6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (12)
6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (12)
The moniker "Black Magician" had been run into the ground across the games.
—The opponent is none other than the Black Magician.
—I heard you defeated the Black Magician once before.
—Give it up. No one can stand against the Black Magician's power.
Every character in the games knew the name. At the time, I simply took it as a measure of how towering his notoriety was. But now it turned out the nickname had an extremely concrete point of origin.
The unidentified figure who attacked the last Circus Grand Prix.
Bwallet mentioned the name only in passing and did not bring it up again. Dwelling on a culprit who was never caught didn't suit the spirit of a memorial. Yet that single utterance was enough to shift the eyes of the acrobats in the terrace seats. Fear, grief, and hatred flickered across their faces in turns.
Sensing the mood sink, Bwallet rushed into the next phase the moment the memorial ended.
"And now, a celebratory performance prepared by our establishment!"
At his signal, the waiting orchestra launched into the music.
The Rose Windmill Cabaret's signature act: the Cancan.
Dancers in high heels ascended the stage, parting their layered skirts with high kicks in time with the sprightly music. Dozens of pale, toned legs moving in perfect unison evoked the synchronized wingbeats of a flock of white birds.
Every flash of leg drew exclamations and whistles from every corner.
—What legs on that one!
—Whew! Over here, give us a turn!
—How about matching steps with me tonight?
The words spilling from the gentlemen's mouths were coarse, incongruous with their immaculate dress. But the expressions on their faces were healthier than the words they spat. The dancers showed no trace of offense either.
Out in the street it might be different, but in here, talk like that didn't count as harassment.
If anything, cheering them on loudly was the real courtesy. Anyone who stayed seated while the dancers worked would be dismissed as someone who didn't know how to enjoy himself, and if a dancer locked eyes with you and you failed to smile or return the flirtation, she'd feel slighted.
Ella had taught me that—cabaret etiquette, she called it. From our balcony seat, fortunately, simply clapping along to the beat sufficed.
"They're all lovely, aren't they?"
I started to nod at Anais's remark, then caught myself. She had ambushed me with that exact pattern several times before. If I agreed thoughtlessly now, I'd immediately be met with a retort like—
—Then why don't you flirt back, Troupe Leader? Or do you not know how to whistle?
But this time the familiar barb didn't come. When I turned, she was resting her chin on one hand, watching me with an unreadable little smile.
"What? It's a fine show. Enjoy it."
This was a trial in its own way. The sight of her smiling with her eyes was almost unsettling. I nearly preferred how she used to needle me.
Right then, Bwallet strode back onto the stage. He raised a hand, and the dancers halted in place. The music faded, and the lights dimmed. A single spotlight shot up from below to illuminate the ceiling.
All eyes turned upward.
"Allow me to present the pride of the Rose Windmill! A singer who, at only nineteen, has ascended to our night stage! The Flower of Rouge! Yvonne!"
A pair of ropes descended from the ceiling. A swing.
On the plank suspended between them sat a woman with a lush cascade of red hair.
A crimson silk dress that bared her thighs, fishnet stockings, and a wide-brimmed hat that looked ready to swallow her shoulders; beneath it, a pale face and provocatively rouged lips.
When the spotlight caught her face, startled intakes of breath rippled through the hall. Polished up for the stage, her beauty was magnified tenfold from when I'd seen her at the hospital.
—The Flower of Rouge indeed!
—I've been a member of her fan club for three years!
—Yvonne! Yvonne! Yvonne!
The entrance of a star who could represent an entire theater—the reaction was on another level. Her name swelled until it filled the hall.
Bathed in the roar of the crowd, the swing began to circle downward. Even at that dizzying height, dozens of meters above the floor, she sat with her legs casually crossed, waving toward the terrace patrons.
Every so often she would hook only her legs over the seat and let her body hang upside down. First-time guests who shrieked that she'd slipped quickly erupted into cheers when she snapped her waist and swung smoothly back into place.
The swing made a full circuit of the fourth floor, its ropes lengthening as it descended to the third, then the second. Finally it swept just above the heads of the table-seat guests before touching down on the stage.
Yvonne faced the whole audience and dipped into an elegant bow.
Thunderous applause and wild shouts answered her.
Now that the lead vocalist had appeared, the Cancan was only just beginning in earnest.
The lights flared back to life, and the band resumed playing. The piano's sprightly melody led a piece that was impossible to stay still through—Yvonne's singing matched the billing "Flower of Rouge" note for note.
—A secret is a woman's greatest charm!
—Tears are a woman's strongest weapon!
—Jewels are a woman's dearest friend!
Most of the first-floor guests rose from their seats and began to dance. Even the veteran diplomats, men I'd pegged as incapable of letting loose, were making gestures that bordered on undignified. Well, I suppose sharing the local culture is part of a diplomat's job.
The most conspicuous dancer was Baron Dosville, the man who had tried to provoke Anais earlier. His claim to being a cabaret VIP clearly wasn't empty—he was trading steps with one of the dancers, pulling off such quick footwork that she seemed to struggle to keep up. This wasn't a man on his first or second outing.
Someone downstairs boomed out harmonies to Yvonne's song. I didn't need to look over the balcony. That voice belonged to Rooster Minova.
He could match the volume of amplification gear without any. That was his Inspira. His singing resounded through the hall. It was exceptional—so exceptional that even though his uninvited intrusion into the lead vocalist's performance was blatantly rude, nobody could do anything but admire his skill. Yvonne herself pointed at his balcony seat and threw up a thumb, matching his energy.
A sidelong glance at the seat next to me showed that the gloom had finally vanished from Anais's face. She was even humming along, her shoulders swaying. A weight lifted off my chest.
As time passed, the show's intensity only climbed. By now, not a single person on the first floor was still seated. Everyone had pressed toward the stage, bodies in constant motion.
The orchestra played with an abandon that looked like they meant to dash their instruments to pieces; the drummer in particular swung his arms as though possessed, hell-bent on splitting his drums wide open.
Yvonne and Minova grew louder with every repeated chorus. The crowd matched them, dance growing wilder and wilder.
I half feared the building might collapse under the pounding of all those feet and voices.
As the performance hurtled toward its peak, Anais spoke to me through the wall of noise. I had to ask her to repeat herself several times before I caught the words. In the end, I had to lean in until our faces were nearly touching—close enough to feel each other's breath.
Her face flushed crimson.
"Um... Troupe Leader?"
"Yes?"
She gave me a cautious smile.
"May I ask you one question?"
"Of course."
—A secret! (A secret!)
—Is a woman's! (A woman's!)
—Greatest charm! (Oh, such charm!)
She hesitated a moment, then spoke.
"If I had approached you more gently from the start..."
—Tears! (Tears!)
—Are a woman's! (A woman's!)
—Strongest weapon! (Oh, a weapon!)
"If I had tried to show you only my better sides..."
—Jewels! (Jewels!)
—Are a woman's! (A woman's!)
—Dearest friend! (Oh, a friend!)
"If I had given you more..."
—Even if my heart shows!
—The secret still stays buried!
"Would anything have changed?"
I knew. This was her last question.
—Even if my smile fades!
—The tears only cut deeper!
I answered her honestly. With a smile.
"No. Nothing would have changed."
"Is... that so...?"
—Even if my beauty withers!
—The jewels shine on forever!
A deep, percussive thud signaled the end of the number. A storm of cheers followed.
Yvonne, the chorus girls behind her, the dancers, and the entire orchestra came forward to bow to the audience. It took several minutes for the uproar to settle.
Not just the theater staff but the guests themselves were drenched in sweat, panting. Everyone had danced themselves senseless; they'd earned their exhaustion. People were chugging down the drinks on their tables.
"N-next... we, the troupe leaders' oaths, and the introduction of the patrons..."
Bwallet was gasping as if on the verge of collapse. He'd been dancing at the very front of the line of performers. For a heavyset man, his footwork had been astonishing. The talk of him having been a professional dancer in his youth was clearly no lie. The sight of that frame swinging its hips and twisting its waist had drawn equal parts genuine admiration and howling laughter from the crowd.
Scanning the other balconies, I saw everyone rising and preparing to descend to the first floor.
"We should go down too."
Anais's smile looked serene. Honestly, it was probably closer to resignation than serenity. Watching it gnawed at me with a pang of sympathy.
Still, I believed this was the best course. The stage I'd been granted ran only to the ending of TT0.
Two years and four months—that was the limit of my time. I didn't want my heart tethered to a world I'd have to leave anyway.
Parting would be unbearably hard and unbearably painful.
So I'd made a deliberate effort to form no attachments beyond mechanically raising my troupe members' Affection levels. With Yurakne, that line had crumbled once. With Ella—once, too.
That couldn't happen again. Would I console myself with memories of people I could never see again, living a limbless life in a cramped room? Or would I return with the means to change my life, decisively and completely?
I steadied myself with cold resolve.
"Heh, shall we head down too, then?"
The moment we rose, a commotion erupted outside the door. The voice bellowing was Sir Porshu's.
—Take one more step and I will use force!
Shouts and the sounds of a scuffle followed. Sir Porshu's resistance didn't last.
Soon the door burst open with a bang.
Sir Porshu stormed toward us, breathing hard.
"Viscountess, get behind me!"
The group that pushed through the door wore the blue uniforms of police constables. They surrounded us, batons gripped tight.
At their front stood a face I recognized.
The young deputy of the Rouge Mounted Police, Sabo. One of the named monsters from TT2.
He regarded us with a smirk of pure self-satisfaction.
"I'm placing you under arrest for the enticement, exploitation, and murder of a minor."
He pointed his finger straight at me.
"Ghost of the Cabaret."