The oily darkness stirred. Rising to take what was not freely given. She held out the pocket watch to the ghost. He didn’t reach for it.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
And she was, she was, she was. She could give up this trinket, in exchange for what she really wanted: to follow in her father’s footsteps. To sing with the ghost. To keep him safe from any more harm.
He closed his fist around the watch. The darkness shivered and pressed in. A shadow lashed out. The ghost dodged effortlessly. The darkness struck again, whirling around him. He moved with a grace she didn’t know he had, like a dancer. She could watch him like this forever, if it weren’t for the shadows that sliced through the air, eager to take any part of him they could.
“What are you doing?” Selene cried.
He looked up at her, still for a moment. His dark hair fell into his eye, his lip curling into a half smile. She wanted to see that smile in the light. “If it wants this so badly, let it take it.”
Selene had seen what the darkness could do. “Not if it will hurt you!”
His expression shifted, softened. He opened his palm and the dark slithered out. It swallowed up the silvery bird and the sound of the clock.
“This I have asked, and you have answered.” He looked defeated, like it was his watch and his father he’d given up. “I’m sorry, Selene.”
“It’s just a watch,” Selene said, even though it wasn’t. “It isn’t him.”
“You still carry your father, Selene. You swore on him. We swear by what matters most.”
“What matters most,” she repeated.
If she’d still had the pocket watch, she’d be able to measure the time that ticked between them. She counted the breaths, tasted the crisp and colorless air around them. She named the scars that moved up his arms like constellations and wondered what magic he had wrought from that pain.
“Well?”
“I’m waiting for you to guess my name.” The shadow of a smile crossed his lips.
“Anthony.” Selene relaxed into the familiar pattern. She ticked each of the names off on her fingers. “Vincent. Harrison.”
“None of those.” The ghost cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you’re writing these down.”
“Ten names,” Selene said. “A thousand more to go.”
A thousand more. Selene relished what that implied. That she’d have more time, endless time. He looked at her with a hopeful sorrow that made her heart ache.
“What is it you want?” His voice was low.
Selene didn’t quite know how to answer that. Something had shifted inside of her.
It wasn’t Victor. She wouldn’t let it be Victor. Her whole life could not be knocked off course by a boy who couldn’t button a jacket. Maybe it was the room filled with smoke, her music almost lost. Maybe it was how close she’d come to losing the ghost.
She turned away from him and worked her sheaf out of her bodice. It was damp with sweat, but the music inside was safe.
“I want to write music with you and use that song to win L’Opéra du Magician.”
“This I have asked, and you have answered.”
“It is my turn for a question.” She tried not to think of the game she played with Victor. “Do you remember a girl? She saw you in the mirror and jumped from the roof of the opera house.”
The ghost shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“She—the girl who jumped—is my teacher. I think she knows of the magie du sang.”
“That’s not possible.” His brow furrowed as the pieces of something came together in his mind. “The magie du sang is mine, a magic I created. She can’t know unless—”
