The Royal Opera House stood on a quiet street in Girgaon, a Baroque pearl tucked among the chaos of old Bombay. Its facade rose in tiers of white and pale blue, crowned with a pediment where carved angels played silent instruments. For decades it had languished in neglect, its velvet seats eaten by moths, its chandeliers dimmed to dusty ghosts. Then the restoration had come, funded by a partnership of old Parsi families and new industrialists who understood that some beauties were worth saving. The Opera House had reopened three years ago, its marble floors gleaming, its chandeliers blazing, its stage once again hosting the finest voices in the world.

Tonight, however, it was empty. Completely, utterly empty, except for two chairs placed at the center of the royal circle, directly above the stage, with an uninterrupted view of the gold leaf proscenium and the crimson curtain that hid the stage beyond.