“This water is only thirty-six degrees! I asked for thirty-seven point five! Thirty-seven point five, perfectly synchronized with my body temperature!”
In her mind, Vivian silently took out a frying pan and polished it three times.
“Apologies, Madame Valois.” Vivian lowered her head. “I’ll change it right away. Would you like a bit of honey with it?”
“Honey?” Célestine’s eyes, lined with exaggerated eyeliner, stared daggers at Vivian.
“Are you trying to make me fat? Are you hoping I’ll end up like that pig Carlotta, unable to zip up her costume?”
Carlotta was the theater’s backup soprano, and also Célestine’s sworn enemy. It was said the two had competed for the lead role in “Aida” and had already engaged in at least five “friendly exchanges” backstage, involving such antics as who could slip more tacks into the other’s high heels.
“Not at all, madam. You are as graceful as a swan; honey simply isn’t worthy of your nectar.”
This sickening flattery clearly hit the mark. Célestine snorted, turning back to face her mirror.
“Naturally. That Carlotta…” Célestine complained in an aria-like tone as she dabbed her face with a powder puff.
“She thinks she can replace me just because she can hit high C? Ha! Her voice sounds like a duck in water! Whereas I—”
She stroked her throat lovingly in the mirror.
“I am God’s gift to Paris. Even the dust in the air is jealous of my talent, which is why it always tries to sneak into my throat…”
Célestine suddenly froze.
The air in the dressing room seemed to solidify.
Vivian keenly sensed something was wrong, not because Célestine had stopped babbling, but because all sound around them had disappeared.
It was as if someone had pressed the mute button.
“Crack.”
The sound came from the massive oval vanity mirror in front of Célestine.
This mirror, its frame inlaid with gilded rose branches, was Célestine’s most prized possession. But now, a fine crack had appeared at its center.
Célestine was stunned.
“My mirror… Who broke my mirror?!” She was about to explode.
“Crack, crack, crack.”
The crack began to spread.
The fissures twisted and branched as if an invisible hand were guiding them, snaking and interlacing across the smooth glass.
The cracks spread sideways, forming five parallel lines. Then, tiny circular fractures leapt along the staff, forming musical notes.
“What… what is this?” Célestine’s voice trembled.
The reflection in the mirror began to distort. Célestine’s heavily powdered face was fragmented in the glass, while the musical notes became ever clearer, glowing faintly gold.
A sudden melody rang out in the air.
The glass’s shrill screech twisted into a chilling prelude. It was the Queen of the Night’s aria from “The Magic Flute,” its highest notes—originally resplendent with vengeance and fury—now sounding like a requiem for the dead.
The cracks on the mirror pulsed with the melody. Then, a line of red French slowly surfaced at the bottom of the mirror, seeping out as if from within the glass itself, like blood:
[Your voice has defiled this melody.]
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
Célestine finally reacted. She unleashed the most piercing scream of her entire career—more genuine than anything she’d ever sung on stage.
Then, the prima donna rolled her eyes back and fainted dead away.
“Madam!”
Vivian instinctively reached out to catch her.
“Thud.”
The chaise longue gave a muffled thump. Vivian didn’t actually catch her; she simply slid smoothly out of the way, letting the “swan” crash into her own pile of expensive silk cushions.
“Whew… That was close. Nearly hurt my back.” Vivian patted her chest and muttered without an ounce of sincerity.
The golden glow on the mirror was fading, the musical notes formed by the cracks growing dim and indistinct.
“Trying to get away?”
Vivian grabbed Célestine’s expensive Guerlain lipstick from the table and yanked off the cap.
She frantically traced over the vanishing cracks on the mirror. After being tormented by advanced mathematics in university, this kind of frantic note-taking before the professor wiped the blackboard was second nature to her.
Swish, swish, swish.
The instant the last note was covered with lipstick, the mirror shattered with a crisp snap, collapsing into powder on the floor.
All that was left was the napkin Vivian had snatched up, now covered with messy, red musical notes.
“Done.”
Vivian blew the lipstick flecks from the napkin, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her inner pocket.
“Now, time to clean up this mess.”
Vivian glanced at the unconscious Célestine. The star was sprawled bonelessly on the chair, mouth agape, utterly lacking in beauty.
She needed to call someone, but couldn’t let anyone know that the “odd-job girl” had taken care of the mirror’s anomaly.
Vivian was about to head out and call for help, only to find the door blocked.
During that recent bizarre tremor, the props piled in the corridor had collapsed—by some “coincidence”—and now blocked the exit.
Vivian pushed at the door. It didn’t budge an inch.
“Damn it, is this what they call locking the door to beat the dog?” Vivian frowned.
She looked around. In the dressing room, aside from the unconscious woman and the sea of glass shards, there was nothing useful.
“Is anyone there?!” Vivian pounded on the door.
Outside came a clatter of panicked footsteps and shrill female voices.
“Oh my god! The prop mountain collapsed!”
“Madame Célestine is still inside!”
“Someone help! Who can move that… that tree!”
“No way, only the prop crew can handle it! They’re all at lunch!”
Vivian pressed her ear to the door and rolled her eyes.
As expected, counting on these pampered ladies who couldn’t even fasten a corset to rescue anyone was hopeless. Better to hope Célestine woke up and shattered the door with her voice.
“The bronze tree, is it…”
Vivian sighed.
If she waited for the prop crew, reeking of wine, it’d take at least half an hour. By then, Célestine would be awake, and who knew what kind of scene she’d cause.
Besides, she had to get that score to Cicero as soon as possible.
“I’m a delicate young lady, I’m a delicate young lady…”
Vivian muttered to herself as she climbed out the dressing room window.
What greeted her was chaos. Scenery panels and Roman column props lay piled everywhere. Blocking the only way out was a sprawling, metal tree.
The thing had to weigh at least two hundred kilos, pressing down heavily on the exit.
Vivian looked left and right.
The corridor was deserted. Only the distant shrieks of the dancers echoed faintly.
“Good, no witnesses.”
Vivian rolled her neck, producing a crisp crack.
She lifted her skirt, kicked off her pinching heels for better movement, and revealed her small feet clad in white cotton socks.
She approached the bronze tree.
“Forgive me, brother treant.”
Vivian took a deep breath, grabbing a thick branch of the bronze tree with both hands.
“Up!”
Vivian let out a low cry.
The impossibly heavy bronze tree was lifted by her as easily as a dead twig!
“Off you go!”
Vivian’s waist tightened as she prepared to toss the tree onto the junk heap beside her.
Just then—
“Click!”
A flash of white light went off in the shadows of the corridor.
Vivian’s hair stood on end.
Someone was taking pictures!
If that photo got out, tomorrow’s headline would be either “Opera House’s Mighty Miss Marvel” or “Breaking News! Runaway Circus Gorilla Found!”
In panic, Vivian’s mind went blank. Her body reacted on instinct.
“Oh no! It’s so heavy!” Vivian cried in an absurdly fake reading voice, then let go.
The massive bronze tree whistled through the air as it flew away.
And right in its trajectory, a figure slowly emerged from the shadows.
He wore a black trench coat, holding an old-fashioned camera in his hand, with his usual sardonic smile on his lips.
“Perfect composition, balanced lighting, and—”
Cicero didn’t finish his sentence before a shadow fell over his head.
He looked up to see the several-hundred-pound hunk of metal bearing down on him.
Boom!!!
The hardwood floor exploded instantly, splinters flying. The impact shook the entire corridor, sending dust billowing.
A sharp bronze branch stabbed into the floor, grazing Cicero’s polished shoes by less than five centimeters.
Standing in the settling dust, Cicero coughed lightly twice.
“Conspiring to murder your partner is a jailable offense, Vivian.”