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The Show Must Go On! – Part 02

“The show must go on,” Victorique muttered.

She was a large, crimson rose, with billowy red dress and pink, glass-like shoes. Her magnificent hair hung down to the floor, giving her the appearance of a luxurious porcelain doll.

She was sitting on a shoddy wooden chair. Its scrollwork was snapped in places, and it made an ominous squeaking sound whenever she moved. She looked somewhat like a captive princess.

The wisp of smoke rising from her pipe wavered forlornly.

They were on the stage wing. The red curtain was down, and props resembling a royal balcony were being prepared. Actors in their costumes and makeup were gathered around the stage, looking nervous. Even now the stage director was still giving out small instructions.

The officials of the Ministry of the Occult surrounded Victorique, while Marquis de Blois sat beside her in a newly-made chair that was carried here from the basement. His son, Inspector Blois, stood beside him, agonizing over a rabbit that was climbing up his head.

The actors and theater were careful not to say anything or even look at the eerie group. No matter what happened backstage, the actors’ job was the same. The show must go on.

Needless to say, the audience’s chanting of Coco’s name reached all the way backstage, their loud cheers rending the air. No wonder. It had been ten years since this popular stageplay was last performed. The crowd had become so loud that they were practically one step short of mass hysteria. They were like children gathered at the entrance to the underworld, screaming frantically as they waited for the resurrection of their dead mother.

“Coco! Coco! Coco!”

An actress playing Coco Rose, wearing an old-fashioned blue dress with puffy sleeves, layers of lace up to the collar, and a cameo brooch shining around her neck, grimaced, feeling the pressure from the chants.

Victorique silently watched her from afar.

The young actress was speechless for a moment, tears welling up in her eyes, when suddenly she struck her signature pose—smiling with her right palm touching her cheek and her elbow on the back of her left hand.

Seconds later, the tension and anxiety left her body, and her face lit up with a rosy brilliance, like a faint glow of hope.

Victorique held the pipe in her mouth, puffing out tobacco smoke. A small smile seemed to appear on her face.

And then…

The curtains rose.

Instantly, an earth-shaking cheer rumbled and shook the pits of their stomachs.

Spotlight.

The actress playing Coco slowly walked out into the light. She looked mystic, as though ready to pass on.

The audience suddenly went quiet, watching the revived queen—tonight’s actress—with bated breath and keen eyes, as though appraising the beauty of a living sacrifice.

A grand silence had blanketed the place, as if the god of theater had arrived.

“There’s no business like show business,” the actor playing King Rupert mumbled. “We became actors because we wanted to. One day we will grow old, our voice will become hoarse, and we will no longer be able to perform on stage. But ladies and men, let us remember this applause. For it will remain in our ears, in our bodies, in our hearts, to comfort us in our lonely nights.”

The actors, too, were watching from the wings of the stage with bated breath. Ginger Pie, playing the role of the Queen Mother, stood with her chin raised, but the handkerchief in her hand was crumpled from the nerves.

A moment later, cheers for Coco erupted once more, louder than before. The audience had accepted the young actress as Queen.

Relieved, the whole cast exchanged small smiles. Then they immersed themselves in their roles and turned silent once more.

“Tomorrow, I leave for Sauville and bid farewell to France. Will the people of Sauville welcome me? Will His Majesty love me? Ah, my last night is filled with anxiety!”

The lonely voice of Coco Rose, a seventeen-year-old French girl, resounded.

The audience watched the actress in silence. Everyone knew her future. The people welcomed her, but His Majesty Rupert never showed her love. Her life was short, and far from rosy.

Victorique looked away from the stage. She gazed at Marquis de Blois sitting on the other side and the bureaucrats surrounding him.

She pointed to the stage. “There’s a concept called zero hour,” she began.

Marquis de Blois’s brows twitched. His monocles glinted coldly.

In the shadowy backstage area, it seemed as if an invisible spotlight was shining eerily on Victorique and Marquis de Blois. Victorique stared straight at her own dreadful father, Marquis Albert de Blois, a leading figure in the Ministry of the Occult.

The actor playing His Majesty the King appeared on stage, and the wedding preparations began.

Actors danced to the sound of music.

Victorique was as expressionless as ice, as though trained from birth to suppress all emotions—anger, hatred, tedium, ennui, and sometimes joy.

The lamp on the old table flickered. Music rolled in from the stage.

Victorique removed the pipe from her mouth. “Zero hour is when an incident actually occurs,” she said in a deep, husky voice. “But it’s often misinterpreted, making it harder to see the truth.”

Like an old woman, her voice was devoid of innocence and delicacy. For a long time like her mother, she was locked up in a stone tower, ignorant of the outside world, with only books to barely link her with what lay out there—knowledge, discovery, love, and sorrow. The howling, crying, screaming, had robbed her voice of its sweetness and tenderness.

The passage of time had turned her voice quiet and mysterious, like an old hermit living in the forest.

“At the moment,” she said, pointing at the stage. A wedding ceremony was being held under the spotlight. His Majesty Rupert, wearing a white cloak and a large crown, was standing next to Queen Coco, who was hanging her head. “It’s the year 1897. Not yet zero hour.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Let’s be patient. We’re getting there.” Victorique’s voice dropped lower. “Soon the zero hour will arrive. That is, the moment when Queen Coco was murdered.”

“What are you talking about?” Marquis de Blois snorted. His voice was deep, icy, dreadful. “That would be 1914. Everyone in the kingdom knows that, not just government officials. It’s still a long way off.”

“You are wrong, Father.” Victorique shook her head. “The Wellspring of Wisdom disagrees. Queen Coco dies…” She paused.

On the stage, the wedding ceremony went off without a hitch.

Next came the quarrel between His Majesty and the Queen in the bedchamber. The Queen’s inclination for the occult. The appearance of Leviathan, the masked alchemist.

The play progressed slowly but sensationally.

1900.

The queen’s bedroom. A conversation between the Queen, whose belly was getting bigger, and her maid, who followed her from France. The arrival of the Queen Mother. Her expectations.

“Oh, may my son’s first child be a man who will one day succeed the throne. May he be handsome too, with blond hair and blue eyes.”

But the queen failed to give birth. Lying in bed, she cried.

“Now,” Victorique said curtly.

“What do you mean by ‘now’?” Marquis de Blois asked grimly.

“Now is when Queen Coco dies.”

“What?”

“Someone stabbed her in the chest.”

“What in the world are you on about?!”

Queen Coco wept herself to sleep on a luxurious, canopied bed, holding her chest in pain. Her maid was accompanying her.

Victorique pointed at the scene. “Look. She’s dead from a stab wound,” she repeated.

“Nonsense!”

“Blackout.”

With a startling sound effect, the stage went dark.

In the darkness, the props for the royal palace were cleared away and replaced with those of the country house. Sobs of women who empathized with Queen Coco came from the audience. A familiar voice—the dorm mother Sophie’s, most likely—reached Victorique’ ears.

“Queen Coco is dead,” she said, keeping her expression still.

“Explain!” the Marquis roared.

“As of 1900, someone had already killed her. I would surmise that it was an impulsive murder, not premeditated. The body was probably embalmed. At around the same time, there was a search for an impostor in Saubreme.”

“What do you mean?”

“An ad looking for a secretary appeared in the newspaper. But for a secretary position, the requirements were rather specific. Blonde hair, blue eyes, even their height and the size of their feet. The salary was so high that it attracted blonde beauties from all over Saubreme.”

Victorique paused.

From the pitch-dark stage, the actress playing Queen Coco, who had finished her performance, returned to the backstage. One would’ve thought her footsteps to be jaunty, but they were calm, each step careful and firm.