Prima Donna

by Chance, Megan

• ISBN13: 9780307461018
• ISBN10: 0307461017
• Format: Trade Paper
• Copyright: 2009-12-29
• Publisher: Broadway Books

Summary

Opera singer Sabine Conrad is the toast of nineteenth-century New York high society. A celebrated soprano with the voice of an angel, she is showered with adulation by her audiences and courted by wealthy patrons. But behind the scenes, her every move is controlled by a Svengali-like manager, Gideon Price. When her attempt to escape him goes tragically awry, she flees, leaving behind a grisly murder. Three years later, as Marguerite Olson, she has put aside the prima donna she once was to run a low-class theater in Seattle. Hidden among prostitutes, drunks, and miners, a desperate and determined Marguerite carefully guards the secrets of her old life-until her past returns to offer a terrifying proposition. Prima Donna captures both the glittering decadence of New York and the rough raunchy waterfront of Seattle, as Marguerite, caught between two worlds, must find the strength to confront the truth of her past and choose which voice defines her in this dark and harrowing novel.

Excerpts

Chapter 1    

Seattle, Washington Territory--February 1878    

The little restaurant was nearly full. I slipped inside, letting the heat from the bodies and the kitchen warm me while my sodden skirts dripped into a puddle on the floor.  

There was one table in the corner, and I went to it as quickly as I could, trying to ignore the men I passed, trying to hide my fear. I sat down, chilled all over again by the wet fabric of my dress beneath me and the steady trickle down my collar frommy soaking hat. As miserable as it was, at least I was out of the rain. My hands were numb with cold as I shoved my portmanteau beneath my chair, glanced at the chalkboard menu on the wall, and felt the eye of every man in the place on me.  

Warily, with the habit born of months, I checked their interest--anything undue, any recognition. There was none of that, but another kind of interest instead, and the shipboy's words came back to me. "Best not to go beyond Mill Street after dark, ma'am.Them's the Lava Beds. The only women there are . . . well, it ain't no place for a lady anytime." I should have known what it would be like. I did know. But what other choice had I? This was the end of the world; there was no place else to run. Twice already I'd nearly been discovered; women like me did not own jewels of the sort I'd carried, and Pinkerton agents and cunning reporters seemingly never slept. But now those jewels were gone, all sold, and where else could I go where no one would expect me to be ortry to  find me? Where no one would recognize me or care enough about a lone woman with a terrible scar to ask questions?  

An Indian with long black hair that shone oily in the gaslight approached. He wore a flannel shirt and denim trousers, along with an apron that had once been white but now was grayed and stained and filthy. He smelled of rotting fish. When I looked upat him, he spoke to me in that strange Chinook jargon I'd heard from the peddler women and about the streets and on the steamer, a mix of Indian and English words it seemed everyone here spoke but me. "Klatawa. Halo mesachie klooshman."  

I stared at him uncomprehendingly, then I sighed. "Chowder, please."  

He glared at me.  

Clumsily, I opened my purse and pulled out my last twenty-five cents with fingers that could barely hold the coins. "I have money. I can pay."  

"Halo mesachie klooshman."  

"I don't understand."  

"He's sayin' the owner don't serve whores." A man appeared over the Indian's shoulder. He had curling dark hair and a ruddy face, and I could tell by his watery eyes and his slight sway that he was very drunk.  

"Tell him I just want a bowl of chowder. Then I'll go. Please. I'm so hungry. Tell him I can pay."  

The man spoke to the Indian in that same language, and the Indian shook his head violently, gesturing to the door. He yelled "Go!"  

The restaurant had grown silent; every man in the place had paused to watch. A few rose, as if they meant to help--not me, but the Indian. I grabbed the handle of my portmanteau and left, tripping over my skirts in my haste, pushing by the men who crowdedaround me to block the door.  

I ran back into the dark rain, flattening myself against a rough wall, sliding down until I sat on the narrow, slippery boardwalk fronting the building, and people stumbled over me and cursed. I closed my eyes and buried my head in my arms until my fear quieted.  

I felt a hand on my shoulder, heavy--too heavy, as if it needed my support. When I looked up I saw the man who had translated for me in the restaurant. Curly dark hair, a missing canine tooth that made his face look lopsided.  

"Hey, girlie."  

His hand

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Excerpted from Prima Donna: A Novel by Megan Chance
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