Someone had taken the time to grind glass small enough to pass it off as sugar. Someone had sprinkled it on those beautiful tartes. This wasn’t just stolen music or a cruel trick with a mirror. Camille could die.
“Who would do this?” Gigi looked at her own plate, heaped with countless desserts. She pushed it away, stood like she was going to do something about it. Benson reached for her hand and shook his head. Gigi sat back down.
Selene glanced around the room. Each face was a mask of shock and horror, even as Camille was taken. Even as the blood was wiped up from the floor. Even as the plate with the doomed tarte was carried away. This was worse than stolen music. So much worse.
Madame Giroux circled the room. Her eyes were dark, discerning slits. She scrutinized each one of them.
Madame stopped in front of one place setting. Cecile—Camille’s twin—kept her eyes downcast. The horror and guilt were clear on Cecile’s pretty face. A mirror to Camille’s, save for the blood and the agony and the terror. Selene didn’t understand. Cecile had performed well today. What had she been thinking? Selene wanted to win, but not if it cost her friend her voice, her life.
Madame stood beside her, fingers wrapped around the wolf’s head on her cane.
“What have you done?”
Cecile burst into tears. “I didn’t know she’d take such a big bite.”
Gigi reached under the table and took Selene’s hand.
“Pack her things,” Madame said to Milton. “Someone will fetch her within a quarter hour. And notify the king. It’s gone too far this time.”
Milton took Cecile by the arm. Her sister’s blood splattered on her sleeve.
“The rest of you are dismissed. There will be food available direct from the kitchen if there is anything you need.”
Selene looked for Priya. But Priya was distressed and ashen. Blood had splattered onto her dress and she didn’t seem to notice.
Selene tossed her napkin over her untouched bowl of soup. She took the crystal goblet with her, a fitting vessel. When it was empty, she could catch a raindrop in it. A piece of the sky.
“Did that really happen?” Benson said. “Or am I trapped in some terrible nightmare?”
“If we are trapped in some collective dream, I wish someone would wake us up.” Gigi’s font of joy had run dry.
“Maybe we all belong someplace else. A place people can just be happy.” Benson draped his arm around Gigi.
“I already found that place.” Gigi burrowed into Benson’s side, adoration bright on her face.
Selene tangled her fingers in her hair. Camille and Cecile were gone. Two less people vying for spots in L’Opéra du Magician. A few more misfortunes and Selene wouldn’t need the ghost or his magic or a way to set him free.
It was a terrible thought, and she banished it as quickly as it came. No one should be harmed for the sake of art.
Except.
Selene ran her thumb over the crisscross of scars on her fingertips. Pain had a purpose. Even this pain. Selene could feel the burn of magic from standing witness to Camille and Cecile’s downfall. The truth of it left its mark inside her like a brand. This was the worst of her, the ugliest part.
“I almost grabbed that tarte. I was behind her. It had the ripest berries.” Gigi shivered. “Why would Cecile do something like that?”
“To win.” It was a drive Selene knew well. “At any cost.”
“It sounds so cold when you say it like that.”
It wasn’t cold. It was the heat and pressure needed to turn coal into diamond. Wanting something so badly that all the lines blurred into an arrow pointing straight to the goal. Selene knew Gigi was just as ruthless, even if she dressed it up in glitter and bows. There were no other ballerinas in the opera house. Gigi had put in the work to be the best—bloody pointe shoes and aching muscles. A different sort of rancor.
“What do we do now?” Benson looked to Selene like she was their guide through tragedy.
“Go upstairs and go to sleep.” Selene pushed him in the direction of the upper dormitories. “Or you’ll be no use when your name is called.”
“How am I supposed to sleep after seeing that?”
“Chamomile and honey. It’s good for the voice.”
