Until the lightning struck.
Selene wouldn’t just emulate her father; she would surpass him. She would remind everyone what a Dreshé could do.
And so she would sing real lightning—let it sunder the air and sweeten it. Ozone resting against her tongue like a sun-ripe berry. She’d take the worst thing that had ever happened to her—the worst thing she had ever done—and turn it into a triumph.
There was a moment when the notes coalesced—illusion, water, lightning—and then split into three, all striking notes in the elaborate melisma, rising to a sustained high note that worked for all three motifs. Selene only needed to hold that note and maintain the illusion and water, with the melody sustained in the violin and cello. Then she would have her storm.
She’d practiced and practiced the vocal line, but never had the proper accompaniment to prove her theory. Until now. This should work. It had to work.
Selene sang the note, loud and clear, like the toll of a bell, and readied herself for the new thread of magic.
The magic pulsed through her. Power surged, all three motifs coming together, just as she’d wanted.
This was it.
The edges of Selene’s mind stretched; the magic channeled through her. The storm—a hurricane—pulled into the air. It was a thing of terrible beauty and infinite power.
Her father was in the center of it all. She imagined him sitting at their little piano in the cottage, plucking out melodies for her to imitate. Remembered his praise when she sang the salt out of the seawater to sprinkle over their dinner. His eyes lit up when she sang, how he’d say again and again:Sing for me.
She felt where it went wrong, slipping from her fingers like the memories of her father’s voice, the brightness of his laughter. There, and gone, replaced by Father’s face when he realized what he was about to lose, his features contorting with fear. Then his pupils blown black. Musician’s fingers tearing at her throat. Making sounds no human should make.
There was too much magic.
It tore through her, its own kind of storm. Selene could not accommodate the breadth of power. It pushed against the limits of her mind, threatening to break it.
For one, wild moment, Selene considered letting it take her. The magic was intoxicating and endless. She could be endless, too, if she just gave in; she could go on forever: power and magic and bliss.
She knew better than to let the magic have her.
Selene let go of the illusion, hoping to compensate with the water to carry the elements. The magic unbalanced inside her. She tried to pool her focus, but it was too late.
Everything else fell away.
Except.
Lightning volleyed through the auditorium. It struck one of the golden statues that clung to the walls. The gold shuddered and dripped, turning the carved angelic face into a monstrosity. It struck again, setting a seat in the auditorium on fire. The orchestra halted; musicians flattened in the pit with shouts of protest and alarm.
Selene gasped for air, tasting electricity on her tongue.
What had she done?
Monsieur Fenrir and all the students curled under their seats. Only Madame Giroux stood, her cane in the air. Singing for control. It struck a final time, hitting her cane like a lightning rod.
And then there was nothing but the saccharine taste of ozone, the scent of burning velvet, and the destruction left behind.
Madame regarded Selene from over the rim of her glasses, her mouth a tight line, eyes lit with something more than disappointment. Monsieur Fenrir lifted his head above the seats. The representative made a quick note on his papers.
“That is all for today,” Madame said. She sang water out of the air, sending it to the burning chair. The orchestra mages stood below the twisted statue, singing the molten metal back into shape. Drop by drop, calling back the damage Selene had wrought.
Shame crackled through her like residual lightning. This was a disaster—more than the damage, more than the ruined song. She’d ended the auditions with her calamity. Sure, they’d continue tomorrow. But she’d be remembered for shutting them down on the first day. The papers would have their fun with her. The thought made her sick.
Gigi half dragged Benson up the stairs, still leaning on him for support. She looked like she was made of lightning and about to strike. “You have to tell Madame. This isn’t right. We can fix—”
Madame Giroux’s cane struck the stage. Gigi hesitated for a second, still determined. Selene shook her head sharply. After what had just happened, she doubted it would do any good. Gigi sighed and went with Benson out of the auditorium.
“Selene.” Disappointment crept over the edge of Madame’s voice. “A moment.”
“Yes, Madame.”
