Chapter 13
“I’m having cake tonight.” Gigi practically leapt through the threshold.
Mikael and Hugo had followed Gigi’s audition.
Mikael’s had been passable—he’d darkened the auditorium with illusion and grown forests, delighting the senses with scent and sound—but it was nothing compared to Gigi’s wings.
Hugo’s nerves had gotten the better of him and he’d brought in a wind so powerful that it whipped the curtains and nearly knocked him into the pit.
Madame had ended the auditions after that.
Truthfully, she should have ended after Gigi.
Anything following that triumph would appear as failure.
Which was why Selene had not burst onto the stage and taken her audition back.
This was Gigi’s moment. Besides, Selene needed more time to consider the aria.
It felt dull to use the tempest aria again, but perhaps that was the best choice.
She could show exactly what she intended to do and get it right.
Selene offered a genuine smile. She was happy for Gigi, despite the way her stomach ached and her fingers curled. This was the razor’s edge between being a good friend and a good competitor.
“Please, it’s not like she’ll win. She barely sings.” Priya was holding court around the corner.
“And you barely do magic,” Selene snapped. “How does your garden grow?”
Priya reddened, spinning her ring around so it dug into her palm. She closed it into a fist. Camille and Cecile sped briskly down the hall. Priya lingered a moment, as if she had something more to say. But she followed the twins, Revelio close behind her.
Benson took Selene’s hand and shook it. “Selene did not come to play.”
Gigi rolled her eyes. “Not even Priya can ruin my day.”
They walked past the dormitory stairs and into the hallway alongside the auditorium.
This was one of the supposed perks of the final stretch in the Opera Magique.
They ate their meals in one of the opera house’s formal dining rooms with one of the best chefs, sent by the king, with several courses for each meal.
Nothing but the finest for the future of Mondreves’ magical lineage.
The room was set to be a small version of the auditorium.
Everything was decorated in navy and gold, meant to be rich and elegant.
The tables were little stages with thick velvet tablecloths that ruched and draped and soaked up spilled wine like sponges.
It almost hurt to look at—taking the extravagance of the theater and miniaturizing it somehow made it tasteless and tacky.
A chandelier dripped down from the center of the room.
Selene nodded to Milton, the former palace guard who had been reassigned to the opera house.
He’d been at the palace when she’d lived there and she found his presence to be a comfort.
There were more ways to get ahead through the audition process than performing well.
He watched the preparation and consumption of the food carefully, after a near-fatal poisoning in the last cycle.
Selene got in line, passing the choice cuts of meat and an array of butter-drenched vegetables.
She paused momentarily at the desserts. Tartes and crème puffs and custards topped with burned sugar.
But her stomach was tender. Selene filled her bowl with soup, took a piece of warm, crusty bread, and poured hot water into a porcelain cup over tea leaves.
She set her bowl down at the table in the corner where Benson was perched—far from Priya and her kin.
Camille sat down with an extravagant, glistening berry tarte.
The sight of it made Selene a little sick.
The teacup was hot against Selene’s aching fingers. She drank it down. It was oversteeped, bitter and dark. She relished the way it burned against her tongue.
Benson busied himself with a potato that he had mashed and rearranged into staves.
The potato song was abstract, either brilliant or mad.
Anyone who could turn a potato into music was a kindred spirit.
He stopped, briefly, to run his finger around the rim of his glass.
A note resonated from the goblet—it was real crystal.
Nothing but the best for the future King’s Mage.
Benson wrote the note into his potato masterpiece.
He was the perfect person to help her with this puzzle.
“Benson, if someone told you they needed a piece of the sky, what would you give them?”
Benson tapped his fork against the table, carefully considering. “A jar of air.”
Selene weighed the idea and found it wanting. “Something more tangible.”
Benson took a long drink and put down his cup. “A raindrop.”
Selene caught the edge of a smile with her teeth. It was so simple, but effective. “I can do that.”
“Do what?” Benson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re scheming.”
“Just trying to solve a riddle.”
“I hate riddles.” He missed his mouth with his fork. Buttery potatoes dropped down his shirt and into his lap. “What’s yours but used mostly by others?”
“A napkin?” Selene arched an eyebrow.
“Are you okay?” Gigi plopped down beside them. Her plate was an orchestra of cakes.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just tired and thinking in songs.” His smile was dreamy, eyes half-lidded. He kissed Gigi’s forehead and rested his head on her shoulder. “Today is about you.”
“Thank you.” Gigi closed her eyes and leaned her head against his.
Victor had leaned on Selene like that, seven years ago, when they’d sat together on the palace floor or in the gardens or in the servants’ hallways.
The brush of his lips against her cheek was the last good memory before her life turned upside down, and that didn’t feel like nothing. But he hadn’t come to find her.
There was a wet, choking sound and a scream. Selene jumped up. Blood bubbled from Camille’s mouth. It stained her teeth and the front of her pale silk dress.
Milton sprinted across the room, shouting for someone to call Madame Giroux. She was there before they finished saying her name.
Madame sang for light. She held it up to Camille’s bloody lips. “Call the doctor.”
She turned to Camille’s plate.
At its center sat the beautiful tarte. The plump berries glistened with sugar. Madame touched a blackberry with a gloved hand.
“Glass.”
“My gods.” Selene fell back into her seat.
Someone had taken the time to grind glass small enough to pass it off as sugar. Someone had sprinkled it on those beautiful tartes. This wasn’t just stolen music or a cruel trick with a mirror. Camille could die.
“Who would do this?” Gigi looked at her own plate, heaped with countless desserts. She pushed it away, stood like she was going to do something about it. Benson reached for her hand and shook his head. Gigi sat back down.
Selene glanced around the room. Each face was a mask of shock and horror, even as Camille was taken. Even as the blood was wiped up from the floor. Even as the plate with the doomed tarte was carried away. This was worse than stolen music. So much worse.
Madame Giroux circled the room. Her eyes were dark, discerning slits. She scrutinized each one of them.
Madame stopped in front of one place setting.
Cecile—Camille’s twin—kept her eyes downcast. The horror and guilt were clear on Cecile’s pretty face.
A mirror to Camille’s, save for the blood and the agony and the terror.
Selene didn’t understand. Cecile had performed well today.
What had she been thinking? Selene wanted to win, but not if it cost her friend her voice, her life.
Madame stood beside her, fingers wrapped around the wolf’s head on her cane.
“What have you done?”
Cecile burst into tears. “I didn’t know she’d take such a big bite.”
Gigi reached under the table and took Selene’s hand.
“Pack her things,” Madame said to Milton. “Someone will fetch her within a quarter hour. And notify the king. It’s gone too far this time.”
Milton took Cecile by the arm. Her sister’s blood splattered on her sleeve.
“The rest of you are dismissed. There will be food available direct from the kitchen if there is anything you need.”
Selene looked for Priya. But Priya was distressed and ashen. Blood had splattered onto her dress and she didn’t seem to notice.
Selene tossed her napkin over her untouched bowl of soup. She took the crystal goblet with her, a fitting vessel. When it was empty, she could catch a raindrop in it. A piece of the sky.
“Did that really happen?” Benson said. “Or am I trapped in some terrible nightmare?”
“If we are trapped in some collective dream, I wish someone would wake us up.” Gigi’s font of joy had run dry.
“Maybe we all belong someplace else. A place people can just be happy.” Benson draped his arm around Gigi.
“I already found that place.” Gigi burrowed into Benson’s side, adoration bright on her face.
Selene tangled her fingers in her hair. Camille and Cecile were gone. Two less people vying for spots in L’Opéra du Magician. A few more misfortunes and Selene wouldn’t need the ghost or his magic or a way to set him free.
It was a terrible thought, and she banished it as quickly as it came. No one should be harmed for the sake of art.
Except.
Selene ran her thumb over the crisscross of scars on her fingertips. Pain had a purpose. Even this pain. Selene could feel the burn of magic from standing witness to Camille and Cecile’s downfall. The truth of it left its mark inside her like a brand. This was the worst of her, the ugliest part.
“I almost grabbed that tarte. I was behind her. It had the ripest berries.” Gigi shivered. “Why would Cecile do something like that?”
“To win.” It was a drive Selene knew well. “At any cost.”
“It sounds so cold when you say it like that.”