created by his hands made her go still.
It began as something light and tinkling, each note playfully dancing out into the silence of the great hall, before being joined by a second, more pensive melody. Without effort, the two merged into a singular piece of art, a composition of rising complexity and turbulent emotion.
As much as Aurélie wanted to watch the man play out his chef d’oeuvre, her eyes closed inadvertently so she could experience the music in all its facets. His technique was flawless, his delivery passionate. It was clear he loved what he did – to the point of obsession. For those who devoted themselves to music, this much was plain to see.
And yet… the feelings his performance stirred in her were… conflicting. The melody rose in intensity until it felt like a blaze of anger licking across her skin. But then the dynamics changed from fortissimo to diminuendo, the fire becoming something well-controlled, calm, and gentle even.
Aurélie cocked her head as she listened, catching small flaws within the intricate weave of the notes, a peculiar little breadcrumb trail left there for a practiced ear to follow.
This sonate was his own creation. Which explained why she didn’t recognize the piece – she had never heard it before.
As the music picked up pace on the way to a lively finale, Aurélie had to concede that the mysterious soloist had incredible talent. The last part even had her feet twitching to move along with the spirited rhythm, her mind sketching out a dance that would fit the melody.
Tendu, plié, tendu, pirouette, pas de chat, grand jeté. It would work well… but better as a pas de deux –
She checked herself, eyes flying open just in time to see the man on the stage play the last set of notes. A few strands of unruly black hair had fallen across his face, making him look even more like a rogue in gentleman’s clothing.
The sight of him disheveled and out of breath from his vigorous performance sent a strange little thrill down Aurélie’s spine, and her stomach fluttered like she’d swallowed a live bird. Annoyed at her flight of fancy, she huffed out a breath that was drowned out by the sudden din of the crowd. Thunderous applause erupted across the hall, accompanied by the occasional blatant cheer –
“Génial!”
“Bravo, Verso!”
Aurélie clapped along with the others while the man stood and bowed deeply to his admirers. The applause continued for a whole minute after he’d briskly left the stage, before it died down bit by bit. When Aurélie turned to Veronique, her friend was already looking at her with a distinct glint in her eye that did not bode well.
“What?” she asked warily.
Veronique held up her hands in a gesture of false innocence. “Nothing.”
“I know that look, and it’s never nothing,” Aurélie whispered, leaning closer since the concert was about to continue.
“Well… I noticed you were rather engrossed in that handsome pianist’s performance.” The singer had never been one to beat around the bush. Usually, this was something Aurélie liked about her. Not so much in this case, though.
“I enjoy novelty,” she replied with a casual shrug.
“So… You don’t know him?” Veronique’s expression was positively devious now.
“No,” Aurélie admitted, narrowing her eyes. “Why? Do you?”
“I know everyone, chérie.” This wasn’t even a boast – she really did know everyone. The guest to her right hushed Veronique, and the opera singer lowered her voice further to a soft hum.
“He’s a bit of an oddity. Not unlike you, actually…” A frown came to Aurélie’s face at hearing this comparison, followed by a distinct hint of trepidation.
And justifiably so.
“His name is Verso. Verso Dessendre.”