“His name is Benson.” Gigi’s voice was a deadly whisper.
“You slapped me,” Priya said incredulously.
Gigi’s warm brown eyes were so reminiscent of the dark of the mirror that it made Selene’s fingers ache. “That’s not all I can do.”
It wasn’t even half of what Priya deserved, but it was something. It was enough in this moment. Selene did her best to contain a smile of satisfaction. Ramin didn’t even try. His grin was wide and silly. He looked to Selene and Gigi with an unearned solidarity. He’d run with Priya’s crowd, knocked sheet music out of their hands and laughed when they tripped on outstretched legs. Perhaps he’d finally grown up, tired of her unnecessary cruelty.
Selene only managed a half smile back. It was too late for him to make this right, to turn the tide. Perhaps there was redemption, but where was redemption without contrition? Where had he been during the countless times Priya and her ilk were making everyone else’s lives miserable? Where was he when Benson was losing his mind?
The carriage wheels clattered as they moved from the cobblestone street to the white marble road. Selene knew the change in sound and what it marked. She held her breath.
The palace’s white marble walls were bright in the starlight, brighter because of the new moon. The lack of it made Selene long for the magic and the music of the mirror and for the ghost. He was a bright spot in the darkness, a single star in the darkest part of night. Even without his memories, he’d know how to help her feel this. She imagined the warmth and musicality of his voice.
What is it you want?
This. She wanted to be the King’s Mage and spend the next seven years in the palace. She wanted to sing magic and push its boundaries. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be everything.
Outside, hired magicians volleyed orbs of light over the big, arched doorway. Rows of footmen clad in crisp white and gold livery waited in a perfect line. They were completely indiscernible from one another, as if they’d been hired as a matching set. The coaches before them unloaded heaps of jewel-toned attendees. Ball gowns and velvet suits and silk dresses that hung on the skin like spiderwebs. They were all masked and fighting to get inside. Selene had seen her share of parties at the palace, but nothing like this. The air shivered with magic; melodies carefully intertwined as the various mages sang individual magics for different effect. Offra—the current King’s Mage—would have orchestrated all of this. She was a talented composer, andit showed.
There was nothing guaranteed. Not her life, not her mind, not her place in the competition. There was no more she could do. She’d either proven herself, or she hadn’t. Selene let herself bask in the splendor.
All of this was for her.
She should have been over the moon, heart beating allegro. She should have been overwhelmed with emotion—of any kind—following in her father’s footsteps. But her mind drifted: to Benson, to the ghost, to Victor. She felt the oppressive crush of time. She had so much to do—find a song that sang itself, free the ghost, win this competition—and yet she wanted to settle into this grand debut.
“Selene, are you coming?” Gigi was outside the carriage, being led up the steps by one of the many footmen. Madame Giroux waited at the top of the stairs.
Selene took the footman’s hand. Let him lead her out of the carriage. How many times had she run up and down these stairs with Victor? How many times had she crossed this threshold with her father? She imagined him beside her, taking her hand and leading her toward her destiny. She was doing this for him.
The footman took Selene by the arm and whisked her away toward the ballroom.
The palace was as she remembered. Everything crisp and white and clean. She and Victor often made a mess of the walls and floor and furniture with sticky fingers and muddy shoes. She narrowed her eyes at the pillar to the right of the entry. She thought she could make out a dark smudge from where they’d burst a pomegranate in an unfortunate game of catch.
And this was where her father used to teach her about acoustics, singing all around the room to show how the dome caught his voice. In this hall, she’d skipped after Victor and, on one of the white rugs, skinned her knee. She’d bled all over the floor. The servants had rushed to clean up the red, leaving Selene crying and bleeding until her father found her and swept her away. Down that wing would take her to their suite.
Selene stepped into the ballroom.
The air was sweet with the scent of perfumes and cakes. Selene was dizzy with the swirl of dresses, the endless towers of champagne, the bodies that spun and moved in a kaleidoscope of colors. Masks ranged from simple black silk to elaborate horned monstrosities. A woman with a mask made of grape leaves and real fruit plucked one and popped it into her partner’s mouth. A man in floor-length burgundy tailcoats and a mask with exaggerated features kissed a beaked girl in a dress made of pale pink feathers. She spun away from him, her feather skirt puffing out. They laughed and laughed and laughed until the sound was dissonance and distortion, and it was all Selene could do to keep from pressing her hands to her ears.
There was a mage stationed every few feet in elaborate palace finery, softly singing illusions of light and stars over the ballroom. The king and queen sat in their ornamented thrones. Beloved, as always. The king’s benevolence was evident in the teeming hall of adoring subjects—a mix of subjects from every class and creed, only marked by a difference in dress. Anyone could enter and be entertained by the king’s court, regardless of station. It was something that set Mondreves apart from other nations. Victor looked so much like his father. Those same dark eyes and bone structure, though the king kept his silver speckled hair cut short and maintained a beard. He was handsome and regal and everything a king should be. The queen was dressed in ceremonial white. Her copper hair was streaked in gray and she slouched in her throne, clearly bored. She’d never taken much interest in her kingdom or children—save for Henri.
On the king’s other side sat the reigning King’s Mage: Offra. Her onyx necklace caught the light. The last time Selene had seen that necklace, it had been coated in her blood, around her dead father’s neck. She wondered if the stone still shifted, as if liquid inside, or if that was the workings of her overactive imagination.
Alexandre, the heir, was conspicuously missing. Henri was there. He looked so much like Victor. There was less gold in his hair but his eyes lacked the light and laughter. Selene hoped she would not run into him tonight.
Victor’s chair was empty.
Good. It was better this way. Selene did not have room for him in her life. She had a dance floor to command, a song that sang itself to find, and a competition to win. Victor could bring her all the roses he liked. He was nothing to her.
“Isn’t this amazing?” Tears glimmered in Gigi’s eyes. “We’re finally here.”
Selene squeezed her hand, her stomach still sick from Madame’s words. “At long last.”
Gigi pressed the tips of her fingers into the corners of her eyes to catch and stem the tide of sorrow. “Benson wouldn’t want us to be sad. We have to make this the best night—for him.”
Selene put on her best smile. “I can do that. For Benson.”
For you.
