Despite the madness, despite the relentlessness of the past month, the show must go on. Maximillian Huber returned from Hungry, Anais returned from her trip to Vienna, and Tristan and Isolde finally pulled back the curtains to all of Paris. The set reached towards the sky, the chorus swept across the stage with practiced perfection, Antoine Duris’ deep voice reverberated throughout the theater, and Anais dazzled the crowd as an angelic heroine. After a lifetime in front of crowds, with eyes staring, the songstress knew when she held the audience in rapture, and opening night did just that.
But of course the night didn’t end there. No, for anyone who was anyone there was more to come. The salon of the Palais Garnier was as grand as the theater, and as magnificent as the foyer. Champagne flowed, and the intermingling of Paris’ elite filled the room with a lovely din.
Anais smiled modestly, out of her costume and adorned in a gold dress that matched the champagne and rivaled the fresco. The conversation continued around her, and, bored by talks of politics, the woman’s eyes scanned the room, before landing on a familiar face. Her lips twitched into a smile, and excusing herself, Anais crossed the room.
“Lord Cunningham,” Anais greeted with emphasis, as she came up beside him. She spoke in English, and her gaze slid to watch him. “Enjoy the show?”
@lordrakecunningham