Selene looked up then.
The walls of the black box were made entirely of mirrors. Reflections that swept back to infinity. Gigi gripped Selene’s hand. It might have been fear, but something was different now that she knew her fears were warranted. The ghost had been real and now he was gone. Madame Giroux stood in the center. Mouth a thin line. Knuckles white against her cane. She wouldn’t look at her own reflection.
“He’s not there,” Selene said, only loud enough for Madame and Gigi to hear. “He’s gone.”
“A word,” Madame Giroux said.
Selene stepped away from the half-moon of her competitors.
“What do you mean, Selene?”
“The mirror shattered. There’s no ghost in the opera house.”
All the color drained from Madame Giroux’s face. Selene’s brow furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t this what Madame wanted?
“You little fool.” Madame’s voice was soft.
“You knew he was there the whole time. You knew he was trapped and you left him.”
Madame looked at Selene’s hands. The cut on her thumb was far from healed. “You think you know what you know. You don’t. You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“Stop talking in riddles,” Selene said, frustration forming a knot in her chest. Madame Giroux was her teacher, her mentor. Wasn’t this why she was here? “Everything you’ve ever said, everything you’ve ever done is rooted in lies. You let me believe my father was dead. I thought I was like a daughter to you.”
“And that’s why I tried to get you out. The music was the least of it. But you fought and you clawed and now you’re here. And thank the gods for that, Selene. I hope you win.” Madame’s laugh was weak. “You’re like a daughter to me. But you are not my daughter.”
Madame struck her cane against one of the mirrors. The glass shattered, raining shards between them, a river of broken things to divide what Selene thought she’d known.
“Clean this up,” Madame said to one of the startled servants before she moved to the stage door, her limp more pronounced.
Cold understanding washed over Selene. She’d lived this moment a thousand times, the precipice between greatness or disaster. She’d always choose the dark. She’d always choose whatever was beyond her. There was no going back to the light.
Some stars burn bright, some stars burn out.
When a star burned out, it didn’t wink out like a candle. The death of a star was a burst of light, more powerful than the life of a star. If this was the end for Selene, she wouldn’t fade into nothing. She’d go out like a supernova.
She took her place in line. Selene could not look away from the mirrors. She searched each silvery surface for some hint of Dante. For the promise of him. If he was the ghost in the mirrors, then he should be here. She should see the scythe’s edge of his smile. The cold impossibility of his eyes.
The mirrors had come too late.
“Welcome,” Madame Giroux said. Her tone implied anything but. “Tonight, as you all know, is L’Opéra du Magician.”
Selene took a breath.
Chapter 39
There was no sea of gold and blue to look over and comfort Selene. The auditorium was filled. All colors of silk and satin and soft, fine linen against the velvet seats. Fans fluttered and overshined boots scuffed against the floor. The chandelier was lit, casting a golden glow on everyone and everything. Thousands waiting to see who the next King’s Mage would be.
Priya stood at the opposite end of the stage. She was dressed in shades of silver and teal. There was a little red ink on her hands. She smiled poisonously when Selene walked out, and then swallowed that poison. Selene’s dress both reflected and swallowed the light. It was a living thing, like a serpent with all black scales. Like the deepest part of night, when all the fear has gone.
Selene hoped Priya would win. She’d be free from her engagement but unable to live. Trapped in the position of the King’s Mage, Priya would see what it was like to serve someone other than herself. It was exactly what she deserved. Selene blew a breath of darkness and watched Priya pale.
Selene was last. The final piece, right after Gigi. She kept her eyes closed through most of the performances, listening to the rhythms and colors of the voices. One after the other. Priya abandoned her flowers, instead creating a storm big enough to carry the boom of her voice. Some of her notes were ragged from her screaming.
The rest were as Selene expected: perfect. Cameron in splendid, honeyed pitch and colors too bright to be real. Ramin’s growling bass and the heat and terror of his constructed hell. Everyone at their best. The audience was enraptured, a cacophony of applause with each performance.
And then there was Gigi. She was up on her toes in a flash, the music delightful and suited best to her bubbly personality. Illusion, again. But this time, it was forest. Gigi pirouetted and dipped into an arabesque. The animals that surrounded her looked so real that even Madame Giroux gave them a second glance. Selene knew the moment she had the audience.
A unicorn stepped out of the shadow, so well-crafted he could be real. He bowed to Gigi, and the two of them danced across the stage. And then Gigi did something Selene did not expect. She stilled her feet, folded herself into the center of the stage. She let the unicorn rest its head in her lap. The orchestra went pianissimo. And Gigi sang. Not her usual whisper of melody, meant only to channel the magic and go unheard. This was a piece of Gigi’s heart, vulnerable and raw. It wasn’t what anyone would have expected. It was so much better.
