Instead she heard instruments tuning. The delicate whine of strings. The soft thump of a drum. A piano note, closer now, like a heartbeat inside the building.
Then the hallway opened into the backstage area.
Catherine stopped so fast Christine nearly bumped into her.
The backstage looked like organized chaos: black curtains, metal stands, cables snaking along the floor, workers in headsets moving with practiced urgency. Instruments waited in cases like sleeping animals.
And in the center, gleaming under work lights, sat a grand piano.
It was black and polished, so shiny it held reflections like a lake holds the sky.
Catherine stared at it as if it were a doorway.
She remembered their warehouse piano. Half the keys stuck. One octave always sounded like it was coughing. But Mama had taught them on it anyway, sitting between them, tapping rhythm with her fingers, singing low so the walls wouldn’t complain.
That warehouse was gone now. Bulldozed. Their piano destroyed. Their practice turned into memory.
Christine tugged Catherine’s sleeve and pointed through a gap in curtains.
The stage.
Beyond it, the audience.
Rows of red velvet seats, nearly all filled with well-dressed people settling in, unfolding programs, checking watches, speaking in quiet tones of expectation.
There were so many of them.
Christine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “There are hundreds.”
Catherine’s courage wobbled like a candle in wind.
A worker’s voice rang out. “Five minutes to curtain! Where’s Jackson? Somebody find Jackson!”
Movement quickened. The grand piano was rolled toward stage position. Chairs and stands were carried out with precise placement.
Catherine grabbed Christine’s hand and pulled her behind a stack of equipment crates. They crouched, pressed into shadow, watching the machine of the night prepare itself.
Footsteps approached. Slower. Confident. The kind of steps that assumed the world moved aside.
A man appeared: tall, handsome in a sharp way, hair slicked back, wearing a suit so perfect it looked like it came with its own arrogance. His eyes were cold, polished.
Desmond Jackson.
Behind him, a woman glided in a red dress glittering like rubies. Blonde hair pinned high. Makeup immaculate. Madame Esther, the famous singer.
A young woman with a headset hurried up to them. “Mr. Jackson, Madame Esther, we begin in two minutes.”
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