The Song of the Butterfly

I am no stranger to stage nerves, but this, for some inexplicable reason, feels different.

The jets of gaslight set into the walls of my dressing-room flicker, the shadows playing on the walls, on my face. I watch my cheeks alternate: light – shade – light – shade. I can almost feel the light's caress on my skin, brushing feather-light like the gentle fluttering of wings. The sensation – strange, tingling – fizzles down through my body, and I glance away from my face, lightly greasepainted, to the gauzy sleeves that shroud my arms in saffron and marigold.

I have never been one for bright colours, but I note with pleasant surprise that in the glowing oranges and yellows of my costume, stitched specially for tonight, I am resplendent. The warm hues light my face and soften my features, setting off my dark hair in a striking manner – just so.

I look like a new person – reborn in a wash of sunrise.

Appropriate, really. This evening is to be my rebirth, my debut as a singer in the theatre where I have grown up, all the way from a skinny twelve-year-old backstage runner to a ballet girl to a budding young star – or so my patron tells me. Henry Reynolds: one of the theatre's principal investors, himself a self-made man of a kind, rising quite literally from the orchestra pit as pianist to become conductor and composer, gaining critical acclaim and, along with it, membership of the fashionable theatrical circle. Who, he positively assures me, will adore me once I am launched. I am to be their new darling.

The promise of success fizzes through my veins like champagne.

I can just catch the last strains of music from the act before mine (a pair of twin girls who duet on fiddles) floating down the backstage corridor. I rise, smooth my skirts, pat my hair with trembling hands.

One last look in the mirror before I step out as a singer, for the first time: a young girl, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, clad in a diaphanous, flowing gown reminiscent of the monarch butterflies that used to feed on the roses in my mother's garden in the days before the theatre. An unearthly vision of marigold and saffron, amber and xanthous, butterscotch and persimmon, ochre and cadmium.

This vision in sunset retreats from the mirror, plucks a stray azalea from the bouquet on her dressing table to place in her bodice, and begins her procession down the backstage corridors to the wings. These passages are cramped and narrow, a far cry from the gilded whorls and scrolls of the auditorium, but the theatre has been my home for over a decade. I know my way blindfolded.

Or at least, I ought to.

Somehow, the nerves have got to my sense of direction. My heart patters like a drumroll. My vision shakes a little, the wooden beams of the low ceiling wavering in sympathy. I have to trail my fingers along the walls to keep myself grounded, to remind myself that this is the same theatre I have known as home since late childhood. My breath hitches, hissing in my ears like a creature from a fable. This dark, subterranean warren, barely lit by sparsely placed candles, feels as if it is closing in on me – like it might never end – like I might walk forever and never leave. I have to force myself to place one foot in front of the other and keep moving, keep ascending to the wings.

The light from the stage is faintly visible up ahead, now, and I know I am on the right path. I follow the light like a moth to a flame, letting the warm, homely glow of the stage lights soothe me.

When I reach the wings, Mr Reynolds – Henry – meets me. He presses my trembling fingers in his strong, warm palms, before pushing me away a little, holding me at arms' length. His eyes, familiar in their stormy grey intensity, run calculatingly over my sunset-clad form.

'Will I do, Henry?'

I speak in jest, but I fight to keep a waver from my voice. His opinion is law in the theatre, it is true, but I cannot truthfully say that this is the only reason why his approval matters so much to me.

'Oh, you will do very well indeed, my darling protégée. You are truly radiant. If you sing as well as you have done in rehearsal, no one will be able to resist your charms, try as they might.

I smile, although the expression is a pale imitation of the usual way my face lights up when he compliments me. He believes in my ability, it is true, but for me, it is not enough to believe in my talent and my training. I do not want to let this man, after all he has done for me – after all he means to me – down. I cannot – it is simply not an option.

I have to shine – have to soar.

As the footlights dance and flicker in the draught from the descending curtains, I can sense that he has turned to me.

'Go, my butterfly,' he murmurs, his voice close to my ear. 'Show them how you fly.'

And as he leads me onto the stage, he gently, oh so gently, kisses the back of my hand. He arrays my trailing skirts and scarves so they drape about me like diaphanous wings, and then he leaves.

The curtain ropes begin to creak again. I dart one last panicked look at him, watching faithfully in the wings, but he only nods, smiling subtly.

I am alone onstage, and my career is about to begin.

The orchestra strikes up, and the curtain starts to rise. I take a deep breath, my eyelids fluttering involuntarily at the sudden blinding brightness of the stage lights. My vision is obscured for a time, and I have the peculiar sensation of floundering in a pool of water until my eyes adjust, and then, as I take in the sea of people before me, my claustrophobia begins anew. The bright colours of eveningwear blur before my eyes. I am sent dizzy by the cacophony of azures, magentas, crimsons, teals, emeralds. It is like a jewellery box laid open before me, dazzling as the gems flash with light. That these are people somehow cannot quite register in my mind – I feel the pressure of a thousand eyes on me, but no faces are discernible in the mass of colour and fabrics and flapping fans.

The orchestra is reaching my cue, and I know I cannot stay dazed and silent forever. I fix my eyes firmly on the gilded floral moulding of the central box, a trick I suddenly recall from my ballet-girl days, and open my mouth – begin.

The very instant that the first note leaves my throat, I feel different – better. I am on familiar ground once more, thank the stars. The music pouring from the orchestra pit washes over my body, pumps through my veins, fills my lungs each time I draw breath. My very being feels as if it is made from music, my heart beating in quavers and minims, my arms moving with the notes wrought from the violins' strings.

My stage nerves have disappeared completely, and I no longer feel the oppressive stares of the audience prickling my skin. The music has taken over me completely, and my soul has joined with it as it fills the air – fills the room. My voice lifts and dips in synchronicity with the strings, and I feel the notes bursting from my vocal cords like wishes from stars. My arms rise as the music builds towards a climax, my sleeves trailing from my arms like wings as I sway. As the crescendo builds, my vision blurs again, my skin tingling, but this time, it is not nerves – it is euphoria.

I no longer feel real, no longer feel embodied. I am pure music, soaring through the air, dancing on the dust motes that swirl through the spotlights.

And then, the song finishes.

My eyes are closed, as I savour the last few notes from the orchestra pit, fulfilled from my communion with the music. There is a moment of stillness, and then, like a plug being pulled, a roaring forces itself on my ears. It sounds like applause – I think – but I am not sure of where I am until I open my eyes, see the admiring audience before me.

I sweep my arms out in a gesture of thanks, preparing to take the first bow of my career, and I hear gasps from the spectators closest to the stage. They are admiring the craftsmanship of my costume, no doubt. I am in agreement: it is a marvel. It feels magical, like a second skin, the trailing sleeves truly giving the feel of wings extending from my shoulder blades to drift behind me.

In fact, I feel as if I am flying, ascending, right this moment.

The audience's faces, clear for the first time all evening, are no longer admiring. They are shocked – horrified. I glance in the wings, searching for Henry's reaction. An identical expression contorts his handsome face.

I find I no longer care for his opinions. No one's opinions, in fact. None of it matters any more, not when I can fly.

And so, I rise like I was promised, borne on my wings of sunset.

A/N: I didn't have any specific pieces of music in mind but the aria in the YouTube clip is beautiful and works pretty well.