by Karin Biggs
“Paris! I want to talk to you about Ari. When do you think I should give him his Christmas present? Tonight, or tomorrow?”
My stomach flipped. “You got him a Christmas present?”
“Yeah, I found a couple of non-flannel shirts I think he’ll like from the Village. I was thinking about giving them to him tonight after rehearsal. Or maybe I would ask him to meet me early tomorrow morning, so—”
“No.” I didn’t mean for my response to come out as forceful as it did, but it was strong enough that Heather’s head jerked back. “Sorry, I just mean that Ari’s not really a morning person. You should give it to him tonight. Or tomorrow night.”
Heather thanked me, then caught up with Ari, tickling him at the sides. Ari didn’t tickle her back, but smiled.
I swallowed down my jealousy when an arm looped through mine.
Genevieve whispered in my ear. “There’s a culinary phrase called ‘mise en place.’ It’s French for ‘set in place.’ It’s when chefs chop all their vegetables or meats and set them aside for the recipe that’s to come. It’s a productive way of preparing for something that could otherwise be messy and without order.”
I gave her a sideways glance, but kept walking.
“Paris, I’m talking about your boy situation. It’s about time you try some mise en place.”
I opened the door to the Green Room. “I told you, Gen; Darden and Reese are just friends.”
“I’m not talking about them,” she whispered. Her eyes traveled to Heather and Ari. “I don’t think you want a mess on your hands.” She kissed me on the cheek, then bounded off to the other side of the stage for the magicians’ positions.
I waited in the dark wing of backstage, feeling guilty for not having thought of getting Ari a Christmas present and also turning Genevieve’s words over in my head. Did I have a mess on my hands? It wasn’t like Ari had any romantic feelings for me; I was just his friend. Maybe I had developed some feelings of attraction for him, but I could hide those feelings without letting them get in the way of our friendship. Heather could give Ari a present—there was no harm in a present. As far as I knew, there was no romantic attachment to gift giving…or was there?
The drummers started the rehearsal from their entrance at the back of the auditorium when a voice spooked me.
“Hey, Paris.”
I reached for my heart. “I know you’re a magician, Darden, but do you always have to be so sneaky?”
“Sorry.”
“And now that you’ve gotten what you need from me, I’m Paris and no longer Miss Marigold?” I smiled and waited for a smart response from Darden, but he sucked in his lips and fidgeted with the strap of his watch. “What’s wrong, Darden?”
“Um…” He rubbed an eyebrow. “I don’t…I’m so sorry…I don’t know how to say this.”
My heart drummed against my chest. “What did you do?” I stepped closer, hoping my deepest fear wasn’t hidden behind Darden’s eyes. “Did you tell somebody about me? Did you…tell Ari?”
“Um…”
“Darden!”
“I lost my notebook. Or someone stole it. And aside from recording all my magic secrets, I also recorded all of my…personal secrets.”
I touched my temples. “Are you saying you wrote about me in your notebook and you don’t know who has it?”
He winced. “Yes?”
Images of Mansion staff and court members reading Darden’s detailed interactions with the undercover Capalon princess raced through my mind. “Darden, I’ve never wanted to kill a Mondarian more than I do now!”
“I know. But I’ll find it.”
My jaw clenched with tension. Finding the notebook was imperative for both of us since Darden would be found guilty of harboring my secret. “Where was the last place you had it?”
“Sectionals. Or the dining hall.”
I crossed my arms. “Well, which one was it?”
“I don’t know! It’ll turn up. It has to.”
The music cued the singers’ entrance. “Meet me after rehearsal. You’re going to walk me through everyone one of your last steps, and we’ll find that thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As I took my position on stage, my head flooded with worry. What if Ari was the one who had Darden’s notebook? Would he turn me into the guards? Or would he continue chatting with me every morning, not caring that I was from Capalon? If he was the one who slipped me the note from the Harvest Ball, maybe he was keeping Darden’s notebook so nobody else would find it. Maybe he was protecting me. Or maybe he had already turned me in and it was just a matter of time until Captain Murphy fired a bullet into my head.
The maestro’s voice boomed through the auditorium speakers in the middle of our number. “No, no, no. Shut up! Shut up! My ears! I can’t take it! Francis, stop playing!”
The piano music ended, and we froze in our positions to take whatever insulting corrections Maestro planned to fire at us.
“The sopranos are going flat on the first five notes in measure twelve. Actually, it’s not all of you, it’s one of you, and I’m going to find out who.” He called all the sopranos to the foot of the stage and directed us from his stand below us in the orchestra pit. One by one, he instructed us to sing our five notes individually.
After my turn, the maestro smiled. “And I’ve found our culprit. Again, Miss Marigold.”
I took a deep breath. “Sing for the kingdom…”
“Wrong. Again.”
I shifted my stance. “Sing for the kingdom…”
The maestro cut me off with a dramatic wave of his arms, then he spoke into his mic, filling the auditorium with his voice. “Everyone! Come out on stage!”
A few people trickled out from backstage
He lifted the mic to his mouth again. “‘Everyone’ means that all drummers, singers and magicians of the King’s 100 need to be on my stage NOW!”
Within seconds, the stage filled with the entire court and dread weighed down my shoulders.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss Marigold insists on singing flat on a few simple notes so we’re all going to wait till she gets it right.” He let the mic fall onto his music stand, sending a boom through the speakers. “Measure twelve.” He leaned forward and narrowed his sharp eyes on mine. “Do you really think you belong here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then sing like your life depends on it.” The maestro cued Francis to play my starting pitch, then directed my line as the King’s 100 watched behind me.
“No, no, no!” Maestro hopped off his podium in the orchestra pit and darted over to Francis’s piano. He leaned across Francis’s frail body and pounded the notes into the piano. “Sing for the kingdom,” he sang as he lifted his eyebrows and pointed to invisible notes in the air.
He had me sing the five-note sequence so many times, I lost count. Maestro moved around the orchestra pit as he continued to direct me. At one point he sat in his conductor’s chair and laid his head down on the music stand, pretending to direct me in his sleep. Another time, he stood on a chair and hit a tambourine on each of the five notes.
When he finally cut me off, he hopped up onto the low wall of the orchestra pit. His legs dangled behind Francis’s head. “Francis, go home. This is going to take more time. Everyone, say goodnight to Francis!”
“Goodnight, Francis.”
I felt the jealous energy of the court as we watched Francis exit the auditorium. During a normal rehearsal, we would have all been done for the night and heading to dinner. But what the maestro was doing was anything but normal.
“I bet you’re all hungry. Well, you can thank Miss Marigold for that.” The maestro smiled, and I wanted to disappear.
My heart pounded, terrified at what words would come out of his mouth next.
“Crunches until Paris can get this right. Now!”
Court members behind me and on the wings of the stage dropped to their backs.
>
“You’re included in ‘everyone,’ Miss Marigold.”
“Yes, sir.” I dropped to my back and kept an eye on the maestro. He directed me through my line as I lifted my body through rhythmic crunches. I had no idea how many crunches I had done when the maestro dismissed the court for a water break. My abdomen ached and my mouth was parched, desperate for water.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he barked at me. “You don’t deserve a water break. You’re still doing crunches and singing!”
I swallowed and pressed my back to the floor, continuing to crunch and sing through the pain and thirst. Footsteps fell around my head as the court slowly returned to the stage.
“Hey gang, Miss Marigold still isn’t getting this. I’m so sorry for her inability to follow direction. Paris, apologize to your court.”
“I’m sorry,” I said between crunches from the floor.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry!” I shouted.
“We’ll forgive you when you can sing ON PITCH. Jumping jacks! Everyone!”
I scrambled to my feet and sang my line through the bounce of my body. My stomach growled so loud that I swore Maestro heard it.
Minutes passed and the maestro finally sent everyone to dinner. “But sopranos need to come back to the stage in an hour. Hopefully Marigold will have it right by then and can sing it once all the way through with her section.” He bit into a granola bar.
An hour.
I wanted to sob. I wasn’t sure if I could even sustain five more minutes of the maestro’s torture, let alone an entire hour.
Feet shuffled behind me as the court cleared the stage.
I spotted Darden in my periphery. “Excuse me, Maestro, I believe Miss Marigold deserves a—”
“She deserves nothing, Mr. McCray. Now get off my stage.”
“Yes, sir.” Darden disappeared from the stage in the matter of time it took me to blink.
Layla stepped forward and her mouth opened, ready to aim some of her own fire at the maestro, but Reese bent down to whisper something in her ear. Whatever he said convinced her to stay silent. But before she left the stage, she turned to me to mouth “sorry.”
“Paris, this is just one of Maestro’s games.” Ari’s whispered voice caressed the back of my sweaty neck. “Don’t let him get to you. And—”
“Get a move on, Mr. Novak.”
I heard Ari walk away, leaving the scent of a campfire to linger in his wake. The auditorium emptied, leaving the maestro and myself as its only occupants. Maestro exited the orchestra pit and climbed the steps to the stage. He stood in front of me as I continued to bounce and flail my arms, singing the same five notes over and over again.
He put his hands on his hips. “You’re still not getting this. Follow me.” He jogged back down the steps and continued up the side aisle of the auditorium. “What’s taking you so long, let’s go!”
I forced my feet to jog down the steps and catch up.
“This isn’t hard, Miss Marigold! Jog and sing till you get it!”
I jogged the auditorium through the route the maestro created for me, singing my same five notes the whole way. The maestro sat on the edge of the stage and scribbled in a notebook between shouting insults at me.
My shins throbbed and a pinch in my side pierced me like a knife. I was so hungry. And so tired. Whatever the maestro was trying to prove, I wasn’t getting it. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for the court after all. Maybe I didn’t deserve my spot on stage with the other singers. I let out a cry as my hip slammed into the back of one of the auditorium seats.
“Why are you slowing down? Pick up the pace and keep singing!”
I moved my legs forward, but I wanted to quit. I didn’t belong in Mondaria. I didn’t belong in the king’s Mansion. And I definitely didn’t belong inside an auditorium with a crazed maestro.
“If you quit now, Paris, you’re quitting the court. Are you ready to quit?”
I moved forward at a walking pace and stopped singing.
Maestro stood and manufactured a concerned look on his face. “Please tell me if you’re quitting because I’ll need to phone the guards.”
The sopranos returned to the stage and Maestro invited them to take a seat. “Miss Marigold is thinking about quitting, ladies. Heather, would you be able to take her solo for tomorrow’s auditorium show?”
“Yes, sir.” I glanced up at Heather who smiled, not at the maestro, but at me.
The maestro had said that everyone could be replaced. Heather would replace me as a soloist if I quit. And perhaps she would also replace me as Ari’s friend for his fireside chats. Ari would build fires for her, take her ice skating and hold her close in warm embraces.
I was replaceable.
But on the reciprocal, the court was replaceable. I would go back home to Capalon and I could find friends to replace Layla, Darden, Reese and Genevieve. And my match would replace Ari.
Ari could be replaced.
My head shook, disagreeing with my thoughts as I picked up my pace and ignored the insults from the stage.
I knew deep in my heart no one in Capalon could take the places of my Mondarian friends. What would a Capalon know about the joy of harmonizing, the thrill of staying up late just to talk about frivolous topics or the simple pleasure gained from the sound of a crackling fire with a marshmallow-coated tongue? And aside from my new Mondarian friendships, I still hadn’t reunited with my mother and she certainly wasn’t replaceable.
Ari was right.
Maestro was playing a game I refused to lose. I still needed to help Darden find his notebook, be a shoulder for Layla to lean on, and watch the snowfall on Christmas morning with Ari. And above all, I needed to find my mother, regardless of whether I agreed with her plans. Something or someone had to be holding her back from connecting with me and it was my job to help her.
Maestro Leto was just a bitter Mondarian. And I was a Capalon. I was the princess of the greatest kingdom in The Lands. I had to beat the maestro at his own game for Capalon. For my sister, the queen. For my mother, the former queen who was hiding in the shadows. And for my new friends.
I wasn’t ready to give up. I wasn’t ready to quit. I had to keep going and keep fighting the maestro at his ridiculous game. Because if I quit, I was telling all the people who were important to me that not only I was replaceable, but that they were replaceable too.
Breathe. Focus. Breathe.
I’m a Capalon and I control my emotions.
I smiled.
“Yes! Sing it out, Paris!” shouted the maestro.
I ran, I sang, I smiled.
Maestro clapped his hands. “Sopranos, from the top!”
I bounced up onto the stage. The other girls had full stomachs and looked tired.
But I was awake. Alive. Full of energy.
We sang the whole song a cappella.
Mine was the loudest voice.
Then the song ended.
“Good. See you tomorrow!” Maestro left the pit, and we were done. It was late at night. I had missed dinner, but we were finally done.
And then I was dizzy. And so tired.
A few of the older sopranos congratulated me as they left the stage. My feet were heavy and refused to move as a blossoming question anchored me to the stage floor.
Why me? Why had the maestro selected me for his game? It was almost as if he was punishing me. Almost as if….
Black spots filled my eyes. I spoke the words out loud to myself. “He knows…”
Somebody shouted. I felt the ground crash against me. I smelled a campfire.
My sight faded to black.
My sheets felt starchy and thin. The smell of sanitizing solution pricked at my nose. I opened my eyes to see Layla’s posters and colorful knickknacks replaced with stark white walls, and railings appeared on my bed overnight.
“Good, you’re awake.” A woman wearing a white coat spoke to me from beside a sink and a set of cabinets. “You fainted. You need to do
a better job of eating and staying hydrated. What did you have to eat today?”
I rubbed my head and spoke to the doctor from my borrowed clinic bed. “Um…a couple donuts for breakfast and a salad for lunch.” Then the maestro starved me during the rehearsal from hell.
“You know now that you’re away from home, you have to take care of yourself, right? You’re lucky you don’t have a concussion. Just a bump on your head. Drink this before you go see Bernie.” she handed me a white bottle with some sort of pink milk. “He told me you needed to go to his office as soon as I discharged you.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just the lady who tells him that his performers are too ill or injured to perform and he doesn’t listen. Oh, and will you take your friend with you? I have to lock up.”
“My friend?”
She nodded. “The boy who carried you here.”
What boy? There were no boys left with us on stage at the end of the rehearsal. But after forcing down some strawberry flavored milk, I walked into the waiting room to see a black-haired drummer slumped in a chair.
“Ari,” I whispered. “Ari, wake up. The doctor has to lock up.”
“Hm?” His eyes opened and blinked a few times. “Paris, hey, how are you?”
“I’m okay. I guess I was just dehydrated and hungry.”
“And run down by an evil maestro.” He lifted a flat square box off his lap. “I saved you some pizza.”
We moved into the hall and I ate a piece of pizza, washing it down with the remaining milk. “This is so good, Ari. Thank you.”
“Want to head to Lounge?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve been instructed to go see Maestro.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Don’t.”
Ari’s black brows furrowed.
“I mean, I don’t want you to get pulled into any of my trouble. In case he kicks me out.”
“He won’t kick you out. I won’t let him. After what he did to you—”
“It’ll be fine,” I said, touching his arm. “And if he does kick me out, I’ll visit you all on your down time in the Village.”
Ari and I looked at each other, both knowing that I was lying. Meeting court members on their down time was next to impossible. And if I was back in Capalon, any visitation would absolutely be impossible.
