Jim Butcher - Songs of Love & Death

Charlotte wondered—should she be more traumatized by what had happened? It really did seem like a dream.

Otto had slipped in earlier, unseen, phantomlike, working his director magic backstage. When he found Charlotte he asked, “Are you all right? Are you really all right?” She glared.

“You look great, by the way.”

She still glared.

A half an hour before curtain, she didn’t dare peek into the house to see if anyone was actually there, if anyone had actually deigned to come. And Dorian was going to be late. She had his ticket. They were supposed to sit in the back, cuddled together, watching her big debut. She’d had it all planned out.

But she couldn’t honestly be surprised when her phone buzzed, showing Dorian’s number.

“I’m really sorry, I’m going to be stuck at work for at least another hour. I’ll come see the show another night. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Can you at least come to the party? It probably won’t start till eleven or so.”

“Sure, I’m sure I can make the party. I’ll meet you there. Napoli’s, right?”

“Right.” And he hung up.

Ten minutes before curtain, Otto ran from the wings, beaming. She nearly stumbled away, the sight was so shocking.

“It’s all right,” he said, coming up and taking her hand. “It’s going to be all right.”

“What? What is?”

“We’ve sold out. The house is full. It’s your adventure last night. You’re famous. They’re here because of you.”

That didn’t make her feel any better.

Otto continued backstage to the dressing rooms to tell the cast and jolt them into more spirited performances. Or greater heights of anxiety.

She couldn’t stand it anymore, so she crept to the edge of the curtain and peeked out. And it was true. The house was full, only a handful of empty seats left scattered as the last people filtered in. And those two empty seats in back meant for her and Dorian. The murmurs of the crowd hushed over her.

The theater was full. But what if no one liked it?

Because she couldn’t bear to watch, she waited backstage, pacing. Everything went well, she supposed, but all she heard from the faint voices reciting her lines on stage were the mistakes, awkward phrasing she should have fixed a long time ago, bad delivery that she couldn’t do anything about. From backstage, applause sounded muted and lackluster.

Then it was all over. At last. Otto came at her, grinning and nearly shouting. “There you are! Come on, get out front!”

“What?”

“For the curtain call!” He took her hand and dragged her.

Opening night, of course the director and playwright would come out on stage as well.

“Smile!” he hissed. She scrounged together what poise she could.

Then they were under the stage lights, the cast around them applauding. Otto gestured, offering Charlotte to the audience, or the audience to her. They were on their feet, the whole audience on its feet, clapping and cheering. Someone pressed long-stemmed roses into her arms. She cradled the bundle like it was an infant.

They must have liked it.

She was still dazed as the curtain closed at last and the cast fell to laughing and embracing. Champagne appeared and Marta herself popped the cork—after shaking the bottle—letting the contents spray everywhere. The stage manager wouldn’t be happy about that. People came to hug Charlotte, and she held them off with the shield of roses and tried to be gracious. She was suddenly exhausted. All that pacing backstage. But everyone else was buzzed and manic as squirrels, and the night was just starting.

She realized that she hadn’t thought this far ahead. It was enough to have her play finished and actually staged, and she hadn’t dared think any further than that, except to assume that it would all be a dismal failure. But, by all appearances, the play was a success. Shouldn’t she be happy?

IF THE PLAY had been a failure, the invitation-only opening-night party would have been a wake, and they could have mourned in peace without having to talk to anyone but themselves. Since the play had been successful, it would be the most sensational and sought-after party of the month. Tonight would be a celebration. Charlotte tried to ignore a growing sense of foreboding.

Otto had reserved the restaurant, but Marta had rented the limo for them all to arrive in, them being Marta, the actors, Charlotte, Otto, and Otto’s young actress wife, Helen. Part of why Otto was a good director was because he didn’t automatically cast Helen in everything he did.

“Where’s your handsome lawyer? I didn’t see him at the theater,” Helen asked, and Charlotte blushed.

“Working late.”

Helen acknowledged this happily enough, but Otto gave her a sympathetic, almost pitying smile.

Otto had Helen on one arm and Marta on the other as he swept them up the sidewalk to the door of Napoli’s. Harry and Fred tried to sweep Charlotte the same way, but she resisted, extricating herself from their grips in the restaurant’s lobby.

“Dorian’s meeting me here,” she said, faking confidence.

“Wait for him inside,” Harry said, pouting.

“Just another minute.”

More and more people arrived, passing through the restaurant’s lobby, checking their coats, hugging and kissing cheeks. Many were already drunk, all of them cheerful. There were reporters here, and photographers. Otto would get all the publicity he could hope for. It was fabulous. Charlotte paced. Her steps dragged, and the maître d’ kept asking if he could get her anything. She almost gave up. She almost lost faith.

Then there he was, in his sweeping overcoat and intense face, a man with purpose. He held a bundle of roses.

“You came!” she said, maybe a little too brightly.

“Of course I did. You look wonderful.” He pressed the roses into her arms and leaned in for a quick kiss on her cheek. He’d rushed, she could tell. He was still catching his breath and a faint sheen of sweat lay on his neck. “I’m sorry I missed the play. I’ll make it up to you. How did it go?”

She took a deep breath. The thrill was finally starting to build. “It was amazing. It was brilliant, it was—” She sighed. “Come inside, help us celebrate.” She took his hand and tried to urge him in.

“Honey, that’s wonderful. But I’m not sure I’m up for a late night with all your theater friends. Wouldn’t you rather have a quiet evening? We could celebrate in private, just the two of us.”

Her heart melted at that, a little. But she might only ever have one big successful opening-night party. She couldn’t be expected to pick between her dashing boyfriend and her opening-night party, could she?

“Just for a little while. Please?”

He finally slipped off his coat and gave it to the check clerk. Charlotte held the roses with one arm and him with the other as they entered the main dining room.

The room was full. She hadn’t realized so many people were here—the cast and crew and all their significant others didn’t account for everyone. How many invitations had Otto given out? He probably hadn’t expected everyone to come. But the show was a success. They were hip and cool. Who knew? She recognized a handful of celebrities, the deputy mayor, a popular news anchor. And was that the masked hero Breezeway, in uniform, posing with some of the cast? Maybe her own rescuer would be here. But she looked and couldn’t see him.

She could smell champagne as if it flowed from fountains. The place was in chaos, people sitting on tables, shouting across the room, accosting waitstaff bearing platters of finger food. No one should have noticed Charlotte and Dorian slipping in late. But they did.

“Charlotte!” Otto called from across the room, where he held court at a round table covered with a red satin cloth and a dozen champagne bottles. He was loud enough to draw the attention of the others, who turned to look.