She gripped his wrist. He pulled her up in front of him. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. The softness of his breath tickled the hairs on her neck. Oh, this handsome boy. What trouble would he get her into now? He held the reins loosely, letting Tonnerre lead.
“We’re going to gallop now,” Victor said softly into her ear. Selene tensed. “Don’t be afraid. Move as he moves.”
She took a deep breath and settled herself into his arms. Tonnerre tossed his proud mane and tore through the street. His hooves clattered against the cobblestones. The wind whipped Selene’s hair. She kept her hands firmly against Tonnerre’s neck at first. But then she fell into the rhythm of his movements. It was like a dance. He set the tempo, and she would follow. Loose in the hips. Steady back and straight neck.
The city blurred past them. The cramped buildings she’d seen from the roof of the opera house looked inviting, with their wide windows and flower boxes. The streets weren’t so meandering. The cobblestones not so dark.
Her life was contained inside the opera house. Music and magic and the rising fear that someone might try and stop her from having either. Before the ghost, she hadn’t even known that there was anything else besides ambition.
And yet there was a whole world out there. Endless and curious and promising. A world she did not have the time to indulge.
Tonnerre slowed to a trot. Selene bounced with him, no longer pressed against Victor’s back, but rolling into each step.
They rode through the front gates. There were no trees here, just rows of statues. Mausoleums stood lonely against the barren background. Everything was quiet, but not quite peaceful.
This was a cemetery. Selene could make out the plaques. She recognized some of the names: famous mages and other tragic figures. Was her father buried here? She couldn’t bring herself to ask. Didn’t want to admit that she’d never had the courage to visit his grave, as if that would have been allowed.
“I need a minute,” she said, accepting Victor’s assistance off the horse.
She could sense that he was here, close and closer. She wanted to press her hand to his name, to whisper to the ground that she loved him, and that she would do her best for him today. Shewanted him to know that everything she did was for him. She supposed wherever souls went, he knew. She had to believe that was true.
She pricked her forearm and hurt and wanted.
Take me to him.
A gossamer thread of shadow so thin and spindly she could barely catch it formed. She let it pull her to the edge of the graveyard. Past the mausoleums and giant statues. Past any of the places she thought he would be.
The thread ended at a simple, worn stone. It was covered in moss, the name barely legible. The seven years since her father’s death had been unkind. She sang for water, doing her best to keep it from frosting in the chill. She cleared away the moss, the grime, the years.
The name on the headstone was not her father’s.
She traced the worn letters, trying to make sense of it. Who had the magic pulled her to?
Dante Dumas.
“That name.” Victor closed his eyes like he was searching for something. “I know that name.”
It was such a peculiar moment, like hearing an old song in a new place. She’d experienced this all before, watching someone unlock a memory that had been tucked away.
“Victor?”
“The whipping boy,” he said slowly. “Renard’s whipping boy. Dante Dumas.”
“You’re sure?”
“I found a book once, in Father’s study, and read the whole thing. That’s where I learned the story of Dante. Some of my best scars came from reading that book.” The darkness in his face was banished with a smile. “It seems I’ve been so much trouble that I can’t keep it all in my head.”
Selene’s heart almost stopped. Dante Dumas was not here. He was trapped, punished far beyond any crime. She’d found his name; the name had found her.
Just in time.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Victor gestured to the headstone.
She threw her head back and laughed. This was so much better than a collection of books. This was a library of souls, the history that could not be erased. There was magic here, pulling her through the echoes of pain left behind. But not at this stone. The ghost still lived, trapped in a mirror beneath the opera house in a prison of endless wanting. This was an empty grave. Anticipation built in her like a song.
“A tragedy.” Selene stood, brushed the snow from her dress. “We should go.”
Victor regarded her quizzically. “Any more graves you want to clean?”
