Revelio looked a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe his luck. He kissed Priya full on the mouth. She whispered something to him and a smile spread across his face.
Selene tensed in her seat, the delicately carved arms of her chair biting into her skin. Gigi reached for her hand and squeezed it apologetically.
Revelio handed the maestro his music. The orchestra sightread as an attempt to prevent sabotage or the arias being leaked to the press. Selene wasn’t worried about that. She had her own ways to protect her music: locks and keys, secret places, pages curling with fire.
Revelio strutted across the stage. His puffed black silk pants gleamed with strips of gold. He’d left his shirt open halfway down his chest, revealing a swath of dark hair and the glistening skin beneath. He must have tanned on the roof, spread out by the copper dome, to turn his olive skin into such a rich bronze.
That was one way to prepare for L’Opéra du Magician.
He flourished dramatically with his hand and nodded to the maestro. The maestro tapped his baton against his music stand. This was it, the moment of silence that always made Selene feel like she was home. The pause for breath before everything was sound.
The baton sliced through the air. The first chord struck—a clever inversion of the tonic, followed by an all too familiar chord progression. The hum of the cello and the weep of the violin resonated through her. Selene knew this melody, down to her bones.
She knew it, because it was hers.
No, she thought.
Her heart beat tumultuoso, disbelief warring with reality. This couldn’t be happening. It was an impossibility. She should do something, say something, rise up and stop him. But the music played on and there was little Selene could do without facing steep consequences. Interrupting another mage’s audition was strictly forbidden.
Selene reached into her pocket, feeling the worn edge of her leather sheaf of sheet music. She knew it was all there; she’d checked it before she’d left her room. How had Revelio gotten her music? She’d been so careful, paranoid even. She dug her nails into her palm, hoping that she’d wake up from this nightmare. This was too terrible to be real.
Revelio disappeared in a puff of purple smoke. Not the stuff of extinguished candles and green boughs bent by wildfires. This was a glittering vapor, more for ambience than anything else, though it was the most dangerous part of the piece. It was difficult to sing since it filled the lungs with something other than air. It smelled of burned sugar—sweet and bitter. Selene had meant it as a transition and a screen for casting her illusion, beautiful and elegant and seamless. She hated the way Revelio popped in and out of the smoke—each time taking a huge breath of the clean air—like it was some cheap sleight of hand. He had her music, but none of her artistry. This was not his story to tell. He’d sped up the tempo, blasting through the delicate lines like they were meant to be shouted instead of sung.
From his shimmering plume of smoke, he cast her a glance.
Dared to wink.
Violence built inside of Selene. How much would it take for her to sing the smoke into poison and watch Revelio choke on his own breath? She could think of a dozen ways she could invert the melody, how she could let it be a whisper or a scream. The louder the better, so he would know exactly who was to blame.
Selene wouldn’t. She couldn’t. There were too many witnesses and too much at stake.
Besides, it would be wrong.
Priya leaned forward, humming the next line. “Brava, Selene. You’ll have to try harder next time.”
Selene flinched. Priya looked like a viper satisfied with its strike. She had done this. Stolen Selene’s music. And she had put it all on Revelio—letting him take the blame, should things go wrong.
Gigi squeezed Selene’s hand tighter, face flushing with anger as the pieces fell into place.
They locked eyes, conveying the rage and pity and despair now shared between them. Gigi glared at Priya with murderous intent.
Revelio’s lyrical tenor crescendoed. He emerged from the smoke, pursued by a dragon with slick scales and wicked eyes. Her dragon hadn’t been this creature of darkness. It was meant to be an homage to her father guiding her to this place, and a nod to his winning performance. Revelio popped out his notes in short staccato. This part was supposed to be soft and lyrical, and then sforzando with the dragon spreading its wings to fly over the auditorium. Lifted by her voice, rising up to meet her father wherever his soul rested.
But Revelio wasn’t a good enough magician for that. He slipped from his illusion to the corner of the stage, still sustaining the dragon, and wrapped himself in a clumsy illusion of armor. He burst back onto the stage accelerando. The dragon’s long claws reached for his throat. He ran toward the dragon, dodging and weaving and finally—with one sustained note—struck the dragon through the heart with his lance.
Stars and smoke settled around him. He took a desperate breath and raised his hand up in triumph. Sweat beaded on his temples.
He bowed. His smile was a lance aimed at Selene.
There were no words to match the devastation. She’d written that piece over years, carrying it in her heart from the first time she’d heard her father’s aria. She’d worked so hard to craft every line, every note perfect, perfect, perfect. It was a piece of her very soul.
Good artists borrowed, better artists stole. Revelio was mediocre at best. He’d taken her structure, her melody, her magic, and cheapened it.
But he’d done it first.
Monsieur Fenrir was on his feet, clapping furiously. The palace representative applauded beside him, pausing to take notes. Madame Giroux did nothing but reach for her deck of cards.
It wasn’t over yet.
