Selene’s fingers grazed the fine wood. It was polished, but the edges were scuffed. A little scratched, a little worn. It lookedlike it had traveled around the world and back. Perhaps it was an answer to the ghost’s new riddle, a music box of sorts.
She opened the box cautiously.
A single damask rose nestled into the blue velvet. It was the softest, palest pink, like the beginning of a sunrise. It was so lovely and fragile Selene was afraid she’d break it with a touch. There was an envelope tucked against the lid.
She broke the royal seal, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat.
Dearly Selene,
Shall I sing you a song? Shall I spin you a tale?
Or shall I meet you out at the garden at midnight when the fullness of the moon will be our only spy?
Warmly, coldly, and all else in between,
Victor
P.S. Never better late.
Selene’s hands trembled. He remembered. More than remembered. She thought of all the silly rhymes they’d put together. The adventures they’d had: tea plates shattered while attempting ancient games, indignant geese stripped of their best featherswhile they attempted to form wings for flight, damask roses strewn about her room for her birthday, for apologies, for a reminder that things hold a moment of beauty before they fade and die.
She picked up the rose. It moved the way flowers moved. If she hadn’t known it was glass by the translucent edges and the coldness of its flesh, she would have thought it was real. The glass so delicate she could feel it warp from the warmth of her hands. If she hadn’t touched it, she wouldn’t have known.
He’d brought her a flower that would never die.
There was a part of her that wanted to watch it shatter. A part of her that wanted to take it down below the opera house and watch it sink into the depths of the water. A part of her that wanted to plant a garden of this glass and spend the rest of her days marveling at the beauty.
She let that coldest part of her win. Indifference made easy, followed by disappointment and resentment. Victor was here, but it was too late. She put the rose back in the case. It was the first of many gifts, no more consequential than the dresses and furs and jewels that would soon consume her side of the room—attempts to woo her into a noble house, should she fail to win L’Opéra du Magician. He was merely a man who had the advantage of memory. A man, and no more.
“Who is it from?” Gigi said casually. As if she hadn’t seen the seal.
“Victor.” Selene held out the note and showed it to Gigi. “When I left the palace, he promised he’d come for me. I suppose this is his way of apologizing.”
Gigi smirked. “I told you he remembered.”
“I am difficult to forget.”
Selene thought of the way the ghost had looked at her. Even now, it made her heart move: stretto, presto, and all the things a heart did when it felt too much. She forced herself to take measured breaths.
“What was he like?” Gigi eyed the flower.
“Victor was impetuous. Impossible.” Selene shook away the memories. Shook away the tightness crawling up her throat.
Gigi adjusted one of the flowers on her gown. “If the stories are true, nothing has changed.”
One thing had changed: Selene was no longer a part of his story.
“I wish him all the best.” She shut the box and put it on her dresser. She palmed her father’s silver watch and put it in her pocket. She needed his spirit with her tonight. “He’s the least of my concerns now. Shall we?”
Gigi twirled. “We shall.”
Chapter 21
The last time Selene had been in a carriage, she’d been ripped from her life at the palace and foisted into a new one. There was a strangeness to this reversal: going back to the palace with a sense that she was already sundered. She had been fortunate enough to be placed in a carriage with Gigi. There her luck had run out. Priya and Ramin shared the carriage with them as well. Poor Ramin looked miserable, nearly smothered in the amaranthine, floral, and gold gowns that overwhelmed the space.
Priya wrinkled her nose and fixed her eyes on Selene. “I’m surprised you had the audacity to even come, Selene. Especially considering you only have a chance because what’s-his-name lost his mind.”
And it was like lightning. A flash of movement, and then the crack of sound. Gigi lowered her arm back into her lap. Priya’s lovely cheek was red and getting redder.
