Chapter 3 #2
Monsieur Fenrir and all the students curled under their seats. Only Madame Giroux stood, her cane in the air. Singing for control. It struck a final time, hitting her cane like a lightning rod.
And then there was nothing but the saccharine taste of ozone, the scent of burning velvet, and the destruction left behind.
Madame regarded Selene from over the rim of her glasses, her mouth a tight line, eyes lit with something more than disappointment. Monsieur Fenrir lifted his head above the seats. The representative made a quick note on his papers.
“That is all for today,” Madame said. She sang water out of the air, sending it to the burning chair. The orchestra mages stood below the twisted statue, singing the molten metal back into shape. Drop by drop, calling back the damage Selene had wrought.
Shame crackled through her like residual lightning.
This was a disaster—more than the damage, more than the ruined song.
She’d ended the auditions with her calamity.
Sure, they’d continue tomorrow. But she’d be remembered for shutting them down on the first day.
The papers would have their fun with her. The thought made her sick.
Gigi half dragged Benson up the stairs, still leaning on him for support. She looked like she was made of lightning and about to strike. “You have to tell Madame. This isn’t right. We can fix—”
Madame Giroux’s cane struck the stage. Gigi hesitated for a second, still determined. Selene shook her head sharply. After what had just happened, she doubted it would do any good. Gigi sighed and went with Benson out of the auditorium.
“Selene.” Disappointment crept over the edge of Madame’s voice. “A moment.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Selene grasped her trembling hands against her skirt, breathing through the aches in her mind, which had pushed further than it was meant to.
She’d tried impossible things before and had felt the effects of too much magic—but nothing quite like this.
She’d been close to something. If she’d held on just a moment more, perhaps she could have had it.
But at what cost?
Madame Giroux sighed. “Do you know why I took you in?”
“You knew my father,” Selene said cautiously.
She had pieces of the story, but not the whole.
Madame had been a new teacher when her father was a student, before he took the title of the King’s Mage.
She’d been young and ambitious and had been appointed as head before Selene’s father started his second tenure.
The papers noted she’d been handpicked by the king.
“When you were dropped on my doorstep, orphaned and still bleeding from the cuts on your throat, I asked you to prove yourself.”
Selene had only been thirteen—too young to train at the opera house—when she’d been unceremoniously tossed into that tiny carriage with a trunk and a satchel of gauze and salve for her neck.
The palace had disappeared behind her like a dream she couldn’t quite hold on to.
Victor’s screams still echoed within her.
She’d been deposited on the snow-dusted steps of the Opera Magique with her whole life lost to her.
The driver argued at the door for long enough that Selene bled through her bandages, staining the lapis blue of her cloak.
She’d waited and waited, until, at last, the door opened.
There was nothing in the world like seeing the inside of the opera house for the first time.
Selene let it steal her breath and had never quite gotten it back.
Everything was gilt and gold and grander than even the palace.
There were chandeliers and golden statues holding candles at every turn.
The grand staircase split in two and curved like a beckoning hand.
Balconies nestled in every arch, so that everyone could see and be seen.
The Opera Magique was the seat of splendor and a font of dreams. Selene knew excess and luxury—she had spent so much of her childhood in the marbled halls of the palace.
This could not compare. There was something endless about this place, like stepping into a memory.
And there was, of course, the ghost of her father. He had been here. Her father had made a name for himself on this stage. He sang in these halls and slid down these banisters. In a way, that made it home.
Madame appraised Selene like she was something she couldn’t wait to forget and led her to her office.
There were no notable exceptions to early admission for the Opera Magique’s conservatory.
Even the most talented young artist had to wait until they were at least sixteen.
Madame had asked Selene to show her what she could do.
Selene knew what she’d expected: a pretty song with a light illusion.
The safe kind of party trick young ladies were taught.
But Selene wasn’t that kind of girl. A fire raged inside her.
It was so much easier to feel passion and anger than grief.
She’d taken a rose from Madame’s desk, sung it into rot and back into bloom, and then into a seed.
Madame Giroux had looked at her then like she looked at her now: with reverent expectation and hunger. She accompanied it with a sigh. “I had never seen someone with such raw talent.”
Selene knew what was coming next. She could feel the pull of the despair, gathering and ready to come down on her like an ocean wave. Good, but not good enough. Close, but not close enough. Something always missing.
“Your performance was technical, but poorly executed.”
Madame kept speaking. Saying all the things Selene already knew. Selene had to tell her what had happened. She couldn’t let this be the end. She could show Madame. Lay out the pages of sheet music and prove what had been stolen.
“Madame, my music—”
“Selene,” Madame snapped. “I don’t want to hear excuses.”
“But Revelio—”
Madame Giroux’s gaze was sharp enough to cut Selene into silence. The knuckles on her cane were bloodless. Selene anticipated her strike, like she was facing down a predator. She would not win this fight.
“Yes, Madame.”
“I expected more from you. You are so like your Giuseppe.” Madame shook her head. The bitter disappointment etched into the lines of her face. “Some stars burn bright. Some stars burn out.”