"Tonight?" He considers it. "No. Tonight we let them live. Tonight, we remind them why they serve us. Fear is a currency, Elodie. And tonight, we are printing money."
"Stage Manager to places," a voice crackles over the intercom. "Curtain in two minutes."
Alaric turns me around. He looks at me. His face is healed, though the faint line of a scar runs through his eyebrow—a souvenir from the factory. He looks dangerous. He looks like the devil in a bespoke suit. And he looks at me with a devotion that borders on religious fanaticism.
"Do you remember the first time I saw you?" he asks.
"In the practice room. Seven years ago."
"You were playing Chopin," he says. "You looked like you wanted to break the piano. You looked... trapped."
He reaches up and touches the diamond choker at my throat. The one with the key. "Are you still trapped,petite?"
I look at the dark wings of the stage. I look at the man who kidnapped me, drugged me, broke me, and then rebuilt me with steel and fire. "I am exactly where I want to be," I say. "In the cage with the wolf."
"Good answer." He kisses me. It is a hard, possessive kiss that messes up my lipstick. I don't care. Let them see the mark. Let them see who I belong to. "Play for me," he commands. "Play the song that burns the city down."
He steps back into the shadows. "I'll be watching."
The stage manager nods to me. "Ready, Madame Graves?"
Madame Graves.I like the sound of it. "Ready."
I walk onto the stage.
The light is blinding. A single spotlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating the Steinway Model D in the center of the vast stage. The applause starts. It is tentative at first. Nervous. Then it swells. It becomes a roar. They are clapping because they have to. They are clapping because the man in the Royal Box is watching, and he has a list of names in his pocket.
I walk to the piano. My heels click on the wood.Clack. Clack. Clack.I sit down. I adjust the bench. I smooth the red silk over my thighs. I look out into the auditorium. I can't see their faces, just a sea of white shirts and jewels reflecting the light. But I can feel them. I can feel their fear.
I look up. To the left. The Royal Box. It is dark, but I see the silhouette. Alaric. He is standing at the rail, looking down. The King of the Underworld, watching his Queen perform.
I take a breath.Inhale.Exhale.The silence between the notes.
I place my hands on the keys. I don't play Chopin. I don't play Rachmaninoff. I play something new. Something I wrote in the months we spent hiding in the mountains of Montenegro, waiting for the heat to die down. It is calledThe Asylum.
It starts softly. A single, high note repeated.Ping... Ping... Ping...Like water dripping in a cell. Like a heart monitor. Then the bass enters. Dark. Ominous. Rolling chords that sound like thunder.Dum... Dum... Dum...
I close my eyes. I am back in the cell. I am back in the glass house. I am back in the river. I channel it all. The fear. The hunger. The cold. The blood. My fingers fly. The melodybecomes chaotic, dissonant. It is the sound of a mind fracturing. It is the sound of a girl breaking into pieces.
I play the middle section.The Seduction.The music turns lush, romantic, but twisted. Major keys bleeding into Minor. It is the sound of Alaric’s voice. The sound of his hands on my skin. The sound of the first time I surrendered. It is beautiful and terrible.
Then, theFinale.The War.I strike the keys with violence. I am shooting my father. I am stabbing Silas Vane. I am driving the truck through the factory wall. The music is a weapon. It assaults the audience. It screams. It demands. My hair falls into my face. I am sweating. My breath comes in gasps. I am not performing. I am purging.
I hit the final chord. A massive, two-handed slam that uses every ounce of strength in my body. The sound reverberates through the hall, shaking the crystal chandeliers. I hold the note. I hold it until it decays into nothingness.
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence. No one breathes. No one moves.
Then, from the Royal Box... A single clap.Clap.Slow. Deliberate.Clap.Clap.
Alaric. He is applauding. And then, the rest of the hall joins in. It starts as a ripple and becomes a tsunami. They stand up. They cheer. They scream "Brava!" They are worshipping the monster.
I stand up. I bow. Deep and low. I look at the Royal Box. Alaric raises a glass of champagne to me. He smiles. And I know, in that moment, that we have won. We didn't just survive. We conquered.
[LATER]
The after-party is held in the Gold Room of the Opera House. It is a sea of sharks in tuxedos. Waiters pass trays of caviar and vodka. The conversation is polite, hushed. I stand by the window, holding a glass of water. I don't drink alcohol anymore. I need my edges sharp.
"Madame Graves," a voice says. I turn. A man is standing there. Older. Distinguished. The Prime Minister of Austria. "A remarkable performance," he says, bowing slightly. "Truly... disturbing. And magnificent."
