Love never dies | Sherlock Holmes

Chapter IX ~ You don't risk, you don't love

   I got home shortly after the clock struck two, and without delay I ran to the piano in the living room, where the notes began to flow in harmony with my voice eager to warm. 

   I anxiously tried to occupy my remaining time until the show, wandering aimlessly around the house and finding all kinds of mundane occupations that failed to defeat the obvious anticipation. 

   When I finally arrived at the Royal House, I hurried to the wardrobe to prepare my stage appearance. The world roared around me, finalizing the final details and chiseling the hall for the long-awaited event. 

   As the young female assistants helped me put on my voluminous dress, I remember my visit to the finishing school. A pang of regret crosses my mind at the thought that Enola would really like to see me sing. I always promised her that I would bring her to one of my shows, but I never really got around to it. Sherlock, on the other hand, grinds my soul in a much more adversarial manner than usual. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't look for him in every little thing, but ever since he came back into my life, ever since I got to know him again, especially in depth and appearance, I can't control that tumult that it's stuck in my chest, preventing me from breathing properly. 

   It's almost showtime, and from backstage I hear how the audience is starting to fill the hall. They are usually nobles or high-ranking people who do not understand the fullness of culture in its true sense. Of course, there are numerous exceptions that are my only comfort when interpreting. 

   I hear the orchestra giving the opening recital, the children's choir intoning their moment, and soloists following one another. I was the end, or as Mr. Pembeth, the conductor, had said, the final surprise. 

   I've been told I'll be on stage in a few moments, so I glance in the gold-framed mirror in the middle of the room. My brown hair is loosely but elegantly curled, draped over my shoulders and adorned with my favorite hairpin, a delightful white gold encrusted ornament depicting a butterfly with outstretched wings. My face was complimented by the bright hues and the lilac dress draped incandescently over my body, hugging every part of me and stealing glances with its flattering simplicity. 

   When a roar of applause echoes through the huge hall after my name is announced, I take a deep breath, putting the fear behind me and smiling like I've never known grief. 

   My eyes fleetingly took in the crowd as the first chords of the song illusively follow one another in the harmony of the instruments. I get the illusion that I'm faltering, that I'm losing my composure and consciousness when I spot him with a bright smile among dozens of faces, sitting in the third row and fixing his gaze on me. 

   Sherlock meets my eyes and I feel my breath catch. He came to see me perform for the first time. If I screw up, if I don't hit the notes, if I make him regret the time he wasted? And, troublingly, it's here just when I'm going to sing about the regret that mingles with the feelings of failure in love, about the bygone times that brought happiness, the pain of parting and the vain hope of reunion. 

   I begin to sing to the beat of the ballad, slowly molding my voice into chords and tonalities, letting it flow smoothly like crystal clear water on a beautiful day. I translate that disturbing tumult into pure emotion and share it with listeners, reaching uplifting heights of deep feeling. All for him, the one I look at as if he were the only one in the room, as if my music were only for his ears and soul. 

   I finish the piece apotheoically, letting my voice leave my larynx and roam the packed hall, penetrating every corner external and internal alike. 

   The symphony of applause overwhelms me, and the only thing I do is bow deeply to my audience. I see Sherlock smiling brightly at me, carrying me on the wings of excitement straight into the world of fantasy.