Marcus centered himself behind his cane. He looked so collected, so different from Monsieur Fenrir. Still, he searched the mezzanine of the theater like it was haunted and he was waiting to catch sight of the famous ghost in the opera house.
“My first act as manager is to introduce you to our new patron: His Royal Highness, Victor Chastain.”
A ghost indeed.
Chapter 16
Selene forgot to breathe. She forgot what breath was. She forgot everything about who she was or what she wanted or what she was trying to do.
Victor was here.
He emerged from the sea of blue velvet and gold gilt like a thief with the key. The buttons on his military jacket were misaligned and his hair was windswept and wild, the chestnut brown bleached copper and gold by the sun. There was a scar on his cheek that hadn’t been there when Selene had known him. His tea-dark eyes were bright in the stage lights. He brought his hands together, joining in his own applause.
Not the boy she remembered; not a boy at all. Victor was aman.
The glow of the chandelier’s candles reflected in his dark eyes. The ground beneath her feet shifted. It was like coming home: not to the palace, not to the opera house, but to the little house above the shore where she’d been close to a dream. It was like the golden light on the water at the end of the day.
Victor moved with the grace of a man born into wealth, like a cat with his claws out. She remembered the way his brow arched up, independent of the other. His jawline hadn’t been so strong then. Nor had he been quite so tall. So much of him had changed. But she’d know him, even in the dark.
His deep brown eyes swept the row of performers. He was here, but not for her.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Gigi whispered. “Like something out of a painting.”
“He’s grown up well,” Selene said begrudgingly. She traced his uneven gait, the place he’d missed shaving below his jaw, the trail of mud he left on her pristine stage. Looking for flaws, hoping for flaws. “But it’s been ages.”
Damn him.
Careless, reckless, insouciant boy. The devil might care, but Selene could not. She begged her heart to stop racing. Willed the bird or bat or whatever foolish creature fluttered inside her stomach to die.
Victor Chastain had always had that effect on Selene. When they were children, he only had to smile and wink, and she’d follow him into trouble. Staining the queen’s dresses with burst pomegranates, filling the sugar bowls with beach sand, releasing all the horses to see how fast they’d run. Selene lost a bit of herself when she was with him, swept up in his charm and easy smile. He’d been the bane of her existence and the balm of her soul. Her first real friend.
And the only person here who knew what happened to her father.
Selene tempered her expectations. “I’m sure he does not remember.”
Gigi’s eyes slimmed to slits. “No one forgets you.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Victor said in that easy voice. How many cakes had she stolen from the kitchens at his bidding? “I am thrilled to be a part of this great competition.”
Madame Giroux arched an eyebrow. Selene could practically hear her thoughts. She allowed the manager his short-lived glory—as long as he didn’t interfere with her performers. There was something about Victor—his coat askew, his dark eyes twinkling in the low lights, the confidence in his broad shoulders and the swagger in his step—that betrayed him. He would not leave anyone in peace.
But who could say no to a prince?
Even the third son, boots laced in scandal and coat buttoned with debauchery. He’d only been back a few weeks and his name was a staple in the papers. Selene tried not to look. But she had seen it, alongside hers and the other performers.
“Welcome.” Madame Giroux bowed her head, not low enough for his station. Victor didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed intrigued. “Shall we continue with our auditions?”
“Please.” Victor flourished with his wrist. He moved down the stairs, disappearing into the sea of seats.
Monsieur Avile followed Victor like a shadow.
Focus,Selene thought.A heart that does not bleed.
A heart that does not bleed.
A heart.
Benson was already at the center of the stage. The tremble had left him. This was his space. He discarded all pretense for the sake of his art. Practice made perfection.
