The music began. Benson was a mellow baritone, voice lilting and lyrical and easy to get lost in. He started with water: summoning it from the air with the familiar motif. It formed a shining ball in his hands—reflecting the fire of the stage light. His hands were steady and still. All focus and perfect concentration. He was going to turn the water to mist, weaving illusion into the water and the rolling clouds of gray.
It was in his eyes, the way they reflected the flicker of the stage lights. The confidence near mania. He wasn’t going to just fill the stage.
It rolled down into the pit and beyond, forming around the chairs. It was beautiful. But there was something else to it. More than art. It struck Selene that this could be used to conceal ships at sea or secret lovers or soldiers preparing for ambush. It wasn’t just the scuffed military buttons in her purview. Selene had pondered this before: the fine line between art and war.
Victor leaned forward. Selene could see that look in his eyes,the mischief and fascination. It was the same way he used to look at an unreachable pomegranate after summer had turnedinto fall. Somehow, his fingers always ended up stained with it.
Benson’s voice surged, summoning more water. It sapped from the air, from the floor, from Selene’s skin. The ball of water expanded. The story inside grew bigger. It was the story of a tailor and the dancer he made tutus for, falling in love stitch by stitch. This sort of thing pleased a crowd. It was exactly like her father had done, turning the song into a story. Behind it, she could see his reflection in the shimmering water. She knew he could see when it started to go wrong, too, because something in his expression shifted.
Selene formed her fingers into claws. The skin above her clavicle—which had healed into thin, pretty scars—ached and itched. Memories and nightmares summoned like water unto mist, unbidden by song or chant.
The music stopped.
The magic did not.
Benson’s mouth moved without sound. His body twitched and jerked. The ball of water expanded. Edges faded into mist. Growing and growing until itwasthe stage. The lights hissed out, steam swallowed up by the great ball of water. The orchestra fled, protecting their precious instruments. The mist swallowed Selene. The water drenched her outstretched hands. Reaching like she might stop it.
There would be no stopping it. She knew, like she knew the frantic rhythm of her heart. Like she knew the burning of her lungs from the wall of water. Like she knew the moment it was finished.
The bubble popped. Water sprayed all over the stage and auditorium, drenching the curtains, the musicians, the seats.
Shouts of joy, of rage, of relief.
And then a mournful keening. The sound was its own magic, spraying sorrow over the stage with more force than even the water had carried.
Not this,she thought.
Selene ran to him.
Gigi was there, caught up in the arms of her mother, fighting to get to him. Madame Giroux held Gigi in a vise grip. She knew how dangerous it was when a mage lost their mind.
Selene didn’t care.
Benson was curled on the stage, head in his hands. His whole body shook with a violence Selene expected but that made her sick to witness. She dropped down beside him, nearly slipping on the slick stage. It was all dark around them, the few remaining candles casting strange shadows over his face. One by one, her competitors sang for light. It rose from the theater like a moon, growing brighter as they stood at the edge of thestage—pure and beaming, untethered by fire. It would have been beautiful, had it been close enough to reach her. But they kept their distance. They knew enough to do that.
Selene focused on Benson’s hands. They were pressed to whiteness on the dark wood.
“I’m here.” She brushed her fingers over his. Gently, gently, like touching a feral, wounded animal. He flinched at her touch, then relaxed into it. He rested his face against her knees.
“Careful,” Madame Giroux said.
Like she needed to tell Selene. Like Selene didn’t already know. Madame stood a few feet away, arm held up. Protection for the other students. Protection for herself.
“Benson,” Selene whispered.
He pushed himself up slowly; it was a good sign. If he knew his name, there was hope. There was a possibility. He could come back from this.
Then she saw his eyes.
They were frantic and wild. The warmth was gone. His pupils were blown wide. Endless, black, haunted caverns. Music echoed from the bottomless dark. His lip was split. Blood dripped down his chin.
All the hope emptied from her, the way all of Benson had emptied from his eyes. He was gone. She knew. She knew it in the way he wrenched back. In the way his fingers danced across the puddles on the stage with a frenetic energy. In the way his lips curled, showing all his teeth.
He snarled, winding back like a spring.
Somewhere, someone screamed.
Benson lunged.
