London, 1891. The mist hung heavy over the Thames, weaving in and out of cobblestone alleys and gaslit boulevards like a silk veil, covering both the noble and the wretched in an impenetrable shroud. In the great edifice of the Royal Opera House, though, the mists were not able to reach; within, crystal chandeliers flared, gilded balconies shone under red velvet drapes, and a hush of expectation rippled through rows of lacquered oak seats. This evening's performance was to be one that was without peer—a new work by the great composer Celestine Duval, performed by Atlas the Magnificent, the opera's greatest star.
Atlas stood in the wings, his shadowy form limned by the rich curtains. His outfit was a splurge of violet and gold: a tailcoat flared like the midnight sky, a lace-edged cravat tucked under a closely trimmed waistcoat, and trousers so tightly fitted they seemed painted on. His dark hair, like ravens' wings, was slicked back to reveal a noble brow and the firm plane of his jaw. But it was his eyes—radiant emerald fires burning under luscious eyelashes—that elicited quiet whistles even before he emerged into the light.
He took a slow breath, relishing the familiar buzzing tension of power hidden under his skin—his Gift, his Doppelganger, vibrating like an overture to a symphony. For Atlas, each show was not just spectacle; it was an exchange of art and strength, of deception and truth. When he stepped onto the stage, his fans did not simply sit and watch; they yielded themselves to him, hearts in their throats, souls aglow with magic. And beneath that magic was a secret—a secret that would be revealed long after the last bow.
When the orchestra started its initial notes, Atlas let the music penetrate him, its slow, sorrowful melodies like velvet ribbons coursing through his veins. He shut his eyes and allowed his Gift to stir to life: the sinuous ripples under his skin, remaking his very self until he was himself and yet completely other. But assumption of another's face must wait. Tonight required the face of the tragic hero—a count smitten with forbidden love, his own world a cloth woven of sorrow and longing. Atlas extended his arms and, on signal from him, the curtains parted.
Gasps erupted from the crowd as he walked out, porcelain-white mask held aloft. In one sweeping motion, he put it on his face, and became Count Armand de Solis. In that moment, applause boomed—not yet for his aria, but for his entrance, for the drama of it all. Atlas bowed, an unspoken vow of the feelings to be revealed, and the orchestra took flight.
He started speaking, his deep, resonant voice, each phrase a knife of feeling. "My lady," he said, his words sweeping across the auditorium in waves, "you stand upon the edge of fate, and yet you shake like the heavens in terror." His deep, rolling baritone wrapped every heart in rapt enchantment.
The first verse came to a close, and Atlas sensed an infinitesimal pull at the peripheries of his consciousness. One snow-white rose petal, suspended like moonlight, fell from the proscenium arch—a staged presentation. At the very moment, dozens of his replicas—faithful duplicates of his ostentatious self—struck out behind the curtains, each one dressed exactly the same, each one continuing to move with the same haughty ease. They had been waiting in the serpentine backstage passages, poised to deploy at his signal. Then they marched out as a perfect formation, onto the stage as if they were the main performer as well.
The company gasped again, not knowing if this was staged or a freak accident. But Count Armand Atlas did not miss a beat. He brought up his hand in authority, and the mimics stood immobile, statues. And then, as one, they doffed masks to show the real Atlas underneath—a move that caused a shiver to go through the crowd, half-delighted, half-puzzled.
From the royal box on the left, Lord Whitlock stood forward, his jeweled cane thumping a nervous beat upon the rail. He was tall, stern, silver-haired—a man of great fortune and no less great pride. His eyes were black depths of calculation, always weighing, always calculating worth. Atlas longed to possess the pocket watch draped across Whitlock's vest—a watch, legend had it, that once belonged to Napoleon, whose crest adorned the case. To be able to take it away, even for a moment, would be a master stroke of sleight of hand worthy of a legend.
The aria went on, and Atlas's voice rose higher, each note imbued with a certain raw vulnerability that reduced the crowd to tears. His mimics copied every movement—yet none could ever reach the shaking need in his own voice, the almost undetectable catch in his throat where the melody required it. In the flickering light of the footlights, reality and illusion intertwined, casting a spell that captivated every merchant and noble in sight.
With the impending final crescendo, Atlas stage-managed his ultimate deception. In one hand, he removed the mask from his face—his voice reveling unmasked—while in the other, he performed a subtle series of maneuvers not at the audience but at Lord Whitlock. Slumping slightly forward in his seat, the noble inclined his head in a courteous acknowledgment of his friend; Atlas pretended to stumble slightly, his elbow grazing Whitlock's side. In the same motion, his fingers caressed the detailed fob of the watch, prying it loose like a strand of silk sliding through one's fingers. The valuable timepiece shone under the gaslight before disappearing into Atlas's waistcoat.
The audience cheered as Atlas's last note sounded. He bowed low, the pilfered watch hidden against his chest. His mimics dissolved into the wings with near-supernatural haste, and the crowd was left thinking the performance had ended precisely as planned. Atlas held the moment in place, savoring the applause, before rising to and throwing his mask toward the sky.
The curtain dropped. Platinum confetti floated stageward as the crowd surged to its feet, its cheers thundering off the vaulted ceilings. Atlas waved his mask above his head for a last bow, then dropped it—only to catch it easily, his fingers tangling under metal under his coat. A grin creased his lips as he removed himself from the proscenium and vanished into the backstage maze.
The aroma of rosin and polished wood clung to his coat as he moved through tight corridors and secret passages known only to performers and their most intimate confidants. Every step took him further from the glare of the footlights and deeper into the backside of the opera house. Standing atop a line of bricked stairs, he stopped and opened with caution a hidden panel in the wall—a secret vault known only to a few. Within was his stash: jewelry, trinkets, and coin purses stolen from the wealthy night after night.
He put the Napoleon watch on top of the mounting stack, the gold case shining even in the faint light. He stroked its surface for a second, envisioning stories infused within its ticks and tocks. Then, patting it once more, he closed the vault and headed back toward the stage door.
Outside, gas lamps blazed along the boulevard, throwing long shadows that capered on rain-wet stones. The carriage he had ordered waited, its horses pawing in impatience. Atlas mounted the steps and took his seat in the opulent interior. With a slight movement, he breathed his destination to the driver: Hyde Park. Midnight. The secret auction.
As the carriage jolted off, Atlas permitted himself a moment of thought. Tonight's performance had been perfect: drama, music, and thievery blended into one, inescapable aria. But the real reward—beyond the applause and the money—was in the subduced hint of what was to be. A painting that breathed, artifacts that could not be explained, treasures more dangerous than any opera's denouement.
He relaxed, drumming fingers against the watch, and savored the rush of infinite possibilities unfolding. In the very center of Victorian London, beneath the canopy of night's velvet blackness, Atlas the Magnificent was both star and thief, actor and plotter. His Gift resonated now not only on stage but upon the streets he walked, a shadowy symphony of guile and deception.
And so, with the wheels of the carriage conspiring towards Hyde Park, Atlas attuned himself for the next performance—where every face would be his, every lock his to overcome, and each theft a work of art of deception. The city was his theater, and he would make sure that no curtain ever would really come down on his magnificent play.
***End of Chapter***