The rest of them trailed in, spreading out into the seats of the auditorium. Someone had replaced the seat Selene had struck with lightning with a new chair. It shone too brightly, its colors untouched by time or dust.
Madame took her place in the front row of the auditorium. She waited a few minutes. Fenrir entered, looking annoyed. They exchanged words—short and sharp. Selene wasn’t close enough to hear. Madame must have won. She shuffled her cards and pulled the first one out.
Tatiana.
Selene looked at Benson expectantly.
Tatiana was generously curved for her short stature. Her hair hung down in dark waves. Her gown, a rich purple, perfectly complemented her brown skin. She sang something simple and elegant, pouring different colors of sand from glass vials and forming a moving, vertical painting. Tiny bits of sand shimmering in the light. A mother held her child for the first time. Watched the child grow and leave her. The magic in this was not in the motifs, but in the power of Tatiana’s voice. Her rich alto was so luscious and heartbreaking, it was more magic than the shifting, colored sands.
She took her bow and moved back to stand with the other singers. Madame raised an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smile on her lips.
Ramin went next, rumbling out an aria with his true bass. He used fire and illusion to construct hell, centering himself as both the punisher and the punished. It was riveting, but far from the melodic expectations for the competition.
Gerard’s performance was beautifully sung, but the magic was weak. He couldn’t sustain two motifs at the same time. He sang illusion and then wind and then water in a mismatched jumble, as if he’d written the song first and then thought of the magic.
“Just wait,” Benson said. “It’ll be me next.”
And then me,Selene thought. They were almost finished with auditions. She would crash the stage after Benson’s performance and make them rethink everything. She would force them to see her as a contender. There was no way they could ignore her.
Selene studied the adjudicators. Madame was implacable, as always. The representative from the palace was missing, which was unusual. Monsieur Fenrir didn’t have his notebook or pen or anything useful. He wouldn’t stop looking over his shoulder nervously. Like he was afraid. Like he was waiting for the ghost.
The ghost isn’t there,Selene thought.He’s beneath your feet.
Madame cleared her throat and drew a card.
Of course it was Benson. His picture didn’t capture the good hair or the rosy glow of new love, but it was clear enough. He winked at her and stood.
Benson stepped up from the other side of the stage. His suit was immaculate. Pressed and tailored to fit. He stood straight and tall as a birch tree. There was a slight tremble to his hands. He clenched them into fists and took one step into the light.
“Pardon,” Monsieur Fenrir burst out. His dark hair was pulled back with a white ribbon, making the gray threading from his temple more prominent. His hair had been perfectly black three years ago when he’d taken the management position of the theater. “I have an announcement.”
“Can’t this wait?” Gigi’s eyes didn’t leave Benson.
Selene shrugged. “Monsieur Fenrir has never had good timing.”
Fenrir swept into the center of the stage. Benson took a step back.
“I am sad.” He cleared his throat, wiped the glee off his face. “Sad to announce that this is my last day as part of Opera Magique. I have urgent business to attend to in the countryside.”
“He’s lying,” Gigi whispered.
“Does it matter?” Selene said.
There were scattered gasps and curious looks throughout the auditorium. A few gold pieces caught the light of the ornate chandelier as they exchanged hands. Bets laid and won on the tenure of their manager. Somehow, all that gold ended up in Gigi’s pocket. Gambling had come back into fashion since Victor had poured a fortune into all the darkest places of the city. Fenrir didn’t seem to notice—or at least, didn’t care.
Gigi looked abundantly smug. Selene wouldn’t hear the end of this. She had lost, and grimaced thinking of the piles of tutus and old shoes on Gigi’s side of the room she’d have to tidy.
“Please welcome Monsieur Avile, your new manager.”
“Call me Marcus.”
From the darkness of the house, Marcus emerged. He walked with a limp, leaning against a polished wood cane. She recognized him. He’d trained to compete in the last L’Opéra du Magician, seven years ago. He hadn’t made it through the auditions. His hands were calloused, and his body was thick with muscle. Whatever life he’d found, it was very different from the one he’d made here.
Some of the girls shifted, adjusting their hair, puffing out their chests. Marcus was handsome. Anyone could see that. But looking at him made Selene long for the ghost’s cold blue eyes and the cut of his smile. She didn’t want handsome; she wanted unearthly beauty that made her question her very existence. She wished she could have him here, outside of the mirror. She wished he could see her on this stage. His freedom was another riddle to be solved. She could not bleed or sing him out. This was not a matter of wanting; the magic of the mirror was something beyond her understanding. She didn’t even know if it was the same magic. The thought unsettled and thrilled her. The possibilities were endless. And that was the problem. She needed time, which was something she did not have.
“Thank you, thank you. All of you.” Marcus gestured widely. “I am so pleased to be part of this momentous event. I cannot wait to see the talent you possess. Monsieur Fenrir has told me marvelous things.”
Monsieur Fenrir had stepped aside, fading into the back of the auditorium. Selene could practically hear the slap of his shoes on the marble as he ran from the theater. Already gone.
