“Did she deserve it?” When they were younger, Priya had filled Benson’s only pair of shoes with honey. He’d worn only socks for weeks. Needless cruelty was her hallmark, now heightened by L’Opéra du Magician. “What am I saying? Of course she deserved it.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Selene whispered.
“My hip.” Tears choked Gigi’s voice. “I don’t know if I can perform today.”
“You should have killed her.” Benson wrapped his arm around Gigi, helping her keep the weight off her injured hip. “I’ll kill her.”
Gigi relaxed against Benson. “She’s not worth it. She’ll never be worth it.”
On the other side of the stage, Priya held court, garnering sympathy from her friends. The twins—Camille and Cecile—gasped at Priya’s tale. Revelio dragged his lips down the line of her neck. She held on to him, the weight of another man’s engagement ring clearly not enough to keep her hands off.
Madame Giroux held up her pocket watch by the chain. The second hand settled over the twelve and she struck her cane against the stage. Selene took her place in the half-moon around Madame.
Frantic footsteps of students desperately trying to make it before it was too late echoed in the hall.
Madame sang a few crisp notes that made up the motif for metal, slamming the door to the stage shut. Locks clicked into place.
And like that, those students’ chances were gone. Selene heard sobs. Shouts of protestation. Fists against the door and melodies wrangled through frantic throats. But it was too late. In the next hour, they would be ushered out of the opera house, condemned to normal lives. A dream, a wish, a lifetime of work, gone. There was a possibility they’d find work as magicians, but it wouldn’t be easy. There were so many hopeful mages willing to risk life and limb trying to carve out a reputation in the city and garner patronage. Some noble houses wanted the next best thing and some houses preferred someone loyal, someone who would last. Foreign courts would gladly open their doors to a talented magician who’d trained in the Opera Magique.
But without the prestige of L’Opéra du Magician, it might not be enough. They’d be lucky to find a place with a high enough wage to sustain a life, a family. There were plenty of street magicians, singing tableaux on the street corners, hoping to catch a few coins. And there were those who did magic—not magicians, per se—singing the fires lit in noble houses and sweeping up rooms with a collection of notes. Practical magic, nothing more than utility. Not music, not performance, nothing but a vessel for quick and basic tasks. There was still some risk, but those mages rarely pushed themselves. To Selene, it seemed like a fate worse than death.
Those who’d been born into wealth would be fine. They’d fold back into their fancy dresses and horse-drawn carriages with little thought for the years they’d spent in the opera house. Those without titles and wealth—like Selene, like Benson—would look back on the wasted years with endless regret as they tried to make up for the time they’d lost working a trade. If they were lucky, they could find a steady gig, but those seemed few and far between. Talent seemed a minuscule measure of success.
Selene didn’t concern herself with that kind of stress. She was confident about her chances, and even when the barest sliver of self-doubt crept in, she remembered she had her name. She was the daughter of the great Giuseppe Dreshé. That was enough to get her through any door, and her voice would keep her there. She could go anywhere.
But there was only one door that mattered. Only one place she wanted to be.
“You know why you are here.” Madame took out a deck of cards. She discarded three, flinging them out and singing them gone. A burst of fire, and then nothing—Madame used practical magic without fear of scrutiny. She was a teacher; she had to teach. “You are the brightest mages in the land. And your time here has made you the best. L’Opéra du Magician is not about memorization or mesmerization or even the music. This is your chance to show what magic can do.” Her dark eyes slashed through them all. Selene felt the cut, hope welling inside her like blood to a wound. “Each of you will perform your audition piece. Your years of training come down to a single aria.”
A ripple of uneasiness moved through the remaining thirteen competitors. Madame Giroux didn’t have to explain what that meant. They had all seen it firsthand: when the magic went wrong. Selene didn’t think of her father, but of the many hopefuls she’d studied with over the years who hadn’t made it to this point. One wrong note and their dreams—and sometimes limbs—were shattered.
“Once auditions are finished and the competitors are named, you will be announced and presented at the Unmasking Ball. Then the end begins—with L’Opéra du Magician as your final performance as my students. And one of you will be named the King’s Mage.”
Madame’s eyes rested briefly on Selene. The hairs on the back of Selene’s neck rose. This was it. This was her moment.
Madame struck her cane against the stage and took her place in the third row. Monsieur Fenrir, the manager of the opera house, had slipped in. He slumped back in his seat, looking frazzled, like someone had told him that the sun would continue to rise and it was too much for him to take.
“He’ll quit before the end of the week.” Gigi leaned against Benson as they descended the stairs to the auditorium.
“He can’t. We’re too close,” Selene said.
Gigi smiled with the wisdom of a girl who’d grown up inside the opera house. “Bet on it?”
“The usual?”
Selene reached her hand down to Gigi and discreetly shook before taking her seat a few rows back. Monsieur Fenrir flinched when the palace representative settled beside him. The man was young and handsome, moving with the ease of someone who knew his worth. It was a familiar confidence. For a moment, Selene held on to a spark of hope. But it died when she saw the man’s face. Stupid, to feel this way after all these years. It was not Victor. It would never be Victor.
“And now … ” The cards moved like water between Madame Giroux’s hands. “We begin.”
Chapter 2
Let it be me,Selene thought.
She wanted to be first, needed to be first. Her hand rested on her folio. Music was a language, with each sentence holding the potential for magic. Selene had carefully crafted each motif to tell her father’s story. She’d copied and recopied her aria, burning the pages in between. He was the only mage in history to serve a second time when that season’s mage lost her mind shortly after her debut. Before he was the Mad Mage, he had been someone respected and loved. Someone whose art had meant something. It could mean something again.
Madame drew a card. Selene closed her eyes and imagined her own face there. Willed it to be true. Madame Giroux spent a moment scrutinizing the card, then turned it around.
It was the perfect depiction of Revelio.
