Selene grasped her trembling hands against her skirt, breathing through the aches in her mind, which had pushed further than it was meant to. She’d tried impossible things before and had felt the effects of too much magic—but nothing quite like this. She’d been close to something. If she’d held on just a moment more, perhaps she could have had it.
But at what cost?
Madame Giroux sighed. “Do you know why I took you in?”
“You knew my father,” Selene said cautiously. She had pieces of the story, but not the whole. Madame had been a new teacher when her father was a student, before he took the title of the King’s Mage. She’d been young and ambitious and had been appointed as head before Selene’s father started his second tenure. The papers noted she’d been handpicked by the king.
“When you were dropped on my doorstep, orphaned and still bleeding from the cuts on your throat, I asked you to prove yourself.”
Selene had only been thirteen—too young to train at the opera house—when she’d been unceremoniously tossed into that tiny carriage with a trunk and a satchel of gauze and salve for her neck. The palace had disappeared behind her like a dream she couldn’t quite hold on to. Victor’s screams still echoed within her. She’d been deposited on the snow-dusted steps of the Opera Magique with her whole life lost to her. The driver argued at the door for long enough that Selene bled through her bandages, staining the lapis blue of her cloak. She’d waited and waited, until, at last, the door opened.
There was nothing in the world like seeing the inside of the opera house for the first time. Selene let it steal her breath and had never quite gotten it back. Everything was gilt and gold and grander than even the palace. There were chandeliers and golden statues holding candles at every turn. The grand staircase split in two and curved like a beckoning hand. Balconies nestled in every arch, so that everyone could see and be seen. The Opera Magique was the seat of splendor and a font of dreams. Selene knew excess and luxury—she had spent so much of her childhood in the marbled halls of the palace. This could not compare. There was something endless about this place, like stepping into a memory.
And there was, of course, the ghost of her father. He had been here. Her father had made a name for himself on this stage. He sang in these halls and slid down these banisters. In a way, that made it home.
Madame appraised Selene like she was something she couldn’t wait to forget and led her to her office. There were no notable exceptions to early admission for the Opera Magique’s conservatory. Even the most talented young artist had to wait until they were at least sixteen. Madame had asked Selene to show her what she could do. Selene knew what she’d expected: a pretty song with a light illusion. The safe kind of party trick young ladies were taught. But Selene wasn’t that kind of girl. A fire raged inside her. It was so much easier to feel passion and anger than grief. She’d taken a rose from Madame’s desk, sung it into rot and back into bloom, and then into a seed.
Madame Giroux had looked at her then like she looked at her now: with reverent expectation and hunger. She accompanied it with a sigh. “I had never seen someone with such raw talent.”
Selene knew what was coming next. She could feel the pull of the despair, gathering and ready to come down on her like an ocean wave. Good, but not good enough. Close, but not close enough. Something always missing.
“Your performance was technical, but poorly executed.”
Madame kept speaking. Saying all the things Selene already knew. Selene had to tell her what had happened. She couldn’t let this be the end. She could show Madame. Lay out the pages of sheet music and prove what had been stolen.
“Madame, my music—”
“Selene,” Madame snapped. “I don’t want to hear excuses.”
“But Revelio—”
Madame Giroux’s gaze was sharp enough to cut Selene into silence. The knuckles on her cane were bloodless. Selene anticipated her strike, like she was facing down a predator. She would not win this fight.
“Yes, Madame.”
“I expected more from you. You are so like your Giuseppe.” Madame shook her head. The bitter disappointment etched into the lines of her face. “Some stars burn bright. Some stars burn out.”
Chapter 4
Selene took each step up to the dormitories like it was a gallows march, her body heavy and listless. She’d failed her audition. In a few days, when the lineup for L’Opéra du Magician was announced, Selene would be out on the streets. She knew that she’d have little trouble finding a patron. Even if Monsieur Fenrir and the representative from the palace told the sordid tale of her audition, it wouldn’t make a difference. They could not attempt to sully her name without speaking it first, and that’s all that mattered.
But it wouldn’t be the palace. She wouldn’t be the King’s Mage. She wouldn’t fulfill the only dream she’d had for so long. Sure, she could have comfort and security in another house. But she didn’t want another house. It was more than the title, the prestige. She wanted to step where her father had stepped, to breathe where he had breathed. If she did that, she could make him real again. She would be less alone. If she failed to reach it, she might as well not reach at all.
She meditated on the final memories with her father, a litany of last things. All the candles in their suite had been burned down to nubs. Sheet music dusted the floor, melodies scratched out in ink and blood. Selene had known that he was pushing himself too far. He had, too.
They’d sat together in the dim light. Selene had tucked her quail beneath a tumulus of seasoned rice. She couldn’t fathom eating the poor thing. She’d been out in the palace bailey where the fowl were kept. They were little things with sharp bird eyes and speckled eggs. She and Victor—the youngest and least important prince—had cradled the tiny chicks in their hands. Selene had never held anything so small or soft in her life. And now its mother or father or friend was dead on her plate. Her father’s meal had grown cold, untouched. He was hunched over in his chair, tracing musical notes onto the tablecloth with his finger.
“Father?”
He snapped to attention, eyes wild for a moment before they settled into exhausted fondness. “This can’t go on, Nightingale.”
“Can’t we just leave?” She covered her plate with her napkin.
“I have to see this through. One more week, and I’ll be free.” His hand rested briefly on the pendant he wore as the King’s Mage. The stone was onyx, swirling and endless. “No more talk of sad things. Sing for me.”
Selene sat up straighter in her chair. “What kind of magic?”
“You choose.”
