And the music carried the story.
“Sing once again with me,” the ghost said.
She sang. The ghost played with her for a little while. Then he dropped his hands, taking out his little knife. He bled for her a quartet of shining black instruments. They took on their parts, playing each note perfectly. Selene sang louder, her voice rising above the orchestration. The ghost focused on her, hand moving from time to time to conduct. What they’d written held the continuum of the magical motifs and played so perfectly against hers. She imagined what it would be like to sing this song, with a full orchestra and an audience and the ghost out onstage with her. It would be like living a dream. The resonance and the response of the audience, the glow of the stage lights and the feel of his hand in hers as they moved to the coda. She knew each curve and line of these notes.
When she was finished, she rested her hand against the lid of the grand piano.
The open lid slammed shut. The wretched cacophony of discordant sound reverberated through the soundboard before deadening in the dark.
The ghost pressed his hands to his eyes, eyebrows drawn down. His hands trembled with memory. She could see it in the way his shoulders curved, hear it in the raggedness of his breath. She splayed her fingers against the black wood of the piano until they turned white.
“What is it?”
“There’s a scrap: my hands aching and blood and teeth in new green grass. A feeling of knowing I’d done something I couldn’t come back from. But nothing whole or damning.” He breathed in sharply. “Not enough to warrant this hell.”
“But you remembered something.”
“I didn’t tell you,” the ghost said. “For the first time, I remembered something without you here. I remembered my mother.”
The way he said it, it was like a curse.
“Was it awful?”
“She was beautiful.” There was a bitterness to his voice. He put his hands on the onyx keys but did not play. “She taught mehow to play the piano.”
Selene sat on the bench beside him, keeping enough space between them. She played the first chord in their song. He picked out the melody while she moved through the different progressions. Already knew the memories she’d pull from. “What else do you remember?”
“One morning,” the ghost said, “she dressed me up in my finest shirt and trousers and took me out near the road by the house. The sun was warm and I wanted to climb trees. She kept my hand firmly in hers. There were hoofbeats on the road. A man gave her a sack and then she kissed my cheek and sent me away. The after is hazy. But I remember being afraid. I remember knowing that my mother had traded me for whatever was in that sack. Gold or grain or wool. Whatever it was, it measured my worth.”
“No one deserves that.” Selene didn’t know what else to say. She kept playing the next chord and the next. Music as a balm to the soul.
The ghost struck his hands against the keys. Playing out of tune and out of sync with her. A discordant, terrible melody.
“Wish I knew the rest to this tragic backstory.” He kept his voice even, but she could hear the emotion that wanted to break through. “And the crime I can’t remember or escape.”
“I wish I knew how to help.” Her voice was barely audible over the music. She had to do more. He deserved more.
“It’s enough for you to be here, Selene.” He slowed his reverie, ending on a final dissonant chord. “I cannot express how much it means to me.”
All at once, she wished he could. She thought of Victor, and the way he’d reached for her.
“I want to see you in the light.” Selene stretched out her fingers. Not touching, but close.
The ghost sang for her the smallest star. He cupped it in the palm of his hand and held it up to his face. He was so terribly beautiful. From his broken nose to the nick in his brow to the lips she could not kiss. “I’ll make my own light, then.”
She put her hands above his, shielding the light and casting shadows on his face. “Tell me how to get you out.”
“I would if I knew.”
“Before,” Selene said, putting together pieces that had been scattered around her like breadcrumbs, “when you were the ghost. You said the mirrors were all around you like windows. What if I brought mirrors back into the opera house?”
“We could try,” the ghost said. “But how will you do it?”
“It will be done,” Selene said. “In a few days.”
“Will you be in the opera house?”
Selene held very still. If Selene won L’Opéra du Magician, she’d be whisked away to the palace. When Offra won, she’d ridden away in a golden carriage, only returning to the opera house for the annual masquerade. Then her life was something else. Selene wouldn’t have time to say goodbye. And if she lost? She’d have to pack up her things and find another home. People did stay in the opera house once the competition was over. Some of them were even picked up for roles during the opera seasons. Maybe Selene could resign herself to that life if it meant more time to get the ghost out. But what would happen when it came time for her to tour? Madame Giroux might allow her to stay a week or so, but it wouldn’t be enough. She would simply be gone.
