With a deep breath, I place my fingers over the keys and press. A soft sound emerges from the pianoforte, reverberating through my bones. My magic responds, whirring inside my heart like the wings of a hummingbird. It rises to my throat, begging for release.
Against the fading sound of the single chord, I sing the first note.
Then I play. My fingers flutter over the keyboard as my voice rises and falls, ringing out over the crowd. I dare not look at the figures gathered before the dais for fear I’ll get distracted. I’ve grown so much more comfortable singing this past year, but I still haven’t gotten used to doing so before such large crowds. With tonight being the start of this year’s New Moon Masquerade, it seemed appropriate that I play. Each ball during Lunar’s month-long social season now hosts human and fae guests alike, with an emphasis on unity. My song is a demonstration of fae magic.
Where danger meets beauty.
I’m no longer afraid that my singing will harm anyone. In the year that has passed since I destroyed the coach with my wayward magic, I’ve learned to control my song. There have been several mishaps, of course, but in the end, I’ve learned to accept my singing for what it is.
A gift.
And—should I ever choose it to be—a weapon.
I continue my performance, feeling the music sweep me away as my fingers flutter faster, my voice rising higher. There are words to my song, but beneath them lie layers and layers of story. Emotion. Magic. In word and tune, it tells of love and heartache, fear and loss. It speaks of dark motives, desperate escapes, and dangerous bargains. Then it shifts, turning playful, and illustrates secret smiles, unexpected romance, and bold declarations. The melody darkens again briefly after that, conveying danger and dark magic.
Then forgiveness.
And love.
My tune slows, shifting into something bright yet mellow as I draw near the final notes. I linger over them, letting my voice ring out. Then it fades. My song comes to an end, but in the absence of sound, it relays the opposite of ending. Instead, it’s a new beginning. Possibility. Hope.
My magic hangs in the air for several moments.
Then I release it.
The throne room erupts with applause. I rise from the piano bench and face the crowd. Hundreds of smiling faces look back at me, some with tears in their eyes, others with awestruck expressions. A few seem wary, which is understandable. Not everyone feels so warmly toward fae magic, but that’s what Franco and I are working toward. That’s why we choose to show them who we really are.
I move to the front of the dais and curtsy, then make my way down the steps to the floor. A band of musicians take my place, and the New Moon Masquerade commences with a traditional cotillion.
I move to the side of the dais, where Franco awaits. Unlike most of the guests, he wears neither mask nor glamour. The same goes for me. I’ve chosen a simple blue ballgown tonight, in honor of the first one I wore a year ago. He and I have had our share of disguises and find contentment being…us. His silver eyes glisten as I approach, and the sight of him sends a rush of delight through me. I don’t know if I’ll ever tire of his roguish beauty. Tonight, he wears full evening attire in shades of pink and black, although his shirt remains open at the collar and his cravat is simply draped around his neck. I can see just the slightest hint of his tattoos peeking above his neckline. “You were wonderful.”
I laugh. “I was terrified.”
“I couldn’t tell. Your song had me too transfixed by every feeling you conjured inside me. You told your story.”
I nod. It’s the most honest song I’ve written, and I’ve written many this past year in all my efforts to explore my magic. Ever since I agreed to open the ball with a song of my own, I agonized over what to share. In the end, the answer was clear. Me.
I take a step closer to him and grasp his collar in my fingers. “I playedourstory too.”
He shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “A minor portion.”
“A significant portion,” I correct. “One that’s still just beginning.”
With a soft smile, he lowers his lips to mine. “One that grows every day.” When we part, he releases a resigned sigh. “I should go make the rounds. There are several pig-headed aristocrats I’m trying to squeeze a contribution from. They’re trying to act like they weren’t aware this was a charity ball.”
“And when you say pig-headed…”
“One is actually wearing the glamoured head of a pig,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m serious!”
“And if they refuse to contribute?”
“Then I’llconvincethem.” He lets out a low growl, his face flashing briefly with his terrifying glamour.
I playfully swat his chest. “You will not!”
He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. “No, I won’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t thoroughly annoy them until they beg for torture instead.”
“If you plan on charming them with that wit of yours, then torture can be all but guaranteed.”
