The Ornaments of Love

Chapter Two

The opera was moments from resuming as Veronica sat gazing out at the theatre's clamorous patrons from her family's box on the second tier. Though she was filled with excitement to be there, the true reason she shifted in her chair was from a lingering pain in her back. The long journey from Madrid had ended yesterday, but her body still felt the aching sway of the carriage.

The discomforts of riding in the premature heat of late spring had been a great burden on the treacherous country roads. Still, it had been the first time she traveled to Barcelona without her mother and sister, and that gift alone had made every stone and bump in the road a welcome friend. Even the dour woman who was her governess, and who was far less enthusiastic about tolerating the exhausting week of traveling, could not dampen the feeling of freedom that Veronica had felt during their ride. Even before coming into view the Mediterranean, she felt the weight of the sweet, salted air expanding her lungs and knew she had returned to her favorite place on earth. The castle had soon come into view, nestled amongst the giant Aleppo pines. It was monstrously large, erected upon medieval stonework with its back to the Mediterranean, designed to guard against the naval armies of past ages. Castell de Amontoní rose over the coast on a jutting hill at the breakwater that was high enough to send its fourth story to the very heavens. The crown tiles of its turreted roofs had shone brightly in the blazing sun, beckoning the girl's carriage as it made its final charge through the property. Her aunt had uncharacteristically appeared outside the doors of the Castell de Amontoní to welcome Veronica, standing among a troop of footmen dressed in flawless red silk uniforms trimmed with gold. Finding herself again in the woman's loving arms had, in the end, erased each toil endured from the girl's mind.

The intimacy of yesterday's rejoining remained warmly in Veronica's mind tonight as they sat in the most wildly public place she'd ever been. The Gran Teatre del Liceu was a splendid structure that boldly displayed a collage of rich textures and brilliant colors, each designed to attract and compliment the crisp linens and shimmering satins worn by its audience. It was an indescribable honor to be seated at her aunt's side at her first attendance of an opera, one she had dreamed of since it had been promised to her years ago. Veronica understood that it was merely a theater, little more than a room for the city's wealthy and the privileged to socialize - people mingling in a never-ending attempt to maintain the public standing that their money couldn't support by itself. But even these bourgeoisie willfully placed the Marquesa de Amontoní atop a cherished and unreachable pedestal of her very own, and the girl was satisfied to be amongst the like-minded. Nevertheless, the beauty of the room all but occluded them from Veronica's view.

Crimson red velvet was draped over a sea of chairs that were etched with finely polished dark wood, the whole visage presenting the eye with a strong base of shamelessly loud color that even managed to overwhelm the extensive use of palatial gold. Gilded walls were covered by delicate ornate carvings that framed the horseshoe curve of the room with a striking, shimmering texture. The massive ceiling itself was a unique accomplishment of vibrant murals, further trimmed with gold, and supported the largest crystal chandelier the girl had ever beheld. For Veronica, the auditorium was a temple of indescribable beauty, well-equipped to rival the glory of any church.

The Amontoní box was on the grand balcony to the right of the stage, just twenty feet above the orchestral players. From this vantage point, Veronica could see the remainder of the room almost better than the frame of the opera stage itself, causing the realization that she remained within the audience's peripheral view throughout the performance. She did not permit even the slightest chance that a posture correction might be needed under this scrutiny.

The theater itself was new, and the families of the city could be found throughout the room's six levels sitting in astonishment at the immense wealth and size of the auditorium, now the largest on the continent. Opera was almost a sacrament amongst them, and even in their wonderment at the Liceu, not a single person would dare speak a word against the venerable Teatre de la Santa Creu nearby, built centuries earlier down La Rambla. She and other sibling institutions of the arts were revered by these people, remaining beloved in their hearts, and they had little patience for those who would utter an alienating comparison. Most attended the opera with fierce regularity during the season, particularly when the great composers and singers of Europe toured here. For superstars like Cafarelli, the families of Spain would suffer any inconvenience or journey to place themselves in this room. It was one thing to socialize at the opera, it was quite another thing to socialize at an opera hosting a living god. The guaranteed status served by a production featuring one universally known as Farinelli could not be otherwise attained short of supernatural intervention.