Chapter 31
Selene took a moment, watching from the doorway. Priya rifled through pages and pages of sheet music. All of them blank. Not a scrap of music to be found, Selene’s latest drafts tucked in her pocket.
“Where is it?” Priya pulled out another drawer, digging through Selene’s scarves and stockings. She’d find no music there. She’d find no music anywhere. Selene’s leather sheaf was trapped in another world, guarded by a ghost.
There was a bundle on Selene’s dresser, next to the wooden box.
For a moment, Selene was sure it was some new sort of sabotage.
It wasn’t until Priya put her fingers on it that Selene recognized what it was: letters.
Hundreds of letters bound together with twine.
Despite the years, the handwriting was clear and familiar.
Madame had delivered the letters she’d held hostage all these years.
And left the door unlocked.
Priya reached past the bundle for the box, fingers brushing the scarred wood. Selene sang the wind, not thinking even a moment of the consequences—pushing the door all the way open and knocking Priya’s outstretched fingers.
“There you are,” Priya said quickly. “I was just looking for—”
“My music?” Selene continued the melody for air, letting the blank sheets rise, swirling around Priya.
Priya’s eyes glittered with hate. “Why would I want anything from you? Your name will mean nothing once the competition is over. Just like your father.”
“You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Selene sang for fire. Each of the pages of sheet music burst into flame. Fire and ash rained down. Priya was quick. She sang for air and pulled it toward herself, starving out the little flames.
“Why are you doing this?” Selene shouted when she stopped for breath.
“Getting my dream at any cost.”
“It’s my dream, too.”
Priya scoffed. “You don’t know what it’s like to have no choices. You could be anything, Selene. You can have anything you want. This is the only way I can get out of my arranged marriage. I can be with Revelio, or whomever I choose. I won’t be trapped.”
Priya’s melody shifted to a perfect imitation of Benson’s aria. She ripped the water out of the air, turning it quickly into ice shards.
“That’s not a good enough reason to try and ruin me.”
There was poison steeped into the lines of Priya’s beautiful face. Selene had less than an eighth note to think. The shards—sharp as knives—shot toward her. Priya wasn’t playing.
She was going to kill Selene.
And Selene wasn’t going down without a fight. She thought of the worst she could do: flowers grown in Priya’s lungs choking out her breath. The wind sung into a thousand cuts, bleeding Priya dry. A lightning strike to the heart. She could hurt Priya, or she could destroy her.
Selene sang the dark.
It swallowed the room. This wasn’t the darkness of the mirror; it was merely the absence of light. And it was enough. Selene danced out of the way of the ice. It struck the wall, clattering uselessly to the ground.
Priya sang for light, but it didn’t matter.
Selene’s darkness was stronger. Heady with power, she compressed the darkness.
What would she have to do, to make it like the dark in the mirror?
What would she have to do to give the darkness life?
Slowly, she could feel the dark bubble. Fizzing with a new sense of autonomy, moving with a renewed purpose.
From the dark, Priya wove the melody for growth. Vines burst from Selene’s drawers and floorboards and pockets. They tangled on the floor, wrapping up Selene’s calf. Thorns cut into her skin.
The magie du sang came to her, unbidden, waiting for a command. Magic and magic, lifting from her blood and misery. All she had to do was to want.
She wanted Priya to stop.
Priya’s song cut off.
A terrible knowing washed over Selene. She thought of the ghost and the awful things he might have done to get himself locked in the dark.
Blood and teeth, he’d said, and the feeling he’d gone too far.
Selene knew that feeling well, knew what she had done to protect her own life.
She’d lived with that guilt for so long.
She didn’t need another stain on her soul.
Selene let the darkness drop.
Priya was on her knees, hands buried in the mess of vines. She was screaming, but there was no sound. The blood vessels in her eyes popped. Her face was a mask of fear.
Selene didn’t want to win like this. She wanted to best Priya on the stage, for everyone to see. She was better than this.
Undo it, she told the dark. Give Priya back her voice.
The magie du sang did not yield. Selene could feel its pulse and the way it pushed back, like a stuck piano key. The shadows had taken something. They didn’t want to give it up.
Red ran down Priya’s cheeks. Everything came back to blood.
She wished the ghost was here to tell her what to do next. If only she had a mirror, a monster, and a dying dream.
All she had was herself.
The edges of the magic were tangible, like the creases of a page. She’d always given to the shadows, never tried to take anything back. She’d fed it with her blood and misery: a piece of sky, a bloodless heart, a fragment of the past. To get what she wanted, she had to give more.
The ghost had shown her when he’d healed her. He’d given so much blood, and whatever secret pain he’d held inside. Selene brought her foot down against one of the many thorns, not allowing herself to flinch as they sank deep into her skin. She drew in a breath, centering herself around the pain.
More blood, more misery. More of everything.
She hovered around all the memories of terrible things.
None of them seemed right, not enough magic for what she needed.
Selene swallowed, settling into the memories of her father’s voice echoing through the white marble halls of the palace.
Good memories, sweet things. Worse, in a way, because she’d have to sacrifice the residual joy the memory gave her.
The thought of losing her father’s voice was too much for her.
They’d play this game where he would sing a line of music and Selene would try to find him.
There were so many places to hide in the vastness of the palace.
She’d hear the echo of music and she’d chase it down, down, down the twisting halls.
He’d wait awhile before he’d sing again.
She’d chase the resonance until she found him, tucked behind a suit of armor or around a pillar, gleeful at his own game. Then it would be Selene’s turn.
She’d never get that back. Not the simplicity of childhood, not the sound of her father’s voice, not the possibility of finding him behind a corner or door.
He was gone, and the ache of him was something she’d never lose.
It was endless, ceaseless, careless. She was trapped in a world without the person she loved the most and that itself was a prison.
For a moment, she felt the upside-down of the mirror. Like she had slipped through the silver into shadow. And then the pain started to fade, the image of her father’s face going out like a candle flame and blurring with smoke.
What had she done?
Priya’s scream sliced through the air like an arrow and then died. Replaced by Priya’s sobs.
Madame’s cane struck the ground three times.
Selene turned around, startled. They had an audience. Madame and Gigi and Milton and the others. Victor stood there with wide, hungry eyes.
“She attacked me.” Priya’s voice was a rasp, damaged by the screaming and the silence. “She lured me here—”
“Enough,” Madame spat.
“They must be removed from the competition.” Milton’s voice was gruff. She’d never seen him look so furious and so disappointed.
Madame hesitated, devastation crossing her face between blinks. “Pack your things. Both of you.”
Selene closed her eyes. Guilt pierced her, sharper than any thorn.
She deserved this. Why had she retaliated against Priya?
She should have walked away. What were letters compared to her father’s watch?
And now, so close to the end, everything she wanted was gone.
She’d been given this second chance and she’d thrown it all away for a little revenge.
“I think that would be in poor form, Madame Giroux,” Victor said.
Madame looked shocked, as if she hadn’t known Victor was there. “This is my theater.”
“It is the king’s theater. And his competition.” Victor kept his voice low. “I would hate to tell him that—once again—you have failed to keep his mages safe.”
And he was right. He’d be doing the future competitors of L’Opéra du Magician a favor if he had Madame removed. Maybe he’d be doing Madame a favor, too.
“Then what do you propose we do—Your Highness?” Madame spoke through gritted teeth.
“Plant the flowers in the garden.” He brushed the tip of his boot over one of the roses. “And consider how to foster a community, rather than a competition.”
Madame’s knuckles turned white against the head of her cane. Selene could feel that vise grip as Madame looked from Victor to Priya and back to Selene. All the blood and flowers and burned-up paper between.
Madame sang low. The vines twisted and shrank, green to brown to black.
They crumbled beneath Selene’s bloody feet.
She crossed the room, resting a hand on the wooden box.
She didn’t look at Victor. Madame swept up the ashes and dust with a sharp wind.
The wind pushed up Priya from the floor and out into the hallway.
Selene looked to Gigi, but the dancer averted her gaze, keeping her eyes downcast. It wasn’t like her at all.
Of all the things that had gone wrong today, this was the worst. It was confirmation that Gigi hadn’t been moved to hurt Selene. Gigi had made a choice.
“This isn’t over,” Madame warned.
“Not until tomorrow.” Victor leaned into the doorframe, an easy, carefree look on his face.
Madame was out of the room, cane striking the wooden floor with deliberate ire. The rest of them—even Gigi—scattered.