Her bar came. Max lifted his hand to guide her in as the music swelled on its pitiless tide. She gazed blindly outward, not seeing Max, not seeing the auditorium or the world. Seeing only her pain.
And out of her pain came the pain of the War Bride, her anguished voice reaching out over the world with the pain of hopes destroyed, happiness extinguished, the future gone. The futility, the loss, the courage, the sacrifice, the pity of war...all in a single voice. Her voice.
As her voice died away into silence...utter silence... Anton lifted his hands from the keyboard. Then he got to his feet, crossed to her. Took her hands. Kissed each of them.
‘You have sung what I have written,’ he told her, his voice full. It was all he said—all he needed to say.
She shut her eyes. Inside her head, words came. Fierce. Searing.
This is all I have. And it will be enough. It will be enough!
But in the deepest recesses of her consciousness she could hear a single word mocking her.
Liar.
* * *
Bastiaan took his seat. He was up in the gods. He’d never in his life sat so high above the stage, in so cheap a seat. But he needed to be somewhere where Philip, down in the stalls, could not see him.
Bastiaan had told him that, regrettably, he could not make it to the opening night of War Bride.
He had lied.
What he did not want—could not afford—was for Philip to let Sarah know he would be there.
But he could no more have stayed away than remained in a burning building.
Emotion roiled within him as he gazed down. Somewhere behind those heavy curtains she was there. Urgency burned in him. She had blocked him at every turn, denied him all access.
Even Max, when he’d asked for his intervention, had simply replied, ‘Sarah needs to work now. Don’t make any more difficulties for her.’
So he’d stayed away. Till now.
Tonight—tonight I have to speak to her. I have to.
As the house lights went down and the audience started to settle, conversation dimming, he felt his vision blur. Saw images shape themselves—tantalizing, tormenting.
Sabine, her eyes glowing with passion, gazing up at him as they made love.
Sabine, smiling, laughing, holding his hand.
Sabine—just being with her, hour by hour, day by day, as they ate, as they swam, as they sunbathed and stargazed.
Sabine—so beautiful, so wonderful.
Until I threw her away.
He had let fear and suspicion poison what they’d had. Ruin it.
I did not know what I had—until I lost it.
Could he win it back? Could he win her back?
He had to try—at least he had to try.
* * *
‘OK, Sarah, this is it.’ Max was pressing his hands on her shoulders, his eyes holding hers. ‘You can do it—you know you can.’