The Reason Why the Forsaken Fake Returned – Chapter 14

Author: alyalia

Sasha Griche, the star performance held at this theater, was a sensational figure who had stirred up the entire capital. From the most fashionable courtesans to the most distinguished nobles, even the humblest errand boys to the soot-stained chimney sweeps—every soul in the city spoke her name with breathless anticipation.

She had descended upon them like a celestial meteor, blazing across their consciousness with such brilliant intensity that none could claim ignorance of her existence. Whispers spread through parlors and taverns alike, swift as wildfire, and the theatre found itself besieged by eager patrons who pitched their makeshift camps before the ticket office had even opened its doors.

The boy pressed the envelope containing his carefully hoarded savings against his chest, drawing his threadbare coat more tightly about his thin shoulders. “I must secure a ticket, even if it’s in the far back seat…”

His heart harbored but one desperate wish: to present his ailing younger sister with a ticket to Sasha Griche’s performance as a birthday gift. For four long months, he had labored and saved for this singular purpose.

“How much have I gathered? I hope it’s enough.”

Six hours he had already stood in this endless queue, and the thought of discovering his funds inadequate for even the cheapest seat filled him with dread. With trembling fingers, he began to open the envelope, his heart hammering against his ribs as he prepared to count his meagre fortune…

“Oh no! The money’s flying away!”

“No!”

A sudden gust of wind swept the bills into the air like autumn leaves. The boy’s anguished cry pierced the air as he abandoned all reason and bolted from his hard-won place in the line.

“Tsk tsk, poor kid. Lost his place in line and his money too.”

“That’s precisely why one should never venture forth alone. A family member ought to have accompanied him—he was woefully unprepared for such misfortune.”

Sympathetic murmurs drifted down upon the boy’s bowed head. He stared in hollow despair at the now-light envelope clutched in his trembling hands. The moment the wind had claimed his treasure, he had given chase to whatever notes remained visible, yet much had already been swept beyond reach, or perhaps claimed by opportunistic strangers. Less than half his original sum remained. The color drained from his face as he sank to his knees upon the dampening cobblestones, heedless of the moisture seeping through his worn trousers.

“It’s only my sister and I… How desperately I toiled to gather the money…”

This might well prove his sole opportunity to witness the celebrated opera singer. Experience had taught him that as performers ascended to fame, their fees soared beyond the reach of commoner purses. For those who lived from hand to mouth, attending a renowned singer’s performance remained but a distant dream.

“What’s the matter?”

As despair clouded his vision and his head hung in defeat, footsteps approached. When the boy slowly raised his gaze, he beheld a young lady garbed in the finest attire. Though her features remained concealed beneath a veiled hat, her voice fell upon his ears like music itself.

“Milady! Time grows short.”

“Doris. One moment, if you please.” Shailoh, having requested Doris’s patience, addressed the boy once more. “What’s your name?”

“…Jenin”

“Alright, Jenin. What troubles you so? Why do you sit here with tears upon your cheeks?”

“I have a sister… who suffers from illness. I had hoped to give her a ticket to a performance for her birthday, but… sniff… the moment I opened the envelope to count my savings, the wind blew it away…”

“Oh, you poor dear…” Shailoh shook her head with genuine sympathy, rummaged through her delicate reticule, and quite suddenly pressed an envelope into his hands. Jenin accepted it in bewildered silence as she whispered with gentle urgency. “Before the curtain rises, seek out Mr. Gray, the theatre manager.”

“Huh?”

“Until we meet again.” Shailoh bestowed a tender pat upon Jenin’s head before disappearing into the theatre’s depths at Doris’s insistent beckoning.

The boy watched her retreating figure with wonder, then turned his attention to the envelope she had bestowed upon him. His eyes widened in astonishment. Within lay a ticket to the performance—and not merely any seat, but one of considerable distinction.

* * *

Before the great curtain’s rise, the singers’ and dancers’ dressing chambers hummed with frenzied activity. Hairdressers, rouge-wielders, and seamstresses from the costume department darted about like industrious bees, applying paint and powder, adjusting stays, and smoothing silk.

“Those whose faces are complete, retreat to the walls! Next in line!”

“Has anyone glimpsed my lace collar? I had particularly intended to wear it this evening!”

“Mind you don’t disturb the coiffure I’ve just perfected!”

Amidst this tempest of preparation, only one sanctuary remained untouched by chaos: the private chamber of Sasha Griche herself, the prima donna and evening’s crowned jewel. It lay nestled in the furthest reaches of the bustling warren, a haven of tranquil anticipation.

“No matter how one might consider it, bestowing such a precious ticket upon a mere child seems rather profligate. You received it with the express purpose of inviting someone of particular significance, did you not?”

“I possess no one of particular significance to invite. It serves a far nobler purpose in the hands of one who truly requires it.”

Shailoh, having just completed the delicate application of rouge to her lips, regarded her reflection with quiet contemplation. The heavy cosmetics and dark pigments had wrought such a transformation that she scarcely recognized the woman gazing back at her, as though she had donned not merely paint, but an entirely different soul.

“I can scarcely believe that the fruits of three years’ devoted labor are at last approaching their harvest.”

That terrible day—when she had nearly perished at the hands of Evan Diponz, whom she had trusted and followed with the devotion one might reserve for an elder brother, and found herself falsely accused of murder—she could never have envisioned such a moment if she had not severed herself from his malevolent influence.

“His Highness has remained your most steadfast champion, offering encouragement without reservation. Though he may not have publicly declared himself your patron, ’twas he who brought me to your service when I found myself cast adrift after my dismissal from the duke’s household.”

“Indeed. I should have been far lonelier without your companionship. It proves most fortunate.”

“You are exceedingly gracious.”

Doris, having completed the final arrangement of Shailoh’s coiffure, offered a quiet smile and withdrew respectfully as a silent figure entered their sanctuary.

“Exquisite.”

Shailoh, who had been fidgeting with the rosary she had so carefully secreted within the drawer, turned at the sound of that familiar voice. In that instant, her countenance bloomed into radiant joy, like a flower unfurling its petals to greet the dawn.

“Sasha.”

“Your Highness.”

“I feared I might be struck blind by your beauty.”

“You flatter me beyond measure.”

Warm, tender lips pressed against Shailoh’s brow as she lowered her gaze with becoming modesty. Though she had grown accustomed to such displays of affection over the months, they never failed to set her heart aflutter like a caged bird.

Throughout these three years, precisely as Doris had observed, Caleb had remained her unwavering ally. He had engaged the most celebrated and esteemed instructors to guide her in the arts of song and performance, piano and proper deportment, sparing neither expense nor effort in his encouragement.

“The culmination of your arduous labors draws near. What emotions stir within you?”

“It still possesses an air of unreality. As though I were trapped within some elaborate dream.”

“The path has been arduous, yet I am grateful you persevered to this moment, Sasha.”

“Not at all. The burden seemed light indeed with Your Highness’s constant support as my companion.”

Caleb’s smile held infinite tenderness as he turned her to face the looking glass, his hands coming to rest upon her shoulders. The black gown, with its daringly low décolletage, felt rather more revealing than propriety might dictate, yet it served as the perfect costume for the operatic role she was to inhabit. The notorious temptress who demanded the head of a saint as her prize.

“The hour approaches, Sasha.” Caleb lifted the strand of pearls adorning her throat with one finger and pressed his lips to the lustrous gems, his gaze meeting hers through the mirror’s reflection. “It shall not be long now. Soon, you will restore your good name and exact your vengeance upon the duke’s household.”

“…Yes.”

Faces she had labored so desperately to bury in memory’s deepest recesses flickered unbidden through her consciousness.

“Thanks to Claire, you’ve lived as a lady, enjoying the finest things in a position that was beyond your means. Don’t you feel sorry and guilty for your sister, who became a lost child and wandered the empire with travelers in rags?”

“From that moment, my dislike took root and flourished. I resent my parents and brother who believed me dead and placed someone like you in my stead, but more than anyone, it is you whom I despise most profoundly. The thought of how you lived in contentment—eating, sleeping, reveling in life’s pleasures during the eight years I lost—it rouses me from slumber in the dead of night. Your radiance is stolen from me. You are nothing but a thief of my existence.”

“You were just Claire’s shadow. Neither Mother, Father, nor I ever saw you for who you truly were.”

“You should consider it an honor that your miserable life crawling in the gutter was of any use to us. You still don’t know your place, do you?”

Though those words that once carved her heart like the sharpest blade no longer drew fresh blood, they remained etched upon her soul like ancient scars. It had not sufficed that they sought to barter her to some loathsome creature for a bride price; they had even attempted to brand her with the mark of murder.

“Yet…”

Whenever these specters haunted her slumber, pointing accusatory fingers whilst their mockery echoed in her ears, she would wake drenched in perspiration. It was not fear that seized her—she simply lacked the fortitude to confront them. The very notion of facing the despair and betrayal she had endured three years past proved too agonizing even to contemplate.

With hesitation trembling through her frame, Shailoh gently clasped the hand that rested upon her shoulder. “We shall not encounter them this evening, right?”

“Certainly not, Sasha.” Caleb’s reply fell soft as silk upon her ears as he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. “Not until you are prepared.”

“My gratitude knows no bounds, Caleb.”

“Think nothing of it.”

His long fingers traced the delicate curve of Shailoh’s nape, their touch feather-light yet electric in its intimacy. The very air seemed to thicken around them, charged with an unspoken tension that made each breath a conscious effort. Shailoh felt the warmth rise unbidden to her cheeks, painting them crimson beneath the carefully applied rouge, when providence intervened in the form of a measured rap upon the door.