She knew that Revelio had performed her piece, like she knew that Selene had pushed herself to the edge with a song that was never meant to be sung.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. Selene knew she was good. And that wasn’t a trip of ego or delusion. It was a fact. Selene Dreshé was born on a clear, cloudless night and she was good at magic. She knew what she was capable of, and it was so much more than this.
Devastation burned beneath Selene’s skin like the magie du sang. All this potential and talent left to rot, like a ripe plum burst against the earth. She didn’t know how to make herself known. She didn’t know how to be more. But then, what if that wasn’t enough? What if she was never enough?
Selene steadied herself on the music stand. She wished the edges had been sharp enough to cut away the terrible ache in her fingers and toes and head. It wasn’t enough to be good. It wasn’t enough to be great. She needed to be ruthless.
Some stars burn bright, some stars burn out.
The violence of a light so powerful, it shone from millions of miles away. A fire so hot, it created its own mass, own gravity. She needed to be a force of nature. A star, a star, a star. And if she went out, she’d take them all with her.
She sharpened her words into points.
“You know I am the best mage here.”
Selene waited for admonishment. She’d spoken out of turn.
“I want what is best for you, Selene.” Madame kept playing. “That pretty little prince of yours would take you away from here. You could have a life outside of this opera house.”
“I don’t want another life.” Selene could scream, but she wouldn’t. “He doesn’t even remember me.”
“Make him remember.”
Selene drew in a breath. Victor didn’t matter to her. She had moved on. But the ghost? She could help him remember. Then she could fulfill her promise and get him out.
Resolve burned through her. “Stay out of my way.”
Madame faltered on the note and recovered quickly. She did not speak. Selene’s rage moved from a boil to a simmer. She counted the measures, tapped the rhythms on the inside of her palm. The magie du sang bubbled beneath her skin. It rushed with her blood, pulsing and pulling to be let out. She wanted to. She longed to prick her fingers and build a dragon out of shadow and wanting. Big enough that she could climb on its back and fly away—straight to the palace where she belonged. Madame worked her way through the last movement of Selene’s aria. She leaned into the end, closing her eyes and letting those final notes resonate.
“There is a bird,” Madame said. “That lays an egg so beautiful that it is sought out, hollowed, and displayed. It is treasure to kings and emperors.”
Selene knew of this. She had seen the eggs lined up in the palace. That same bird was engraved on her father’s pocket watch. “The silver-breasted nightingale.”
“Only a few remain. The shell is beautiful. But unless it breaks, you have nothing but a pretty, empty thing.”
“Am I the bird or the broken shell?”
“That is all for today.” Madame looked up from the piano. “Go prepare for your ball.”
Chapter 19
Selene flew down the stairs, crossing the lake with urgency. The water seemed to know, churning and bubbling to the same cadence as her stretto heart. She stood in front of the mirror and took the seed from her pocket. The outside was ridged. She brought it to her mouth, feeling each of the contours against the softness of her lips, like a kiss. It had to be enough. She needed this one thing to feel like a victory. Just one good thing.
She couldn’t save Benson and she couldn’t heal Gigi and she couldn’t steal back the time she’d spent believing Madame Giroux was on her side. But she could watch the blood well; she could press her thumb against the glass of the mirror. The red soaked in. Selene quieted her heartbeat until it was barely more than a whisper, slowed her breathing adagissimo.
With her heart nothing more than the echo of an echo, the mirror gave way. She pushed through the cold, silvery film into the dark.
The light shocked her. There were great wings of golden feathers stretching above her. Like angels had descended to scare away the dark. Each of the feathers was perfectly articulated, the rachis bright white and the veins a softer light.
The ghost stood at their center, bathed in golden light. He’d rolled up his sleeves so they tightened around his thick, corded biceps. She wished she was a different kind of artist and could render this image permanent in paint on canvas, capture this unearthly beauty and show the whole world its wonders. His cold blue eyes met hers.
“Welcome back, Selene.” He banished the wings, replacing them with spinning orbs.
“Joseph? Ambrose?”
“No,” he said.
“Martin.”
