‘Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart!’
Like a remotely operated robot, turning against his will, Bastiaan felt his body twist.
It was impossible. Impossible that this stabbing, biting, fury of a voice should be emanating from the figure on the stage. Absolutely, totally impossible.
Because the figure on the stage was Sabine. Sabine—with her tight sheath of a gown, her femme fatale blonde allure, her low-pitched voice singing huskily through sultry cabaret numbers.
It could not be Sabine singing this most punishing, demanding pinnacle of the operatic repertoire.
But it was.
Still like a robot he walked towards the stage, dimly aware that the diners present were staring open-mouthed at this extraordinary departure from their normal cabaret fare. Dimly aware that he was sinking down at an unoccupied table in front of the stage, his eyes pinned, incredulous, on the woman singing a few metres away from him.
The full force of her raging voice stormed over him. There was no microphone to amplify her voice, but she was drowning out everything except the crashing chords of the piano accompanying her. This close, he would see the incandescent fury in her face, her flashing eyes emerald and hard. He stared—transfixed. Incredulous. Disbelieving.
Then, as the aria furioso reached its climax, he saw her stride to the edge of the stage, step down off it and sweep towards him. Saw her snatch up a steak knife from a pl
ace setting and, with a final, killing flourish, as her scathing, scything denunciation of her enemy was hurled from her lips, she lifted the knife up and brought it down in a deadly, vicious stab into the tabletop in front of him.
The final chords sounded and she was whirling around, striding away, slamming through the door that led backstage. And in the tabletop in front of him the knife she’d stabbed into it stood quivering.
All around him was stunned silence.
Slowly, very slowly, he reached a hand forward and withdrew the knife from the table. It took a degree of effort to do so—it had been stabbed in with driving force.
The entire audience came out of their stupor and erupted into a tremendous round of applause.
He realised he was getting to his feet, intent on following her wherever she had disappeared to, and then was aware that the pianist was lightly sprinting off the stage towards him, blocking his route.
‘I wouldn’t, you know,’ said the pianist, whom he dimly recognised as Sabine’s accompanist.
Bastiaan stared at him. ‘What the hell just happened?’ he demanded. His ears were still ringing with the power of her voice, her incredible, unbelievable voice.
Sabine’s accompanist made a face. ‘Whatever you said to her, she didn’t like it—’ he answered.
‘She’s a nightclub singer!’ Bastiaan exclaimed, not hearing what the other man had said.
The accompanist shook his head. ‘Ah, no...actually, she’s not. She’s only standing in for one right now. Sarah’s real musical forte is, as you have just heard, opera.’
Bastiaan stared blankly. ‘Sarah?’
‘Sarah Fareham. That’s her name. She’s British. Her mother is French. The real Sabine did a runner, so I cut a deal with the club owner to get free rehearsal space in exchange for Sarah filling in. But he’s hired a new singer now—which is very convenient as we’re off tomorrow to the festival venue.’
Bastiaan’s blank stare turned blanker. ‘Festival...?’ He seemed to be able to do nothing but echo the other man’s words, and Bastiaan had the suspicion, deep down, that the man was finding all this highly amusing.
‘Yes, the Provence en Voix Festival. We—as in our company—are appearing there with a newly composed opera that I am directing. Sarah,’ he informed Bastiaan, ‘is our lead soprano. It’s a very demanding role.’ Now the amusement was not in his voice any more. ‘I only hope she hasn’t gone and wrecked her voice with that ridiculous “Queen of the Night” tirade she insisted on.’ His mouth twisted and the humour was back in his voice, waspish though it was. ‘I can’t think why—can you?’
Bastiaan’s eyes narrowed. It was a jibe, and he didn’t like it. But that was the absolute, utter least of his emotions right now.
‘I have to speak to her—’
‘Uh-uh.’ The pianist shook his head again. ‘I really wouldn’t, you know.’ He made a face again. ‘I have never seen her that angry.’
Bastiaan hardly heard him. His mind was in meltdown. And then another question reared, hitting him in the face.
‘Philip—my cousin—does he know?’
‘About Sarah? Yes, of course he does. Your cousin’s been haunting this place during rehearsals. Nice kid,’ said Max kindly.