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The Show Must Go On! – Part 06

“Coco Rose’s will that I mentioned earlier. The letter that was inside the brooch of the headless corpse buried in the grave of Nicole Leroux in the year 1900. It contains the name of the real father of the demonspawn that Queen Coco had given birth to, and words that foretold her own death. I gave the letter to a dove and sent it far away. My brethren received it. They should have kept in a safe place already.”

“And?”

“If anything happens to us, Queen Coco’s letter will be released to the public. The people will realize who the real culprit is. And so will the great powers of the world. Sauville will fall into disarray.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No.” Victorique shook her head. “I would not be so foolish as to reveal the truth without ensuring my safety. That is all.”

“Why didn’t you tell your father?”

Victorique smoked her pipe. “Because it would upset the balance of the world,” she said in a childish voice, then looked down at her feet.

The king peered at her inquisitively.

“Father never wanted an indictment. He summoned me here in order to gain dirt on him and the Academy of Science, therefore further solidifying the power of the Ministry of the Occult. But telling my father the truth would affect the power balance within Sauville, and the path of the coming second storm.”

“I see.”

“So I’m keeping my mouth shut. You better let us live.”

The king let out a long sigh.

The audience was long gone, and the place was quiet.

On the stage, the only sound that could be heard was the props being serviced.

Were the actors still in the green room? Or had they gone home already? Tomorrow night, the curtain would rise once more. A life in rosy hues, the play under the spotlight, would restart.

His Majesty Rupert and Jupiter Roget glared at Victorique, then whirled around.

“I have a question,” the king said, hanging his head. His voice sounded as tight as a young man’s.

“What is it?”

He looked over his shoulder, still keeping his gaze downward. “Did the queen’s message say anything else besides her fear of being killed?”

“Like what?”

“Like…”

Twenty-four years ago, there was a wounded young man—a man of privilege, pride, and position, who was loved by all, but who could not win the heart of his new wife from another country. Rupert, a murderer buried within Sauville’s history.

His face twisted. “Did she only feel fear for me in her last moments?”

“I don’t know.” Victorique shook her head. “The letter was short. Had she stayed alive, you might have learned the answer to that question. You might have understood each other over time. But it’s impossible now. Even you can’t bring back the past. Her soul has long departed. Killed by your hand.”

“…”

“You will never know what was in Coco’s mind. Twenty-four years ago, you plucked the Blue Rose of Saubreme and left her to wither away.”

The emotion slowly faded from His Majesty Rupert’s face.

His was a blank expression, like a deep abyss. The bloody face of a person who had killed a loved one, crossed the line of humanity a long time ago. A noh mask etched with loneliness after living in solitude for years.

He turned back around and walked away.

There was dignity in his figure. He wore an air that befit a king who bore the Kingdom of Sauville on his back. It was heavy as a shadow, blue as the night, and unfathomably dark as the past.

He turned around and took a few steps back. “I see. You must be Victorique de Blois.” He kept his voice low so Roget wouldn’t hear. “The Gray Wolf that Albert claims to be the last and greatest mind in Europe.”

“What of it?”

The king’s cheeks twisted into a smile.

“The next storm is near. And I am the king, Sauville’s apostle. Tonight I’ve learned a lot about you, the weapon that the Ministry of the Occult is hiding.” The king’s coat flared, the bottom dark as night. “And I will use everything I can get my hands on.”

Victorique’s eyes widened.

“Until we meet again, little wolf. Golden-haired fairy with magical powers from the Middle Ages.”

The king and Roget disappeared into the corridor.

There were sounds of props being moved. The lights went out, turning the stage and the audience seating dark.

For a while, Victorique and Kazuya stood there in silence.

Victorique held Kazuya’s hand. Her fingers were pudgy like those of a child’s. But right now it was cold as ice, and trembling.

Kazuya squeezed her hand back reassuringly.

Victorique lifted her head. “The show is over. Finally.”

“No curtain call?”

“Give me a break. I can’t wait to return to the academy and read books in the library’s conservatory all day long.”

“You always complain about being bored, though.”

“Because I am bored! Every day I feel like dying.”

Victorique started walking. She was pouting for some reason. Kazuya followed, looking curious. His grapple with Roget earlier had left parts of his body sore, but he tried his best to hide it.

“But…” Victorique muttered.

“What?”

“It’s far better than putting you in harm’s way. Boring also means safe. Something I never dreamed of before.”

“Victorique…”

Kazuya went silent, caught off guard by her words. Then a smile appeared on his face.

He squeezed her hand tight once more as they walked out onto the corridor.

The lamps flickered on the walls lined with photos of past dancers. As they walked down the corridor toward the exit, time passed, bringing them closer to the present. They walked hand-in-hand in silence down the dim corridor, leaving the past and returning to the present, and further into the future.

To tomorrow.

Onwards to the future, young ones.

A faint light shone on their small figures, offering them strength.

---

The back door to the Phantom Theater opened.

It was simple and antiquated, completely different from the front entrance, which resembled a giant lion’s mouth. Actors streamed out onto the alley. Their appearance, like the door, was simple, different from the costumes and makeup they had been wearing earlier. Their skin looked duller from the lack of makeup. They were dressed in casual attires—worn-out coats, simple hats, and walking sticks that looked as if they had picked them up from the side of the road.

Ginger Pie came out from behind them.

A group of young actors, placing their arms on each other’s shoulders, turned the corner to a downtown bar for a drink.

A young man wrapped his arm around Ginger Pie’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Maman!” he said with a smile.

The woman gave him the same cheerful smile. “I’m going home. I have a little girl waiting for me.”

“Oh.” The young man let go of her, disappointed. “I forgot. Here, she can have this.” He pulled a bag of candy out of his pocket and handed it to Ginger Pie.

“Oh, thanks. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. I can not wait to see you tomorrow, Your Majesty!” bellowed the young man.

An air of tension surrounded him, and he was bathed in the same light as when he stood on stage. Ginger Pie laughed with a shrug.

She put on the aura of the Queen Mother. “Until tomorrow.”

“A pleasant evening to you, Your Majesty!”

“You too. Bye.”

The young man watched as Ginger Pie waved and then strode down the alley. Drawn by the voices of his colleagues, he turned and disappeared into the road that led to the bar in the blink of an eye.

Light snow was falling on the street. A small woman was coming toward Ginger Pie’s direction.

She was wearing a puffy dress, though it was too dark to make out the color, with a fur coat over it. On her tiny head, atop her golden hair, sat an ornate headdress with a plume. The wind blew, flaring the bottom of her coat like a bird spreading its wings.

Somewhere an owl hooted.

The woman had a companion. Wearing a black coat, he seemed to blend into the darkness. His red hair burned coldly in the dusk like flames.

Ginger Pie realized that it was the little girl she had met in the theater earlier. Though she had her guardian with her, a child shouldn’t be out this late. The girl was looking down with a nervous expression.

“You should go home,” Ginger Pie said when they passed by each other.

The girl’s breath seized. She then lowered her head even more. “Okay,” she replied softly, her voice almost inaudible.

“You can come visit the theater again if you want. I’d love to talk about your maman again. About Cordelia Gallo, the little purple jewel.”

“Okay.” The woman nodded.

Her slender chin seemed to quiver. Her dainty, rose-embossed boots moved.

Hmm?

Ginger Pie cocked her head. She wondered if the girl called Victorique wore the same shoes. She thought hers was pink and glittering like glass.

An owl hooted again.

Ginger Pie sensed the woman stop behind her.

She, too, stopped in her tracks.

Listen, you’re not alone.

So stop crying.

Ginger Pie.

Life in rosy hues!

A familiar voice was singing. Surprised, Ginger Pie turned around.

“C-Cor…”

A gust of wind blew. Bare trees lining the street rattled. A few dead leaves fluttered onto the pavement.

The small woman and the red-haired man had vanished like ghosts.

Like time travelers from the past.

The voice lingered for a moment. While the past could never be retrieved, tender memories would last forever.

Ginger Pie stood there in the street, puzzled. Then slowy she turned on her heel.

“I must’ve been imagining things,” she mumbled. “I feel like I met an old friend. Just an illusion, perhaps.”

She wiped the small tear in her eye with the back of her hand. Then she resumed walking, her gait more jaunty than before, despite crying a little.

At the end of the alley, she turned a corner. She arrived at a messy area downtown, not far from the glamorous street corner where the theater was located. The smell of food and sewage mingled in the air. It was quiet, yet at the same time somewhat noisy. The sound of a married couple quarreling and dishes breaking came from the distance. Children’s laughter rolled out from a different window, together with the smell of stew. Separate lives all clustered together.

Ginger Pie opened the door to the boarding house, stepped inside, and went quietly up the stairs, careful not to make a sound.

“We have no cakes, nor any muffins,” she sang softly. “But we do have stale bread!”

She stopped her feet from dancing, but her hands moved naturally. She was performing in front of an unseen audience.

“We have no prince on a white horse, nor an Arabian king. But we have a lover!”

She stopped in front of a door, took the key from her pocket, and opened it gently.

A small room. A table and a chair. A very large cabinet.

There was a bed inside, and moonlight streaming in through a small window illuminated the pillow softly. A little girl with curly hair, like an angel in a painting, was sleeping with her tiny fists clenched, as though she was about to fight the world.

“Life in rosy hues!” Ginger Pie grinned broadly as she finished the rest of the song.

She placed the bag of candy that the young man had given her earlier by the pillow. Yawning, she changed quickly into her nightgown and snuggled down next to the girl.

Soon after, she was breathing softly as the child.

The moonlight from the small window shone on their faces.