“I won’t be?”
“Of course not. You won’t have time to do all this anymore once we have a family. You’ll be far too busy—running the household, caring for the children. Once we’re married there will be no need for you to perform in the Opera Company anymore.”
There it was. His statement dropped into my being like a stone into the depths of that underground Cistern. Down, down, down, to the core of it, the truth of it. With Seff, I would be little more than an accessory—someone’s wife. It wasn’t just the viscount and the archbishop spouting off nonsense. Seff wanted the same things. A quiver full of Scion arrows. I would not be Seraphina the dancer, the singer, the artist. With Seff I would be the viscountess, the wife, the mother, the good, godly churchgoing woman. Just another version of his mother. The image of her bony face, joyless and gaunt, kneeling in supplication, flashed into my mind. That was the future Seff saw for me. The future hewantedfor me.
Something under my skin seemed to recoil at those words. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up; the street lights that we walked beneath flickered and then went out. I gulped, trying to reign in my emotions, as Ciaran’s wicked voice filled my head: “You have an incredible gift.” As Maren’s face flashed in my mind, dreamweed billowing out of her mouth as she told me to follow my heart. My heart, which was now pounding in my chest, screaming to get off this merry-go-round.
“You haven’t said anything,” Seff said quietly as we approached my building—the first place I had ever calledmine.A place Seff would undoubtedly have me give up. “You do want to marry me, don’t you, Seraphina?” Seff looked at me with eyes of piercing blue. And I couldn’t get a word out. My throat felt like it was closing.
“Are you asking me now?” I managed to swallow past whatever was blocking my throat. To answer Seff before he thought I was having a stroke. Maybe I was.
“I was planning to do it in a more formal way, since we got my father’s approval. But… yes. We can make things official now. We don’t need to wait, when it is going to be inevitable anyway.” Seff shifted back and forth.
“Your father’s approval?” My brows knitted together as I focused in on that part of Seff’s statement. He had to be kidding. “Is that what that was? At Montmartre?”
“Of course. And at the church. He’s given us his blessing. We are free to marry. You don’t have to worry about any of this—” he gestured toward my home, “—or any of that opera drama anymore.”
My throat really was closing. I opened and closed my mouth, but no sounds came out.
“You’ll have to convert officially,” Seff went on, “to the Church of Scion. Since you haven’t been baptized or had any of the sacraments. Usually it’s a tedious process, but since my father is friends with the archbishop, I’m sure we’ll be able to expedite it,” he continued explaining. “And then there’s the wedding ceremony, of course. It will be quite the to-do. But that’s the féerie tale, isn’t it? Every girl’s dream? A wedding to a viscount’s heir? The talk of the whole city?” Seff didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t said a word. As he spoke, I wasn’t sure he’d ever listened to a word I had said.
“Seff…” I finally managed to make a sound. “Seff I’m… I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered. Itwasa féerie tale. Just like the romantic and fantastical stories I had grown up with. And I had always imagined that I would end up with Seff someday. But now? Something within me recoiled.
“Say yes.” Seff’s brows furrowed. He seemed to have just noticed that I wasn’t jumping for joy at this impromptu proposal.
“I… I don’t know if I can,” I said finally. Seff had gone very still. “It sounds wonderful,” I lied, backpedalling. The last thing Iwanted right now was a blowout—to have Seff as angry with me as he’d been when he found out about Ciaran and the rooftop. “It’s just a lot to process. And I have a very early rehearsal.” I feigned a yawn. “Can we just wait? I mean, what’s the rush?” A very fake giggle slipped out.
“There’s no rush, Seraphina. I just…”
“Oh my goodness, it’s so late. And I have to get some rest—big day tomorrow. I’ll see you after the show, okay Seff. Good night!” I kissed him on the cheek before he had a chance to say another word, and disappeared into my apartment, making sure to lock the door behind me. I didn’t let the sobs leave my body until I was sure Seff had gone.
I cried for a long time. I had let some of my emotions out with Carlotta, but this feeling was beyond that. It was existential. I had been floating through life for a while. I was untethered. I was allowing things to just happen to me, and I was not taking control or responsibility for my own life—for my own destiny.
I couldn’t exactly blame Seff. I had given no indication that what he had said wasn’t everything I wanted. I knew who he was. I knew what would be expected of someone who was going to be his wife. But I let it all happen anyway. I let myself get swept up in the romance of it all. I let myself believe that he could be who I wanted him to be. The thought that someone would even look at me in that way: that they would see me as more than just a casual conquest. I liked that feeling more than anything else. I wasn’t even sure I liked the person Seffactuallywas. Maybe I just liked the way it felt to be wanted by someone.
I let myself be relegated to the role of a chorus dancer in the opera. I wasn’t content there. I wasn’t going to pretend that this was what I wanted. What I had trained my whole life for. I had only pursued ballet over singing because I was holding onto the promise I made. It wasn’t what I truly wanted. But I just… let it happen. And even then, I didn’t pursue anything more than thecrumbs that were given to me. I should be grateful for what I got. I was not the “right body shape” for this anyway. I should just shut up and be happy. Because why? Because the truth would make others uncomfortable? Because to show who I really was would be inconvenient? So, I tore myself into bite-sized pieces so that no one would have to worry about choking on the full size of my ambition—ofmydesires.
On the outside I was pretty. I was palatable. I was quiet. I was demure. And on the inside, I was a hurricane. I was roiling, swirling, angry and lashing. I was a goddamned tempest. But here I was. Packaged up nicely with ribbons and bows and tulle, easily digestible and not rocking any boats. And no one saw it. No one saw who I was on the inside. Not Carlotta, not Maren, certainly not Seff. No one.
I couldn’t be his wife. I couldn’t say yes to him. I dreaded having to do what I knew was right. The tears didn’t stop coming for a long while. It was nearly dawn before I fell into an uneasy sleep, the knowledge of what I had to do a dark cloud hovering over me.
CHANDELIER
Iwas back in the ballerina’s dressing room and happy to be there. The chaotic energy before the show took my mind off all that I had spent the previous night mulling over—all my insecurities and regrets playing in a loop across my empty ceiling. I got up, early and on time for once thanks to my lack of sleep, and made my way to the little cafe down the street to get some blessed coffee into my system.
My mood improved significantly as I set up my makeup station beside Maren, and we gossiped and chatted about nothing in particular while we layered makeup on our faces. I twisted my hair into a low boyish ponytail at the base of my skull and shoved some pins in to keep it in place. Maren expertly created a bun, twisting and pinning her chin-length hair. I don’t know how she did it; perhaps she was the one who could truly wield magic. She flashed a cheesy grin in my direction and batted her lashes. “Good?”
“Great.” I couldn’t help it. I flashed a grin back at her. Here, everything felt a bit less serious. This was my home. These were my people. I didn’t have to make any big decisions today. I didn’t have to do anything, just be. My racing thoughts settled and mybreathing became deeper and slower. In the light of the dressing room mirrors, those nighttime fears seemed distant and small.
And then it was time. The curtain call sounded throughout the backstage area. The energy amped up. Maren and I went to find Carlotta before we had to be onstage. Our little trio had a pre-show ritual: clasping hands, sending up a prayer to the theatre gods, while we bounced on our tiptoes in a circle. It was silly—we had started doing it back in our school days—but those in the theatre were so superstitious that we knew we had to do it, or some great tragedy would occur. We were walking down the hall toward Carlotta’s dressing room when someone grabbed my shoulder.
I whirled around, nearly jumping out of my skin. It was the viscount.
“I just wanted to wish you good luck.” His eyes raked over me, his gaze lingering over my breasts and then again at my hips. A creeping sensation crawled up my spine as a leering smile spread across his face. “You seem nervous.”
“Er… thank you?—”
“I’m sorry, respectfully,” Maren interrupted, with bravado, “but you can’t say that in the theatre. That is very bad luck.” Maren was perhaps the most superstitious of us, making sure to follow all the unwritten rules to which stage performers adhered. “You should say break a leg to the actors, andmerdeto the dancers.” Somehow, Maren’s air of confidence didn’t diminish at all, even as a scathing, wrathful look flashed across the viscount’s face.
