Chapter 34
Selene should have slept. She meant to. She considered it again and again.
She wrote version after version of her song, trying to remember enough from the mirror to make a passable aria.
She practiced the movements that would bring the magie du sang artfully.
But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t the same without the ghost’s orchestrations.
She even sang the soft lullabies of her father over and over, leedle-lie, leedle-lie, leedle-lie.
And worse, the parade of people never ended.
The halls boiled with activity, countless members of both the opera house and king’s staff preparing this grand event.
Selene couldn’t get away unnoticed if she tried.
She went back to her room sometime before sunrise and wrestled with her restless thoughts.
What would happen if she gave up L’Opéra du Magician?
She could forfeit her place and then what?
There was no other place to call home. It had been more than a decade since she’d seen the cottage by the sea.
She wouldn’t even know where to find it or if it could be hers.
All she could do was step into the mirror.
But then the ghost could give her a more impossible task, and she would have wasted her dream on one last shared breath.
The ghost wouldn’t want her to ruin everything he’d taught her on goodbye.
If only she knew how to set him free. He’d have an answer for all of this, she was sure. The mirrors were coming. That should be enough. It had to be enough.
But what if it wasn’t?
He’d already released her of her vow. But she couldn’t do that to him or her father. She’d sworn on his soul and that meant something.
Swear on something that matters.
The ghost had sworn on his name.
His name.
Something that matters.
Oh, gods.
She’d been going about this all wrong and all right. Guessing his name like he was some fairy-tale thing as jest while she warred with blood and magic and mirrors. This wasn’t a game. She needed his name. That was all. The one thing that truly belonged to him.
She threw off her blankets and dressed, quick and desperate. She already knew there was nothing for her in the library and that Madame Giroux would be of no use, even if she knew. There were no answers in the opera house. She needed Victor.
Time to put on a show.
Frost formed on the glass. The last of the autumn leaves fluttered from the tree boughs.
The air was metallic and cold. They’d have snow before the end of day.
Selene could already imagine the dusted carriages and the luxurious furs of the spectators.
She could feel the magic of beautiful things worn by beautiful people, followed by the spectacle and extravagance of L’Opéra du Magician.
The dress she chose was the churning green of the sea.
She’d had this dress made on a day she missed her father too much to speak.
The scalloped collar hid every scar. The silk was smooth against her skin.
She did up the buttons on her back with a needle prick and a portion of blood and the memory of her father singing siren songs at the sea’s edge.
Selene took one look at her dark gray cloak.
It would hardly be warm enough for her breakfast with Victor with snow on the horizon.
She pricked the skin between her forefinger and thumb.
She cleared her mind of the thousand things that cluttered it.
The shadows lifted from her skin, shimmering over the cloak, and slipping into the fabric.
Selene willed herself a pair of matching gloves and new boots for good measure.
When she was finished, she twisted the black cloak over her shoulders. She’d lined it with a pale fur that was too soft to be real. The gloves were lined with the same, coming up to her elbow. Selene laced her boots and went downstairs.
“Going somewhere?” Priya’s eyes were wide and predatory.
“It’s none of your business,” Selene said.
“I saw your pretty prince in the foyer.” Priya’s eyebrow arched up. “Selene Dreshé, allowing herself to be distracted by a boy. I never thought this day would come.”
Selene’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t about Victor, but about the doors Victor could open for her. Mainly: the door outside. He was her only chance to go see Benson and get her music out of the mirror. “You should go warm up, Priya. God knows how long it will take your voice to match mine.”
Priya’s face soured. Selene didn’t look back at her.
In the foyer, Victor leaned easily against the marble railing, looking up at the painting of his great-something-grandfather and the ghost.
Selene slid her arm into his, her eyes dragging over the face of the ghost. “Do you think history remembers the names of all those people behind the king?”
“Do they matter?”
He reached around and gripped her hand, too tight. Selene went very still, like a rabbit caught in a trap.
“What was your name again? Serena? Christine?” He looked so much like Victor.
He was softer around the edges, though, like he’d never seen an honest day’s work.
And it was clear he put a lot of effort into looking effortless.
It was the eyes that gave him away. They were dark and empty, like looking into the eyes of a shark.
“Henri,” Selene hissed. “Let go of me.”
“You haven’t seen my brother, have you? I suppose not, since you thought he was me.” Henri showed all his teeth. “I could be, you know. If I wanted.”
His fingers dug into her skin, overpowering her with unsettling ease. Selene would remove him from her, crown prince or not. She started to sing, still formulating what sort of violence she needed.
Henri clapped his hand over her mouth, holding tight to her face. Selene twisted in his grip, pain sharp and bright shooting through her jaw. Spots danced across her vision. She struggled for air.
“Things are going to be very different from now on, Selene.” He brought his face close to hers, the tip of his tongue touching her ear. “You’ll see, soon enough.”
“Get your hands off her.” Victor’s voice was low and dangerous.
Henri released her, holding his arms up in surrender. Selene tilted back, trying to get her feet under her. Victor was beside her, catching her before she hit the ground. She held on to him, cold air surging in her lungs, rage burning in her veins.
“There you are, brother. I have a message for you from the king.”
“Get out.” Victor stood taller, straighter, one arm wrapped protectively around Selene.
“Father won’t like it if you don’t listen.”
“Get the fuck out, Henri.”
“Suit yourself,” Henri chuckled. “I’ll be seeing you, Selene.”
Henri walked out the front doors as if he’d never been there at all.
Selene let out a ragged sob. Victor held her, brushing the blooming bruises on her face with gentle fingers. She winced, opening and shutting her jaw to make sure she would still be able to sing. She’d be sore, but she’d manage.
“I’ll kill him,” Victor said. “I’ll kill the bastard.”
“Don’t.” Selene wished there were water hot enough to scald off Henri’s touch. “That will make you king.”
“If that’s what it takes to make sure he never touches you again.”
She turned and pressed her face against his chest, breathing in the summer scent of him: the sea and all its promises.
It was enough to calm the race of her heart, to bring her back near adagio.
She looked up at him. His military jacket was open.
No buttons to miss. He had leather gloves in his pocket and his boots went up to his knees, all free from mud or dust. He looked so formal, like he meant to impress her.
She’d wanted to give him up, offer him to the mirror. But the mirror had not taken him. If there was rage or disappointment, it was swallowed by the pressando of her heart.
“Please, let it go.” Selene’s voice was small.
“Whatever you wish.” Victor’s eyes were still dark, his jaw set.
Gathering herself, she looked up to the cold eyes of the ghost and back to Victor.
“Whatever I wish?” she said playfully.
“Anything.”
“Take me away from here for a few hours.”
“You are not permitted to leave the opera house.” Madame Giroux’s condemnation was scythe sharp, her mouth tight. The silence of her approach startled Selene.
“A word, Madame Giroux.”
Victor walked leisurely down the hallway, not waiting for Madame to follow. It was the assumption of power, something that belonged to someone of Victor’s stature. He wielded it like a sword. Madame’s unchecked rage radiated from every fiber of her being.
Hoping to catch the conversation, Selene curved indiscriminately against the railing.
She wouldn’t look at them directly. Instead, she watched their reflection in the freshly polished gold statues.
Victor looked wild with fury—just for a moment before he smoothed it away.
He smiled that lazy smile and made his way back to Selene.
“You think you’re saving them, but you’re damning them.” Madame Giroux pointed her cane as if she’d unsheathed it and could impale Victor with a single strike.
“Madame Giroux, they’re already damned by your inaction.” Victor had his gloves on, intent clear. He wove his fingers with Selene’s. “We’ll be back before curtain.”
“Long before.” This was her whole life sharpened to a point. Her purpose. She’d win back her father’s legacy. She’d win and take her place in the palace. Selene would have everything. She’d already paid the price.
Marcus caught them by the door. He looked nervously up into the space Madame Giroux had vacated. “What time are the mirrors arriving?”
Victor’s smile was pure triumph. “This afternoon. Right in time for L’Opéra du Magician.”
“You’re making enemies, you know.”
“It will be well worth the spectacle.”
Marcus shook his head and went back toward his office. There was a line of people there. So much to do before tonight.
Victor paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the painting of King Renard breaking ground on the opera house.
“My father says I look like him,” Victor said. “Except for the teeth.”
“Weren’t his pearls?”
“Yes. After a very unfortunate incident with his whipping boy.”
“I thought it was an accident,” Selene said.
“It was no accident,” Victor said. “Though that’s what the people have been told. The truth is far more sinister.”
Selene exhaled, a crescendo of anticipation taking hold. “Tell me.”
“No one wanted to be the hand that spanked the royal bottom,” Victor said.
“So some family was paid handsomely to relinquish their son as stand-in for the prince for punishment. Renard was a bit of a beast, not unlike my dearest brother. He’d get himself entangled in trouble just so he could see the punishment acted out.
Well, one day, Renard took things too far.
There was a girl—the daughter of a minor lord—and Renard hurt her.
The whipping boy caught him. He beat Renard within an inch of his life. ”
“Knocked out his teeth?”
“Would have been better if he had just killed him,” Victor said jovially. “But then I wouldn’t exist, so I suppose I should be grateful the boy showed mercy.”
Selene’s heart beat steady and strong. The scars that stretched the ghost’s back and his arms burned in her mind. He knew so much about pain. “What happened to the whipping boy?”
“If I had known this would be such a riveting subject, I would have brought it up earlier.”
“So you don’t know?” Selene rolled her eyes. “What about his name?”
Victor shrugged. “He was lost to time.”
Selene breathed in deep enough to make her lungs ache. There would be records, somewhere. First, she needed her way back into the mirror, and then she’d find the one thing that mattered most to the ghost: his name.
“Are you cross with me?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Excellent.” Victor’s smile was endless. “Onward!”