Chapter 32
It seemed that every room in the opera house was occupied in preparation for the competition. Servants from the palace gave them a wide berth, casting suspicious glances toward Victor.
“We could always go back to your room.”
Selene shuddered. She couldn’t be in that space right now. She needed to be away from her sins, away from the promise of further solitude. But what choices did she have? There was one place she was sure they would not be interrupted, but it was dangerous.
“I know a place.”
She led him down the hallway, through the secret passageway to descend beneath the opera house. King Renard watched them with woven eyes. Selene flourished and pulled back the tapestry.
“Very clever. I knew you’d find the best secret places wherever you were.”
She reached for the handle. It did not move.
Selene tried it again, incredulous. “It’s locked. It’s never locked.”
“You didn’t show me this on our tour.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It must, since it is forbidden.”
Selene rolled her eyes. “Locked doesn’t always mean secret.”
Crouching down, she sang into the keyhole. The door did not yield.
Victor’s eyebrow went up. “Not all problems are solved by magic.”
Wrong. With one drop of blood and a dose of misery she could open the door. The magie du sang could solve anything. Unless the magic demanded more than she could give.
“Locks are generally the most difficult way to open a door. And conspicuous. People always check the locks. Hinges, on the other hand.” He pulled out the hinge pins and swung the door open. “You see? I am of use after all.”
He looked so pleased with himself. And he should be pleased.
She kissed his cheek, like she’d done when they were children.
He tasted like salt and tobacco and wide-open spaces, the slight stubble a rough comfort to her lips.
She pulled back, surprised by her boldness.
She hadn’t been thinking; she’d slipped back into old patterns.
Patterns from before the opera house, before her father’s death, back when life was endless summer skies and pomegranate-stained fingers.
Victor looked as surprised as Selene. A smile quirked on his lips, showing his dimple. Selene couldn’t bear the sight of it, standing so close to him like she’d tripped into the past. He put his hand on the small of her back, moving her incrementally closer to him.
He was going to kiss her.
She let him linger for a beat before she spun from his grasp.
She twined down the stairs, unraveling with each step.
She shouldn’t bring Victor down here. He was far too clever, far too curious.
He’d find the door and the mirror and the ghost. She could not fathom the collision of her worlds.
Still she walked, each step edging her toward madness.
The darkness of the basement was familiar, calming. Selene sang the light into her palm for long enough to find half a dozen candelabras, each with three dusty, half-burned candles. Victor took them as soon as they were lit.
He cleared his throat dramatically.
Selene turned. He’d laid out the blanket in the center of the room, complete with a spread of fruits and meats and delicate pastries. He’d poured tea into fragile cups and stirred a generous amount of honey into hers. The candles cast it all in flickering shadows.
“This is too much,” Selene said.
“Don’t worry, I acquired this all by questionable means.” Victor popped a blueberry into his mouth. “Will you sit?”
Selene folded herself down beside him, spreading out the mulberry skirt of her dress over the blanket.
She made sure she was the one facing the door to the mirror.
No need to pique his curiosity. The stained-glass window had been removed, all the glass and rubble cleared away.
The door still blended into the stone, but there was something different.
Locks.
There were dozens of them, stacked up the frame. Locks that needed keys, combinations, and song. It would take her hours to get through. Panic crawled up her throat. Victor settled in front of the door, tilting his head.
“What are you looking at?”
He started to turn. She caught his hand, pulling him in to her.
She caught his mouth with a quick kiss—just the barest brush of lips.
Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of this, the heat of his breath, the sweet, salt taste of his skin.
The reality was cruel, the waste of a kiss for concealment.
The waste of this kiss. But maybe it was the flickering candlelight and maybe it was the years of wanting and maybe it was just this impossible boy—she let herself forget the world and be lost in this moment.
A blink, and then she was back on her side of the blanket.
She considered decorum and propriety and decided to leave it behind.
With just her fingers, she picked up a piece of thin prosciutto and popped it into her mouth.
It was then her stomach reminded her how long it had been since she’d eaten.
She selected a pear and bit in, letting the juices sluice down her chin.
Victor cut the tops off strawberries and handed them to her, one by one.
She tore into a piece of still-warm bread, smeared it with butter and honey. She drank her tea, and his, too.
Finally, she looked up at him.
“Are we going to talk about what happened?” he asked.
“The kiss?”
“That was hardly a kiss.” Victor tucked a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Before that.”
Selene was afraid of this. “How much did you see?”
“Enough.” Victor leaned back on his elbows. The light caught the copper and gold in his curls, shimmering like a treasure.
She could only imagine what she must have looked like while wielding the swirling dark, giving it life. If only she’d grown wings made of shadow and floated above them all like a dark god, like a monster with a perfect face. “Are you afraid of me?”
“You’ve always terrified me, Selene,” Victor said. “I’ve often wondered if magic could be … more.”
She’d wondered the same thing, wanted to know why magic was kept as entertainment. There were so many ways they could reshape the world and make it better: an end to hunger, protection for ships from storms, rain in the worst of a drought. Magic could change lives. It could save them.
“Is that why you’re here?” Selene kept her tone light.
“I’m here because my father beckoned and I came running like a good dog,” Victor said. “And in turn, I’m finding a way to make cheese out of soured milk.”
“What do you think magic can do for you?” Selene said.
“Anything. Everything. Pirates off the north coast have started employing mages, and the rumor is our allies and enemies are training soldiers to do the same.”
The realization settled on her, thick and heavy. “You want art to be a weapon.”
“Isn’t it already?” Victor’s smile fell away. “I saw what you could do.”
“What I did was wrong.”
Selene considered the rules and all the ways she was breaking them. This was the least of her sins.
“And yet it can be done. There is so much more to magic than we’ve been led to believe.”
Selene took a deep breath. He was right, of course.
Sniffing out truth and trouble in a way only he could.
What would he do if he knew the extent of what magic was capable of ?
She didn’t want to think about it. She filled her cup with tea and poured in more honey.
“Did you really gamble your mother’s jewels? ”
“Yes,” Victor said. “Though I have an agreement with the head of that particular establishment. Whatever leaves my pockets goes to the poor. It’s the least I can do.”
“And you trust him?”
“We served together. I trust him with my life.”
Selene pressed her thumb into the side of the teacup. The heat of it sent pulses through her healing skin. “Why bother then with the spectacle?”
Victor cut the stem off a strawberry and handed it to her. The knife pressed into the base of his thumb and stained it red with the juice. “With enough shame, I was hoping the king would send me away again and I could get back to my ship.”
“But with Alexandre’s abdication …”
Victor’s eyes were distant. “You’re not the only one who can’t leave.”
Selene looked down at her cup. There was honey still at the bottom, viscous and golden. She swirled it around slowly.
“Do you want to see my ship?” Victor reached into his pocket and held out a thin, silver daguerreotype.
Selene cupped it in her hands, this precious thing.
She turned it toward the light, the candle casting the silver into gold.
She’d expected something worthy of a prince.
Even in the picture, Victor’s clipper looked small, with scratches and patches on the hull and sails that had been stained and then bleached out with the sun.
The figurehead was the only part of the ship that seemed cared for—an only slightly chipped nightingale with wings that spread down the forepeak.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s not what I expected.”
“Ah yes. I’m sure you thought I’d be in one of those grand, useless ships that are only good at sinking.”
“Yes,” Selene said. “I did.”
“I strive to be useful, Selene. I know, I know. It may come as a shock to you. I do more than drink port and spin sextants, unlike my brothers.”
“I can see that.” Selene traced the places where the ship had been damaged and carefully repaired. This was no ornament. For all Selene knew about ships, she could tell that this was fast and well-loved.
“She and I have been through a lot together.”
There were letters, barely visible on silver. Selene held it up: The Nightingale.
Selene’s heart beat più mosso. “My father used to call me that.”
“I know,” Victor said.
Lovesick.