—G
Selene smiled and folded the note and placed it into her top drawer. Her stomach was unsettled, and there was nothing appealing about cold eggs and the now-soggy toast. The cream in her coffee had congealed.
Selene could have sung it warm. She could have used music for practical magic, as she had so many times before. But she didn’t need music. She just needed to want, and then she could have it all.
The exhaustion that clung to her like cobwebs swept away. Selene rifled through the basket on top of Gigi’s dresser. It was an unmitigated disaster, but Selene found what she was after. The needle was shiny and sharp like a tiny rapier. Every few days, Gigi would sit on the edge of the bed and stitch the ribbons into her pointe shoes—as evidenced by the stray threads that clung to her comforter. She wouldn’t miss a single needle. Selene pricked her finger and squeezed to make the drop.
She took the first memory that came to her. Her father, sitting with her on the beach. She didn’t have much from the seaside cottage days. Those memories were precious. Part of her was afraid that the magie du sang would burn through the best and the worst of her and leave her as empty as the ghost. But if what he said was true, she wouldn’t lose the memories, just the ache associated with them. That seemed like a gift. She wanted to remember her father without the pain of his loss. She centered herself around that sorrow.
Except magic was different outside the mirror. Memories of that terrible day swirled in the back of her mind. After so much time not remembering, it seemed strange to reach for it again. It was still there, but softer. The colors were less saturated, blurred around the edges. And that was fine. She could live with that.
The magic pulsed through her veins.
She focused it on how the coffee should taste, sweet and creamy and hot, with a touch of bitterness on the back of her tongue.
Selene brought the coffee to her lips. It was hot and good, the heat of the cup bringing out the ache of her fingertips. This was so much easier, hurting and wanting. She didn’t have to worry that a minor slip in precision would turn the cup bitter or burn through her hands. The ghost’s magic had an unimaginable ease to it. If she hadn’t already promised that she wouldn’t teach anyone, she would be shouting it to the whole world.
She took a moment to enjoy her coffee and consider what it would be like when the ghost was freed. Would the curse that kept space between them be lifted? She could imagine the feel of his scars beneath her fingertips, rising up his forearms to the corded muscle of his biceps, his shoulders, the flutter of his heartbeat in his neck, the edge of his jaw, the crest of his lips. Was his mouth as soft as it looked?
“Selene.”
Gigi stood in the doorway, eyes wide with worry. She was in her best tutu. She looked like a morning glory hung aloft, waiting to bloom. Her hair was slicked back out of her face. Rouge dusted over her lips and cheeks and lids. She was dressed for an audition.
Auditions.
“There’s a new rule, posted in the hallway, as of this morning. All students must attend auditions or forfeit. You have to move. Now.”
Selene’s heart skipped a beat. She placed the mug onto the table carelessly. The hot coffee sloshed over the side. “That seems … pointed.”
“It is.”
Selene gaped. “Help me.”
Gigi was already there, pulling a black raspberry organdy gown from the closet. Selene saw immediately why she picked it—no buttons. Selene drowned herself in the dress. Gigi pulled it down, adjusting it as best she could. The window reflection showed the grooves of Selene’s scars, visible above the neckline of the gown. She reached for a scarf to tie around her throat but grabbed the wrong one. She’d intended to grab the black lace, but she’d reached deep into the drawer. It was too late to correct the mistake; Gigi was already halfway out the door. Selene wrapped the faded blue scarf she’d bought with Victor, years and years ago.
“Come on.” Gigi held out a pair of slippers.
Selene took the stairs by two, thinking of what she could do with the magie du sang. How with a drop of blood and pent-up misery, she could fold the floor in front of her and be in the theater in a half step.
But she couldn’t do that now, not without spilling her secrets. There was a sign on the door, growing clearer with each step.
All students must attend auditions.
The sign seemed deliberately written for her, but why? The rule must have come from Madame or the palace or some combination. It was unnecessary. Why would someone assume that she’d be curled up, wallowing in woe, deep into despair? Let them count her out. Let them think she had nothing left to give.
They made it through as the door started to close and Selene settled into a seat in the auditorium. There was a blank space—conspicuous as a missing tooth—where the chair Selene had struck with lightning had been.
At the front of the auditorium, Madame shuffled the deck slowly, her eyes resting on Selene for a moment too long. She plucked a card from the deck. Turned it to face the gathered singers.
Beautiful, treacherous Priya. She kissed Revelio and walked lazily onto the stage. The stage lights caught her engagement ring and refracted her infidelity.
Priya nodded. The orchestra swelled in the pit below. Priya’s painted mouth began to move.
In another life, Priya might have actually been a singer. Her voice was powerful, large enough to fill all the space in the theater. A dramatic mezzo-soprano with a flair for acting. Had she taken care with her vocal training—solidifying pitch and rhythm and dynamics, learning how to control that big voice—she could have been great. And she’d had the opportunities, of course. The best voice teachers in the world at her disposal. But Priya’s father hadn’t wanted a daughter who could sing. He wanted a daughter who could do magic. So she’d fought her voice lessons, leaning into the pageantry and the magic. Selene watched the way Priya sashayed her hips, the way she unfolded her hands like they had anything to do with the magic. Every step part of the performance.
The air crackled with magic. Priya brought her hands out. There were tiny seeds stuck to her palms—undetectable to the audience. This was a common practice. Magicians could not create something out of nothing. If they wanted flowers, they needed seeds.
But not Selene. Not anymore.
