Chapter 28 Heist
HEIST
The plan was simple but dangerous. And stupid. Possibly very stupid. But we were committed to the cause and would see it through regardless of the risk. The risk to the entire continent was greater if Scion got a hold of a magical object like the Pentacle.
So we would sneak into the opera house through the mirror in Carlotta’s dressing room, hiding ourselves in Ciaran’s shadows until we could make our way through the labyrinth backstage and into the main atrium where the party was taking place.
Then, dressed in elaborate costumes, we would blend in to the masquerade.
Fionn and Rory would set off smoke bombs in the upper levels, as a distraction.
These would be no ordinary smoke bombs. Their magic would keep them billowing, giving the illusion of a real fire, until the whole party had to evacuate.
Apparently this was a tactic they had used many times in the past, during their vigilante days in Cliatha.
“Oh yeah, we used to smoke out the Scion churches all the time back in our carefree youths. They were still so new in Erinn. Trying to get everyone to convert to their ‘One Truth.’ They didn’t like us much.
Called us terrorists and put us on wanted lists.
They forced us to quit school,” Fionn had explained in the training room one day while we were putting together the finer points of our plan.
“I blame them for my lack of education.”
“You can’t blame Scion for the fact that you can barely read or add two numbers together, Fionn. That happened well before they arrived,” Elena chirped at him.
“Hey. I can read. Ask me anything. I know lots of words,” Fionn volleyed back, chuckling.
“Sure you know lots of words. They all start with ‘F,’” Rory murmured under his breath. Fionn and Elena burst into laughter.
“Oh, feck off!” Fionn cackled.
Elena’s contribution to the plan would be her clever runic spell work.
She would be in charge of changing all the Scion iconography to the symbols of the magic wielders: the Pentacle, the Cup, the Dagger and the Wand.
This would send a message. We are here. We are fighting back.
We will not sit idly by while you take our city.
Ciaran would keep tabs on the viscount, ensuring that he was distracted and away from the fray, while I stole the Pentacle from its resting place at centre stage.
There were many moving parts, including the timing of the smoke bombs and spells.
I had to steal the Pentacle and be clear of the stage first. I didn’t have much time.
It wasn’t going to be easy, and I knew that they were putting a lot of trust in me.
I couldn’t let them down. Especially after insisting that I be involved.
The masquerade ball was an elaborate costume party, befitting the opulent wealth of the Opera Company and their patrons.
The formal occasion signalled Scion’s desire to go back to a time where women would wear ball gowns and petticoats instead of the loose short dresses that were in fashion.
For the men, it was a black-tie occasion, requiring full tuxedos.
I couldn’t imagine Ciaran, Fionn or Rory in such attire.
But if we were to blend in, our costumes had to suggest we had the kind of wealth that the patrons of the Lutesse City Opera flaunted.
So Elena and I went to a seamstress to get appropriate costumes made, as there wasn’t going to be anything like that available at the fashionable boutiques Beneath Lutesse.
The seamstress, Maya, was a true artist. She made costumes for us that were so beautiful, and so elaborate, that I thought they might ruin our cover with their beauty. We were going to stand out, not blend in.
My dress was a full-length gown with voluminous skirts—nothing like the dresses I was used to wearing.
It was deep crimson, fashioned from the finest silks.
The skirts were accented with delicate gold stitching; the bodice was an old-fashioned laced corset that forced my breasts up indecently, showing off a delicate white ruffled lace edge that fell just off my shoulders.
The mask I wore was the same crimson with delicate gold stitching.
I wore my hair down, my natural waves spilling over my shoulders and skimming the top of my décolletage.
Elena lent me a sinful red lip colour to go with the dress.
Ciaran’s costume matched mine. The expertly tailored jacket was the same crimson, with a human ribcage embroidered in gold stitching.
It was gruesome but striking. The pants were red as well and continued with the golden bone-shaped pattern on his legs.
He wore a black belt, white gloves and black boots.
His mask, a worn bone colour, was shaped as the top half of a human skull.
He looked like a walking homage to the catacombs where our city was hidden.
The Crossroads of the Dead personified. He was imposing: his towering height, and his dark hair in sharp contrast to the red.
His black eyes burned through the holes in the skull mask.
Rory’s costume was an all black suit with a pointed bird mask. A crow. Fionn’s suit was black and white with brilliant blue accents. He was, I realized, a magpie.
Elena wore a simple but elegant black gown with tight-fitting full-length sleeves and a mask accented with elegant peacock feathers. She was breathtaking; so prim and proper with her runic tattoos completely hidden beneath the sleeves of her gown.
We made our way through the passageway toward the Cistern. This time there were two little rafts waiting for us. The effect was eerie as we floated along with Ciaran in his skeleton mask, and the little fluttering féerie lights following us through the vast open space below the opera house.
We didn’t say a word as we travelled along the canals and up the spiraling Steps of Eternity. We reached the mirror, and Ciaran wrapped his left hand around my waist, pulling me tight to his side. He wreathed us in his shadow magic, extending it like a blanket over all five of us.
Carlotta’s dressing room was dark and unoccupied, but we remained in the cocoon of Ciaran’s shadows anyway.
Everything was exactly the same. The vanity table, the round bulbs surrounding the vanity mirror, the wall of costumes in every shape and colour imaginable, all the same.
But everything had changed. Where this had once been a place I was welcome—a place I belonged—now it felt dangerous.
Forbidden. Something snagged in my memory as I noted a large bouquet of red roses on the vanity table.
I didn’t know why. I’d think about it later. There was no time now.
We left the dressing room together, following the labyrinthine corridors to the main atrium. Here we nodded to each other, silently wishing each other good luck before separating.
The atrium of the opera house was opulent as always, the gilded accents and finishings glittering on the walls.
The artwork splashed across the ceilings, the intricate tiled floors, all so familiar to me.
The whole space had been decorated with crimson banners and ribbons; however, Scion’s solemn iconography had replaced the usual comedy and tragedy masks.
That fist grasping those seven arrows. It was everywhere, staring down at us, daring us to make one wrong move.
I had a strange feeling of unease. This place had been my home.
I walked through this atrium every day for almost six years.
But I was no longer welcome here. I was no longer safe here.
Everything looked the same, but it felt so, so different, like putting on someone else’s shoes by accident—wrong.
I gulped as I took in the large Scion banners that hung down over the giant curved staircase leading up to the mezzanine level of the theatre.
The stairs were crowded with mingling masked partygoers.
I didn’t recognize anyone, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t anyone I knew in the crowd.
It was hard to tell with everyone masked and in costumes.
The bottom of the staircase had been cleared out to form a large dance floor.
People were already twirling to the upbeat music of the live band playing near the left side of the atrium.
The people attending the masquerade had gotten as dressed up as we had, and I was thankful that Maya had been available to make our costumes.
Many of the masks and costumes were themed—I saw plenty of foxes, and birds, horses and butterflies.
Others wore intricately designed masks and matching dresses and suits.
On the dance floor, couples twirled around in a sea of glittering jewels and feathers.
I stayed off to the side, keeping an eye out for anyone I recognized.
I had promised Ciaran that I wouldn’t talk to anyone, but I had to admit that I wanted to see Carlotta.
I needed to see her. And I had secretly hoped to see Maren too.
She had saved my life, after all. While I didn’t have any desire to put her in danger, I wanted to see her—to thank her again. I missed her.
But neither Maren or Carlotta were anywhere to be found on the dance floor.
I didn’t see Seff or his father either as I circled the area.
I reached the opposite side and took the door that led backstage.
The hallway was dark; no one from the party was expected to be here.
But I knew that these deserted areas could be occupied by those wanting respite from the party—or those wanting a moment of privacy—so I was wary and kept my eyes open.
I made my way toward the stage. I could have navigated these corridors with my eyes closed if I had to.
I thought of the woman I had been the last time I walked these halls.
She had been so conflicted. So confused.
That Seraphina had been going through the motions of life, only doing what she should have done, never what she truly wanted.
She really believed that the scraps she was receiving were enough.
From Seff, from Carlotta, from Madame Giselle.
I couldn’t imagine acting like that now.
Not after all the time I had spent among the people Beneath Lutesse.
The people who were truly living, not just existing.
But as I entered the backstage area, I caught myself imagining that this stage was mine.
That I was the diva of the Lutesse City Opera—an old familiar fantasy.
Heavy crimson velvet curtains muffled the sound of my shoes clacking against the starburst patterned floor, my dress giving off a gentle swish as I stepped onto the stage—that sacred place where performers bared their souls.
It was dark—the single ghost light washing the stage in a weak golden hue.
I spied my quarry, the Pentacle, hidden in the floor.
How many times had I stood atop that very spot?
How many times had I felt a thrill of something pulse through me as I walked over it, attributing it to the magic and mysterious nature of the performing arts themselves?
Now I couldn’t believe that I had never noticed, the way it hummed with magic as I approached.
The electricity prickling over my skin as I got closer and closer to this ancient fey artifact.
There was no doubt in my mind now. This was the object we sought.
It had been here all along. Right under Scion’s nose.
We hadn’t thought of a more elegant way of removing the Pentacle from its resting place on the stage.
I had brought a small chisel with me, hidden within the voluminous skirts of my ballgown.
I knelt down to attempt to pry it free, apologizing silently to the stage floor as I did.
I had been so focused on the Pentacle that I hadn’t noticed the sound of someone approaching from behind me—the swish of skirts and clack of heels—until it was too late.