“You are music and you do music and you have nothing except music,” he mused. “Are you a prisoner, too?”
Selene did not think about the great doors in the foyer that were forbidden from being opened or the strict curfews or the brilliant summer days that passed with the students of the opera house locked inside. She thought of her father, bent over his piano with trembling hands and exhaustion so deep it curved his spine.
“No,” Selene said, too quickly. The ghost seemed to take note. “If the music helps you remember, why do you stop singing?”
“Because I’m afraid.” His voice was pianissimo. One of the snakes of shadow reached for him. He dismissed it with a look.
“Afraid of what?” Selene looked around at the opaque, whirling dark.
“You ask too many questions.”
“You give too few answers.”
He laughed again—that rich, musical sound. She wanted to fold herself inside it, let it make her new. That surprised her. Being here, being with him filled her with a headiness like drinking too much wine.
Selene focused on the stars she’d created. The stars that shouldn’t exist, bright and glowing like living gemstones. There was music in them. She could feel the brightness of the notes, the motif cut through each facet like it was captured within. A remarkable experience, something she couldn’t fathom in the light of day. She felt for the dark. There wasn’t music there. It was magic and somethingelse.
The ghost watched her, waiting.
“This goes against everything I’ve been taught,” Selene said.
“Perhaps you’ve had the wrong teachers.”
She thought of her father. Of Madame Giroux at the piano. Of the various voice teachers she’d run out of the opera house. Not on purpose, at first. She was relentless. They couldn’t challenge her and she’d had no problem correcting them. After that, Selene had studied exclusively with Madame Giroux, who loved rules. She wrapped them around Selene like a shield, while still pushing her to be the best. Selene dove deep into the history and the theory of music and magic, filling herself with every possibility. Once she knew the rules, she could break them.
This was different. Selene could feel the rules fracturing around her, shattering like stained glass. What else could magic do if it could create a place like this?
A tendril of shadow threaded toward her. She could feel the pulse of it, like a beating heart. It called to her, wanted her,neededher. Selene took a step forward, the weight of all these years of magic and music and untapped sorrow heavy on her.
“Can you wield the dark?”
Selene reached out her fingers, like she might touch it. If she let the darkness have her—just for a moment—she might finally feel at peace. The darkness purred, drawing her in and blurring her thoughts. Wasn’t this everything she wanted? Wasn’t the lure of the dark sweeter than the promise of prestige? Selene could have that. She could finally rest. She could forget all the terrible things she’d done.
“Don’t.” There was power in his command.
Selene pulled her hand back, suddenly aware of where she was and what she was doing. The darkness slipped back into the void. Selene turned sharply to the ghost. His hand was stretched as if to pull her from her reverie, long fingers curling into a fist to fall to his side.
The ghost’s chest heaved. His eyes were weighted with memory. “The dark takes things from you.”
Selene traced the edges of the prison. There was no reprieve here, no place that offered the barest hint of shelter. “How do you fight it?”
His smile was half-mad. “Sometimes I let it have me.”
“You remember?”
“When you speak the words, it’s like waking up from a dark dream to the fresh light of morning and feeling unworthy of the sun.”
He turned his face up as if remembering what that was like, as if the existence of the sun had just returned to him. He was so beautiful, impossibly lovely. She could sing a tableau of this moment and no one would believe it was real. She understood what it was to emerge from dark into light. The familiarity of that web tangled her, guilt and grief and ambition coalescing, only ebbing when she disappeared into music.
“I know that feeling.”
“We are alike, then. Prisoners, in our own way.” The ghost’s cold eyes softened. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“Selene Dreshé.”
“Selene.” He said her name like a prayer, a plea, a song. “How did you find me?”
“I heard your voice and followed it into the dark.”
