Chapter 20
Selene dusted a dark, shimmering powder over her eyes, longing for the presence of a ghost on this momentous evening. She could use some of his darkness with her, a reminder of all the secrets magic still held.
Gigi helped her wrangle her curls back in an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck so that they didn’t distract from the mask and dress.
Selene had never understood the point of the masks.
Their identities weren’t a secret. The nobility was notorious for using the ball to solidify an agreement with one of the mages for their house—with the understanding that no contract held above the king.
Still, Selene couldn’t help but love the way the lace mask made her feel.
It was another layer of performance, pageantry for the sake of pageantry.
The masks were made by a palace-appointed artisan.
Selene was pleasantly surprised by the craftsmanship, the delicate turn of the lace, intricate as a song.
She’d chosen black even before she knew of the shadows.
Now she hoped that she could emulate the ghost from that first time—when he was both man and monster.
She painted her lips a dark, claret red.
“What did Madame want?” Gigi dusted a finely milled shimmering powder over Selene’s cheekbones. “You were gone a long time.”
“A voice lesson,” Selene said hollowly. She tried to make sense of what Madame had said and whatever promise she had made, what it meant for the coterie of magicians she raised up from children.
Selene wasn’t sure it mattered. The tangle of truth and lies was obsolete.
What was Selene missing? Was it too late to find it?
“You were right. She had something to do with my music.”
Gigi dropped the glittery brush onto her dresser. “And she just came out and said it?”
“She played my song.” Selene took off her dress.
Gigi rushed to the closet to pull out their gowns. “I don’t understand why she would do this now, and to you.”
“She said she trained us up like lambs to the slaughter.” Selene’s voice was low, still unsure what it meant.
“If there’s something she’s trying to avoid, something she’s trying to keep me from …” Something passed over Gigi’s face. “I wish she would talk to me, to us.”
Selene thought of the dark holding the ghost’s memories hostage. “Maybe she can’t. Maybe there’s something keeping her silent.”
“I’m her daughter.” Gigi’s anger seemed intertwined with the grief of the day, with the grief of a lifetime. “You’d think that would matter.”
Gigi closed her glittering eyelids for a moment.
Selene had seen this before—Gigi was bottling up the ache and heartbreak and putting it into a safe place inside, where it would still exist, but it would no longer hurt her.
Selene wished she could tell her about the magic in it.
That her wounds could be made into wishes.
That her broken heart could remake all the magic in the world.
Gigi’s shoulders rose and fell with the sharpness of her breath. “Benson would want us to go and live this for him.”
Selene put her hand on Gigi’s shoulder. “It’s all right if you need to grieve.”
Gigi’s eyes shimmered for a moment before she blinked back the tears. “I’m moving forward because of him. Because it’s what he would have wanted for me.”
“Okay.” Selene sighed and put on the dress.
It was a masterpiece. Not the original yellow gown, meant to shine like a dragon’s treasure, with a wide full skirt and a simple bodice.
This dress had been made new, sleek and slender, tracing down her curves and into a train.
The bloody plum of amaranthine melted into the elaborate black lace.
She pricked the skin above her wrist and twisted the lace into thorny vines.
She allowed a single damask rose at the back of the hem, for Victor and what they’d had.
He was in her past now. He was behind her.
“That is not the same dress I designed.” Gigi had her hands on her hips.
She was dressed in a pale green gown with slits cut around the legs and up to the thighs.
Her talent came from her long dancer’s legs, and tonight they were on full display.
The back cut low, showing off the lean muscles of her shoulders.
Flowers dripped from the shoulders in a capelet down the length of the dress, ending in a garden of a train.
Her mask matched the flowers at the hem.
She’d twisted her tightly curled hair to one side and left her makeup simple.
Selene could see why: her eyes were dew damp with tears.
She looked like the goddess of spring, like someone who had a heart intact.
“There must have been a mistake at the couturier.” Selene brushed her fingers against the material.
“You were meant to look like the sun, but this is better. You look like a lunar eclipse.” Gigi’s smile was bright and sad.
Someone knocked on the door three times.
Gigi looked at Selene, unsure of who it could be. She stepped toward the door.
Milton stood there, dressed in court finery. Selene hadn’t seen him since he’d carried out Cecile. He looked deeply uncomfortable.
Milton muttered something, handed a box to Gigi, and shut the door. Gone as quickly as he’d come.
Gigi turned around. There was a wooden box in her hands. “It’s for you.”
The box was heavier than Selene expected. There was a note on the top with her name on it.
This felt like a trap. The box could contain anything—poison, serpents, all the sorrow in the world.
The possibilities were endless, but the reality was less treacherous.
It was probably the gift of a hopeful patron come early.
The beginning of the fortune she’d reap for her entanglement with L’Opéra du Magician.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Gigi slipped on ballet flats that matched her dress.
Selene’s fingers grazed the fine wood. It was polished, but the edges were scuffed. A little scratched, a little worn. It looked like it had traveled around the world and back. Perhaps it was an answer to the ghost’s new riddle, a music box of sorts.
She opened the box cautiously.
A single damask rose nestled into the blue velvet. It was the softest, palest pink, like the beginning of a sunrise. It was so lovely and fragile Selene was afraid she’d break it with a touch. There was an envelope tucked against the lid.
She broke the royal seal, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat.
Dearly Selene,
Shall I sing you a song? Shall I spin you a tale?
Or shall I meet you out at the garden at midnight when
the fullness of the moon will be our only spy?
Warmly, coldly, and all else in between,
Victor
P.S. Never better late.
Selene’s hands trembled. He remembered. More than remembered.
She thought of all the silly rhymes they’d put together.
The adventures they’d had: tea plates shattered while attempting ancient games, indignant geese stripped of their best feathers while they attempted to form wings for flight, damask roses strewn about her room for her birthday, for apologies, for a reminder that things hold a moment of beauty before they fade and die.
She picked up the rose. It moved the way flowers moved.
If she hadn’t known it was glass by the translucent edges and the coldness of its flesh, she would have thought it was real.
The glass so delicate she could feel it warp from the warmth of her hands.
If she hadn’t touched it, she wouldn’t have known.
He’d brought her a flower that would never die.
There was a part of her that wanted to watch it shatter. A part of her that wanted to take it down below the opera house and watch it sink into the depths of the water. A part of her that wanted to plant a garden of this glass and spend the rest of her days marveling at the beauty.
She let that coldest part of her win. Indifference made easy, followed by disappointment and resentment.
Victor was here, but it was too late. She put the rose back in the case.
It was the first of many gifts, no more consequential than the dresses and furs and jewels that would soon consume her side of the room—attempts to woo her into a noble house, should she fail to win L’Opéra du Magician.
He was merely a man who had the advantage of memory. A man, and no more.
“Who is it from?” Gigi said casually. As if she hadn’t seen the seal.
“Victor.” Selene held out the note and showed it to Gigi. “When I left the palace, he promised he’d come for me. I suppose this is his way of apologizing.”
Gigi smirked. “I told you he remembered.”
“I am difficult to forget.”
Selene thought of the way the ghost had looked at her. Even now, it made her heart move: stretto, presto, and all the things a heart did when it felt too much. She forced herself to take measured breaths.
“What was he like?” Gigi eyed the flower.
“Victor was impetuous. Impossible.” Selene shook away the memories. Shook away the tightness crawling up her throat.
Gigi adjusted one of the flowers on her gown. “If the stories are true, nothing has changed.”
One thing had changed: Selene was no longer a part of his story.
“I wish him all the best.” She shut the box and put it on her dresser. She palmed her father’s silver watch and put it in her pocket. She needed his spirit with her tonight. “He’s the least of my concerns now. Shall we?”
Gigi twirled. “We shall.”