Chapter 12
The street was shadowed with afternoon by the time Selene awoke. Gigi was long gone. She’d attempted to make the bed, throwing the down comforter over the rumpled bedsheet. There was a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon on their shared table, with a note beside.
Today is a new day
—G
Selene smiled and folded the note and placed it into her top drawer. Her stomach was unsettled, and there was nothing appealing about cold eggs and the now-soggy toast. The cream in her coffee had congealed.
Selene could have sung it warm. She could have used music for practical magic, as she had so many times before. But she didn’t need music. She just needed to want, and then she could have it all.
The exhaustion that clung to her like cobwebs swept away.
Selene rifled through the basket on top of Gigi’s dresser.
It was an unmitigated disaster, but Selene found what she was after.
The needle was shiny and sharp like a tiny rapier.
Every few days, Gigi would sit on the edge of the bed and stitch the ribbons into her pointe shoes—as evidenced by the stray threads that clung to her comforter.
She wouldn’t miss a single needle. Selene pricked her finger and squeezed to make the drop.
She took the first memory that came to her.
Her father, sitting with her on the beach.
She didn’t have much from the seaside cottage days.
Those memories were precious. Part of her was afraid that the magie du sang would burn through the best and the worst of her and leave her as empty as the ghost. But if what he said was true, she wouldn’t lose the memories, just the ache associated with them.
That seemed like a gift. She wanted to remember her father without the pain of his loss.
She centered herself around that sorrow.
Except magic was different outside the mirror.
Memories of that terrible day swirled in the back of her mind.
After so much time not remembering, it seemed strange to reach for it again.
It was still there, but softer. The colors were less saturated, blurred around the edges.
And that was fine. She could live with that.
The magic pulsed through her veins.
She focused it on how the coffee should taste, sweet and creamy and hot, with a touch of bitterness on the back of her tongue.
Selene brought the coffee to her lips. It was hot and good, the heat of the cup bringing out the ache of her fingertips.
This was so much easier, hurting and wanting.
She didn’t have to worry that a minor slip in precision would turn the cup bitter or burn through her hands.
The ghost’s magic had an unimaginable ease to it.
If she hadn’t already promised that she wouldn’t teach anyone, she would be shouting it to the whole world.
She took a moment to enjoy her coffee and consider what it would be like when the ghost was freed.
Would the curse that kept space between them be lifted?
She could imagine the feel of his scars beneath her fingertips, rising up his forearms to the corded muscle of his biceps, his shoulders, the flutter of his heartbeat in his neck, the edge of his jaw, the crest of his lips. Was his mouth as soft as it looked?
“Selene.”
Gigi stood in the doorway, eyes wide with worry. She was in her best tutu. She looked like a morning glory hung aloft, waiting to bloom. Her hair was slicked back out of her face. Rouge dusted over her lips and cheeks and lids. She was dressed for an audition.
Auditions.
“There’s a new rule, posted in the hallway, as of this morning. All students must attend auditions or forfeit. You have to move. Now.”
Selene’s heart skipped a beat. She placed the mug onto the table carelessly. The hot coffee sloshed over the side. “That seems … pointed.”
“It is.”
Selene gaped. “Help me.”
Gigi was already there, pulling a black raspberry organdy gown from the closet.
Selene saw immediately why she picked it—no buttons.
Selene drowned herself in the dress. Gigi pulled it down, adjusting it as best she could.
The window reflection showed the grooves of Selene’s scars, visible above the neckline of the gown.
She reached for a scarf to tie around her throat but grabbed the wrong one.
She’d intended to grab the black lace, but she’d reached deep into the drawer.
It was too late to correct the mistake; Gigi was already halfway out the door.
Selene wrapped the faded blue scarf she’d bought with Victor, years and years ago.
“Come on.” Gigi held out a pair of slippers.
Selene took the stairs by two, thinking of what she could do with the magie du sang. How with a drop of blood and pent-up misery, she could fold the floor in front of her and be in the theater in a half step.
But she couldn’t do that now, not without spilling her secrets. There was a sign on the door, growing clearer with each step.
All students must attend auditions.
The sign seemed deliberately written for her, but why?
The rule must have come from Madame or the palace or some combination.
It was unnecessary. Why would someone assume that she’d be curled up, wallowing in woe, deep into despair?
Let them count her out. Let them think she had nothing left to give.
They made it through as the door started to close and Selene settled into a seat in the auditorium. There was a blank space—conspicuous as a missing tooth—where the chair Selene had struck with lightning had been.
At the front of the auditorium, Madame shuffled the deck slowly, her eyes resting on Selene for a moment too long. She plucked a card from the deck. Turned it to face the gathered singers.
Beautiful, treacherous Priya. She kissed Revelio and walked lazily onto the stage. The stage lights caught her engagement ring and refracted her infidelity.
Priya nodded. The orchestra swelled in the pit below. Priya’s painted mouth began to move.
In another life, Priya might have actually been a singer.
Her voice was powerful, large enough to fill all the space in the theater.
A dramatic mezzo-soprano with a flair for acting.
Had she taken care with her vocal training—solidifying pitch and rhythm and dynamics, learning how to control that big voice—she could have been great.
And she’d had the opportunities, of course.
The best voice teachers in the world at her disposal.
But Priya’s father hadn’t wanted a daughter who could sing.
He wanted a daughter who could do magic.
So she’d fought her voice lessons, leaning into the pageantry and the magic.
Selene watched the way Priya sashayed her hips, the way she unfolded her hands like they had anything to do with the magic. Every step part of the performance.
The air crackled with magic. Priya brought her hands out. There were tiny seeds stuck to her palms—undetectable to the audience. This was a common practice. Magicians could not create something out of nothing. If they wanted flowers, they needed seeds.
But not Selene. Not anymore.
The addition of seeds was a puzzle that was easily rectified. Often the simplest solutions were the best.
Selene had always accepted that as fact, never worrying too much about the mechanics.
Idly, she pondered more deeply. Where did the magic come from?
How did it channel through the magician to transform into something other?
And why hadn’t she wanted to know this before?
Perhaps it was unknown. She’d read all the books in the library and knew the answers were not contained there.
The power centered around Priya. A roar ripped through the air, loud enough to drown out even Priya’s voice.
Vines burst from her palms. Sweet autumn clematis, based on the shape of the leaves and the structure of the buds.
That was a mistake. No one cared about clematis or baby’s breath or lilacs.
They wanted drama and passion. They wanted sunflowers and lilies and roses, flowers that meant something.
Priya didn’t have a handle on this magic. She closed her eyes, her song changing shape. The vines twisted and rolled into the orchestra pit. Half the orchestra cut out, tangled in vines, trying to save their instruments and sheet music.
Priya kept singing. Her face reddened with frustration.
The flowers didn’t bloom.
Selene didn’t even try to fight the growing sense of glee.
Priya was power, not finesse. Flowers were a delicate work.
They needed the right breath, coaxing, and shaping.
Raw power wasn’t enough. But Priya—always the performer—ended her piece with flair, grinning as if she’d meant the vines to go unbloomed, meant for them to fall into the orchestra and disrupt the music.
She bowed and strode away with false triumph.
Monsieur Fenrir’s mouth tightened. The palace representative didn’t seem displeased. He clearly didn’t know any better.
Madame cast Priya off with a look. There was something smug in the corners of her mouth. She burned the vines and sang a gust of wind to sweep away the ash.
Priya sat down and entwined herself in Revelio. “At least all the statues are intact.”
Selene didn’t feel the need to rise to the occasion. She may have wrought destruction, but at least she had done something.
Madame drew Cameron’s card next. He was another legacy competitor, though his mother hadn’t won and had instead used her knowledge to put on parties instead of real magic.
His piece was entertaining—a play on court drama, with deference to the royal family.
He was precise and thoughtful, if a little bland. He bowed and stepped off the stage.
Cecile came after. Like Priya, she wanted flowers.
With less subtlety than needed, she scattered them over the stage.
Her aria was a lament for beautiful things, each of the flowers bursting from buds to bloom around her.
She’d woven in the motif for fire, no doubt intending on igniting each of the flowers and setting the stage ablaze.
But her flowers were too green and she didn’t put enough power behind her fire.
Instead of flames, plumes of white smoke formed around her.
This was a pretty mistake, allowing her to keep the artistry of the flowers with the drama of the smoke.
But Selene had known Cecile for long enough to know that she wouldn’t play it off like a choice, as Priya had.
Cecile’s eyes went wide. She breathed in deeply in preparation for the coda—the worst mistake.
The smoke filled her lungs, leaving her gasping and choking.
She cut off her aria with a quick bow, eyes streaming as she coughed her way offstage.
And it was wrong of Selene to feel the elation at Cecile’s failure, selfish and unkind. But it was the truest emotion: petty and ugly and honest. Selene needed her fellows to be mediocre so she could have the chance to show the world her greatness.
Carefully, Madame shuffled her deck. She held the card up to the light.
Selene felt a bubble of rage rise up inside of her.
It was a little girl dressing up in her mother’s costumes and ballet slippers.
If the card had been a knife, it would have hurt Gigi less.
Judging by Madame’s gaze, Selene knew what she expected.
It was hard to imagine a mother being so cruel to her own daughter.
“Show her,” Selene said.
Benson took Gigi’s hand and kissed it. “Be everything I know you can be.”
Gigi took first position in the center of the stage.
She was up on relevé, arms extended. Her mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
Her voice was barely audible above the orchestra, but Selene knew what to listen for.
If Gigi had been anyone else, she would have gone home years ago.
But she—like Selene—was relentless. And she had found a way.
Selene could see the notes on the page—written in her own hand—as Gigi moved through the pas de quatre with three versions of herself.
Turning pirouettes before moving in step.
So perfect, it was hard to tell who was Gigi and who was imitation.
Gigi started a series of fouettés. The imitations spun with her, moving closer and closer until they were her.
Toes pointed, ballet slippers a perfect extension of Gigi’s long, dark legs.
The magic moved into the clarinet. Gigi chasséd across the stage, grace and power and beauty.
Selene held her breath, ready for this next part.
She didn’t watch the stage—already knowing the way Gigi would spread her wings and fly.
Instead, she watched the audience—especially Madame Giroux—for the collective intake of breath, eyes dazzled with delight.
It was nothing they’d ever seen before. A complete reimagining of how music and magic could intersect.
Magic as more.
The wings fluttered on Gigi’s descent. Gigi had done it.
She’d pulled off a flawless routine. Madame Giroux’s face rippled with horror before she settled into dubious approval.
She brought her hands together in the same polite applause she’d offered every other student.
But there was something behind her eyes.
Selene wanted to believe that it was pride and love for her daughter. What else could it be?