I babbled out my lines—“Hark! A star rises!”—and stepped aside, unable to restrain the impulse to jab Louise with my elbow. She stumbled as she moved forward to deliver her speech. I froze, thinking she’d tell Sœur Ana, who would forbid me from taking part in the play. To my surprise, Louise didn’t say a word. She halted center stage with her mouth agape, as if she’d been struck dumb.
I went taut. I was prepared. As soon as she collapsed and was sent to the infirmary for a draft of anise and bed rest, I’d offer to assume her role. I knew every line; I could recite them in my sleep. What else could the nuns do? They needed an archangel, and it was too late for another haughty girl with a titled family to learn the part.
Then, to my horror, Louise croaked out her lines as if the archangel were asthmatic. As soon as she finished, she backed away in a rush, her entire face ashen.
“Well. That was…” Sœur Ana was at a loss for words.
From her seat in the empty rows of chairs set out for the audience, the Reverend Mother sighed. “You’ll need to speak louder tonight, Louise. I could barely hear you. Do you think you can do that, my child?”
Louise gave a tremulous nod. Mère Sophie frowned. Though I didn’t dare press my advantage, I caught the Reverend Mother’s glance in my direction. Then she motioned to Sœur Bernadette; I couldn’t overhear what they said as we were led out for an early supper, but as I looked over my shoulder, I saw Sœur Bernadette shaking her head.
I had no doubt the Reverend Mother had seen that Louise would be a disaster. If she could barely speak her lines now, how would she manage her entire speech before an audience? She’d shame us before everyone, including the Monseigneur of Paris.
While we sipped our consommé—we were given only light fare so as not to burden our digestion during the performance—I kept watch on Louise as she stared blankly into the air, her soup bowl untouched. Marie kept asking me whatever was the matter, until I confided to her my pact with God.
She regarded me skeptically. “You think God would smite her to suit you?”
“Why not? She’s—”
“You’re not baptized,” interrupted Marie, in that spiteful tone she could take when she felt the need to assert her superiority. “God would never heed you over a Catholic.”
“Just because my mother is Jewish doesn’t mean God won’t—”
“If your mother is Jewish, so are you,” cut in Marie again, making me want to dump my soup over her head. “You’re also the illegitimate child of a courtesan. That’s four sins, in case you’ve forgotten to count.”
I scowled at her as we were hustled into the area behind the stage, cordoned off by sheets on ropes to create a makeshift dressing room. I was crushed to see that though she hadn’t eaten a bite, Louise didn’t appear to be in the throes of an incapacitating colic.
As I dressed in my shepherd’s tunic and turban, I could hear the guests arriving in the hall. I imagined the chairs occupied by fashionable women and men, come to see their pampered offspring perform brilliantly—
Without warning, a vise closed about my chest.
I didn’t have a name for that paralyzing sensation, but it was powerful enough to make me think God was about to smite me, instead. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. Icy sweat broke out under my costume and the chatter of the girls around me was a maelstrom, their shadows tossed upon the sheets in a nauseating mirage.
“To your places,” called out Sœur Bernadette, as if from across a void. I stood rooted to my spot until Marie hissed, “Sarah, it’s time. Or do you plan to wait for God to call you to the stage, as well?”
Turning in a daze, I tugged César by his leash and started up the steps to the back of the stage. The sound of last-minute whispers and muffled laughter as the audience settled into their seats washed over me like the roar of an ocean.
I was going to faint. I was going to make a complete fool of myself.
Sœurs Ana and Bernadette were at the curtain. All of a sudden, I felt someone grip my hand, and I looked around to find none other than Louise.
“I…I can’t do it.” Her voice quavered in panic.
Sœur Ana came to us. “What is the trouble? Louise, my child, are you ill?”
“I can’t. I can’t do it.” Louise began yanking at the paper ruff of her angelic attire. “I’m suffocating.”
“Nonsense,” declared Sœur Ana. Mère Sophie was out front, greeting the guests and conducting them to their seats. “It’s only nerves. A fear of performing. It’s quite common; you’ll be fine as soon as the play starts. There now. Breathe, my child.”
Was this what I felt? Nerves? If so, mine were mild compared to Louise’s, who appeared about to rip off her tinsel wings and robe as if she were on fire.
“No! I can’t. I won’t!” She burst into tears.
“Blessed Virgin save us.” Sœur Ana enfolded Louise in her arms, exchanging a look with Sœur Bernadette, whose expression turned thunderous. “Whatever shall we do now?”
“I…I can do it,” I whispered.
Silence fell, broken by Louise’s sniffling. “I can do it,” I repeated, louder this time. “I know her lines. I can play the archangel.” As I spoke, that smothering sensation vanished, replaced by a sudden rush of vitality as Sœur Bernadette grumbled, “What choice do we have? Get Sarah into the costume. Quickly.”
Removing my shepherd attire, I donned the robe and wings. The robe was fitted to Louise’s ample proportions and too loose on me; I had to be careful not to trip on its hem. The wings sagged almost to my waist, obliging me to square my narrow shoulders to lift them up. As I went to take my place, Sœur Bernadette fixed me with her stare. “See that you don’t bring us disgrace,” she said, and I heard in her warning an echo of my mother on the day she’d decided to send me away.
Sœur Bernadette yanked the curtain aside, unveiling a vast darkness.
It felt as if I stood on the edge of a precipice. As the play began, Marie, dressed now as the shepherd, hastily spoke my lines and dragged César toward the girl playing the blind man Tobias, whom the angel would miraculously cure. I tried to decipher something in that anonymous mass beyond the stage, a familiar face—anything to anchor me. The robe, made of linen, felt like stone, while the wings precariously listed at my back like the sails of a storm-tossed galleon.
Then I caught sight of the archbishop in the front row, his signet ring gleaming on the hand curled at his chin. Beside him sat Mère Sophie, looking astonished.