Chapter 16
Selene forgot to breathe. She forgot what breath was. She forgot everything about who she was or what she wanted or what she was trying to do.
Victor was here.
He emerged from the sea of blue velvet and gold gilt like a thief with the key.
The buttons on his military jacket were misaligned and his hair was windswept and wild, the chestnut brown bleached copper and gold by the sun.
There was a scar on his cheek that hadn’t been there when Selene had known him.
His tea-dark eyes were bright in the stage lights.
He brought his hands together, joining in his own applause.
Not the boy she remembered; not a boy at all. Victor was a man.
The glow of the chandelier’s candles reflected in his dark eyes.
The ground beneath her feet shifted. It was like coming home: not to the palace, not to the opera house, but to the little house above the shore where she’d been close to a dream.
It was like the golden light on the water at the end of the day.
Victor moved with the grace of a man born into wealth, like a cat with his claws out. She remembered the way his brow arched up, independent of the other. His jawline hadn’t been so strong then. Nor had he been quite so tall. So much of him had changed. But she’d know him, even in the dark.
His deep brown eyes swept the row of performers. He was here, but not for her.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Gigi whispered. “Like something out of a painting.”
“He’s grown up well,” Selene said begrudgingly. She traced his uneven gait, the place he’d missed shaving below his jaw, the trail of mud he left on her pristine stage. Looking for flaws, hoping for flaws. “But it’s been ages.”
Damn him.
Careless, reckless, insouciant boy. The devil might care, but Selene could not. She begged her heart to stop racing. Willed the bird or bat or whatever foolish creature fluttered inside her stomach to die.
Victor Chastain had always had that effect on Selene.
When they were children, he only had to smile and wink, and she’d follow him into trouble.
Staining the queen’s dresses with burst pomegranates, filling the sugar bowls with beach sand, releasing all the horses to see how fast they’d run.
Selene lost a bit of herself when she was with him, swept up in his charm and easy smile.
He’d been the bane of her existence and the balm of her soul. Her first real friend.
And the only person here who knew what happened to her father.
Selene tempered her expectations. “I’m sure he does not remember.”
Gigi’s eyes slimmed to slits. “No one forgets you.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Victor said in that easy voice. How many cakes had she stolen from the kitchens at his bidding? “I am thrilled to be a part of this great competition.”
Madame Giroux arched an eyebrow. Selene could practically hear her thoughts.
She allowed the manager his short-lived glory—as long as he didn’t interfere with her performers.
There was something about Victor—his coat askew, his dark eyes twinkling in the low lights, the confidence in his broad shoulders and the swagger in his step—that betrayed him. He would not leave anyone in peace.
But who could say no to a prince?
Even the third son, boots laced in scandal and coat buttoned with debauchery. He’d only been back a few weeks and his name was a staple in the papers. Selene tried not to look. But she had seen it, alongside hers and the other performers.
“Welcome.” Madame Giroux bowed her head, not low enough for his station. Victor didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed intrigued. “Shall we continue with our auditions?”
“Please.” Victor flourished with his wrist. He moved down the stairs, disappearing into the sea of seats.
Monsieur Avile followed Victor like a shadow.
Focus, Selene thought. A heart that does not bleed.
A heart that does not bleed.
A heart.
Benson was already at the center of the stage. The tremble had left him. This was his space. He discarded all pretense for the sake of his art. Practice made perfection.
The music began. Benson was a mellow baritone, voice lilting and lyrical and easy to get lost in.
He started with water: summoning it from the air with the familiar motif.
It formed a shining ball in his hands—reflecting the fire of the stage light.
His hands were steady and still. All focus and perfect concentration.
He was going to turn the water to mist, weaving illusion into the water and the rolling clouds of gray.
It was in his eyes, the way they reflected the flicker of the stage lights. The confidence near mania. He wasn’t going to just fill the stage.
It rolled down into the pit and beyond, forming around the chairs.
It was beautiful. But there was something else to it.
More than art. It struck Selene that this could be used to conceal ships at sea or secret lovers or soldiers preparing for ambush.
It wasn’t just the scuffed military buttons in her purview.
Selene had pondered this before: the fine line between art and war.
Victor leaned forward. Selene could see that look in his eyes, the mischief and fascination. It was the same way he used to look at an unreachable pomegranate after summer had turned into fall. Somehow, his fingers always ended up stained with it.
Benson’s voice surged, summoning more water.
It sapped from the air, from the floor, from Selene’s skin.
The ball of water expanded. The story inside grew bigger.
It was the story of a tailor and the dancer he made tutus for, falling in love stitch by stitch.
This sort of thing pleased a crowd. It was exactly like her father had done, turning the song into a story.
Behind it, she could see his reflection in the shimmering water.
She knew he could see when it started to go wrong, too, because something in his expression shifted.
Selene formed her fingers into claws. The skin above her clavicle—which had healed into thin, pretty scars—ached and itched. Memories and nightmares summoned like water unto mist, unbidden by song or chant.
The music stopped.
The magic did not.
Benson’s mouth moved without sound. His body twitched and jerked.
The ball of water expanded. Edges faded into mist. Growing and growing until it was the stage.
The lights hissed out, steam swallowed up by the great ball of water.
The orchestra fled, protecting their precious instruments.
The mist swallowed Selene. The water drenched her outstretched hands. Reaching like she might stop it.
There would be no stopping it. She knew, like she knew the frantic rhythm of her heart. Like she knew the burning of her lungs from the wall of water. Like she knew the moment it was finished.
The bubble popped. Water sprayed all over the stage and auditorium, drenching the curtains, the musicians, the seats.
Shouts of joy, of rage, of relief.
And then a mournful keening. The sound was its own magic, spraying sorrow over the stage with more force than even the water had carried.
Not this, she thought.
Selene ran to him.
Gigi was there, caught up in the arms of her mother, fighting to get to him. Madame Giroux held Gigi in a vise grip. She knew how dangerous it was when a mage lost their mind.
Selene didn’t care.
Benson was curled on the stage, head in his hands.
His whole body shook with a violence Selene expected but that made her sick to witness.
She dropped down beside him, nearly slipping on the slick stage.
It was all dark around them, the few remaining candles casting strange shadows over his face.
One by one, her competitors sang for light.
It rose from the theater like a moon, growing brighter as they stood at the edge of the stage—pure and beaming, untethered by fire.
It would have been beautiful, had it been close enough to reach her.
But they kept their distance. They knew enough to do that.
Selene focused on Benson’s hands. They were pressed to whiteness on the dark wood.
“I’m here.” She brushed her fingers over his. Gently, gently, like touching a feral, wounded animal. He flinched at her touch, then relaxed into it. He rested his face against her knees.
“Careful,” Madame Giroux said.
Like she needed to tell Selene. Like Selene didn’t already know. Madame stood a few feet away, arm held up. Protection for the other students. Protection for herself.
“Benson,” Selene whispered.
He pushed himself up slowly; it was a good sign. If he knew his name, there was hope. There was a possibility. He could come back from this.
Then she saw his eyes.
They were frantic and wild. The warmth was gone. His pupils were blown wide. Endless, black, haunted caverns. Music echoed from the bottomless dark. His lip was split. Blood dripped down his chin.
All the hope emptied from her, the way all of Benson had emptied from his eyes. He was gone. She knew. She knew it in the way he wrenched back. In the way his fingers danced across the puddles on the stage with a frenetic energy. In the way his lips curled, showing all his teeth.
He snarled, winding back like a spring.
Somewhere, someone screamed.
Benson lunged.
Selene shouldn’t have done it. This was her secret, the weapon she needed to win. But it was Benson, and she didn’t want to see him hurt. Didn’t want him to be shot down like a rabid animal. Didn’t want to be the one to have to do it.
She could grow vines around him, like a rabbit in a trap. It would be as easy as breathing. If only she had a seed.
You don’t need one. You have so much more.
All it took was a drop of blood, emptied of everything except the pain of this moment, of moments passed.
But that wasn’t enough. She was, after all, a performer.
And she needed to protect the magie du sang and all her secrets.
How quickly she strung together the notes, the words forming on her tongue without hesitation.
The thorns twisted up and around Benson.
Sinuous vines thick enough to trap his hands and torso, then his legs.
He thrashed, quickly realizing that stillness held the least amount of pain.
Selene was careful; the thorns only pierced him when he moved.
She constructed this prison to do the least harm.
His head dropped. The keening returned. Subdued, but not Benson. Not that bright, ambitious boy. Her friend. Her competitor. No. Before her stood a wild and broken man. Cracked wide. Defeated by the madness of magic. Consumed.
Selene took a step back. Her breath was even.
Her heartbeat—though steady—pulsed an ache through her body that she could not contain.
She should have done more. She should have stopped him.
Would he have listened? At least she could have said she tried.
She spun around, looking for relief from the shadows.
She struck something. Someone. She looked up.
Victor.
Victor with his tea-dark eyes and broad shoulders and clever fingers. He gripped her shoulders, looking past her to the thorns. She knew that hunger. It was the same way she looked at new music. The same way she tracked the progress of her friends. The same way she looked in the mirror.
“You are dismissed,” Madame Giroux said curtly to the gathered crowd.
There was a murmur. Hesitation. Madame Giroux slammed her cane into the stage. The others scattered like frightened doves. Her eyes didn’t leave Selene, appraising her like she knew what Selene had done. It wasn’t possible, was it?
Selene pulled back. She couldn’t stand the tightness of Victor’s grip. The warmth of his hands. The taste of his breath as it mingled with hers. Salt and pomegranates and a hint of champagne. She should have known. Victor didn’t move. He held her there, captured like Benson was captured.
She whipped her head around. The movement caught him off guard. At last, he stepped back, looking at her for the first time.
“How did you do that?” There was no recognition in his eyes. “Did you know you’d need the seeds?”
She couldn’t answer him, not without lies.
She had no problem weaving half-truths or falsehoods, or even staying silent.
But she didn’t think she could lie, not to him.
He’d seen her broken and bleeding, everything she’d loved stripped away.
Even though he didn’t seem to remember. She couldn’t bring herself to smile and piece together a lie.
Selene dipped into a quick curtsy, ignoring the blood and water that stained her skirts. The cerulean dress was ruined. “Pardon, Your Highness.”
Selene moved like an arrow, cutting through the crowd. Victor wasn’t the only one asking those questions. They swarmed around her like bees.
She would not blink. She would not turn her head.
She would not acknowledge them in any way.
If she did, there’d be more questions than answers.
She slipped her hands into her pockets, rolling her fingers together, feeling the ache of the cut she’d made with the pin.
It had only taken one drop. The wound was already healing into a thin line that no one would notice.
Let them believe what they wanted.