Selene shivered with excitement. She wanted to show what she could do, what she’d been working on all day. Father leaned in, catching the notes. Selene hadn’t let in the magic yet. It waited at the edge of her mind. She knew what her father anticipated. She’d carefully embellished the line so it contained the motif for fire. His eyes moved to the little flames that now danced in moats of wax. Selene smiled and focused on the magic. Not fire at all, but air. She blew out each of the candles one by one, and with a breath, stoked the dying embers of the fire back to life. They sparked blue and green, like they’d been starved out. Father’s eyes—still heavy with exhaustion—reflected back the brightness of the flames.
“Brava!” He applauded uproariously. “Well done, Nightingale. You’re going to do great things with that voice, Selene.”
“Thank you, Father.” She let her dark curls fall in her face, hiding her blush.
Even when all seemed wrong in the world, Selene had this. Music and her father and Victor.
She only had one of those now.
Her father never warned her of the danger. He didn’t talk about the way magic could go badly. Beyond the madness, she hadn’t ever seen a magician burst flowers from accidentally swallowed dandelion seeds or slice off a hand with too strong of a wind or remove all the iron from their blood until she was at the opera house. Her life before had been limitless. The Opera Magique was all edges and glass walls, showing her every limitation.
Today was no exception.
Selene slipped her key into the lock. It stuck, as usual. She leaned into it, listened to the familiar groan, and pushed open the door to the room.
Gigi’s half was, as expected, an unmitigated disaster. Tutus and ribbons and tights and worn-out pointe shoes littered the floor. The duvet was piled on the rug. There were hairpins and sewing supplies cluttered on the nightstand. Her dresser was a mess of cosmetics and jewelry and rumpled sheet music.
Gigi was a perfect, pristine ballerina. The epitome of grace and poise. And she was a total slob.
Selene’s half of the room was the exact opposite. The bed was made. Each article of clothing was folded and carefully put away. Her closet was organized by color and occasion. Her cloak hung neatly on its hook—not a thing out of place.
Except.
There was a big, white box sitting on her bed.
Selene’s heart pounded in her throat. This was the last thing she needed for the competition. Her dress for the Unmasking Ball had arrived a few days ago and was tucked in the closet. It was a pretty thing, butthiswas so much more important. Weeks ago, she’d sat with Gigi on the floor of this room. They’d giggled over hot chocolate, spreading their dreams over pieces of paper like it could be that easy. Gigi had helped her sketch and design a dress for her performance. Selene had picked out the fabric and the thread. Everything was going to be perfect.
Selene lifted the lid.
Embroidered gold lace glimmered in the low light. Selene ran her fingers over the silk. She’d layered the sleeves to appear like armor. The décolletage was open, with a swath of delicate lace enclosing the throat to conceal her scars. The bodice gave way to a generous skirt, the shimmering lace and embroidery folding into a cream silk. This was the dress she’d wear when she became the King’s Mage.
And now she’d never have the chance.
Selene wanted it to burn, to see the cloud of smoke rise bitter and charred, so different from the magical smoke Revelio had conjured. That smoke had destroyed her dream. This would swallow up the air and destroy everything else. The melody was on the tip of her tongue. Beautiful ruin.
All because of Priya and Revelio. Because good was not always good enough. Because some stars burned bright, but Selene’s had gone out.
The fabric was too lovely against her fingertips.
Selene tore at the buttons around her throat and down her back. She didn’t care where they flew or what ripped. She let the indigo dress fall into a heap on the floor, casting off her failure like a second skin. She put on her performance dress, carefully tightening the silk ribbon up the back. It was utter perfection, everything she could have ever wanted.
She glanced out the window. Down in the narrow, cobbled streets below, the lamplighters sang fire into their globes. Had they once hoped to sing on a stage as grand as the Opera Magique, only to succumb to the reality of domestic magic?
The tangled map of Songerie overwhelmed Selene. It was no wonder. Mondreves’ royal city was the most populated and prosperous in the country, far from the remote seaside cottage she’d grown up in. She didn’t remember the bright, adoring sentiment for the king while she lived there, but perhaps it was the innocence of youth. She was sure there was no ruler as beloved as their king in all the world. The labyrinth of attached shops with wide, peaked windows and cramped apartments above each boasted a token or portrait of the king. They were lucky, it seemed, to be in a city rife with joy. At its center, the Opera Magique stood tall. It had been a while since Selene had seen the opera house from the outside, but she remembered standing in its shadow that first time.
And now she’d stand in its shadow again. Not a lost little girl, hoping to catch a dream. No, she’d be a woman trapped in her worst nightmare: stolen songs, lightning strikes, and everything she’d wanted behind her. Once again. The pit in her stomach deepened, pulling her mind to places she did not want it to go. It couldn’t end like this.
Selene’s room was dark as a broken dream. Soon the worst of the city would crawl out to gamble and drink and do things not meant for the light. Against her better judgment, against any sane thought, and desperately in need of a distraction, Selene looked—as she did almost every night—to see if Victor was there, waiting on the steps of the opera house to fetch her, as he had promised.
Prince Victor, the third son of the king. The prince no one wanted. They’d sat on the cushioned palace chairs and listened to her father sing so many times she’d lost count. Victor was the last vestige of her childhood, the only remaining tether to her life before. He had known her when she had a father.
She knew he was back in the city. His name was in the papers over and over again with blurry pictures of drunken escapades. If she was thrown out of the Opera Magique, would he recognize her, after all these years? Would Victor even notice her at all?
She’d heard that he’d been sent as a living peace treaty to the mountains of Erramasque. She knew that he’d gone from there to the military, serving as he was expected to serve. And now he was drinking and debauching and gambling away the jewels of the state.
In the deepest, most secret part of her heart, she wondered how things would have been different if he’d come for her like he’d vowed. They’d only been children, with no power or control over their own lives. For so long, she’d looked forward to the moment when she would step out onstage for L’Opéra du Magician. When he would see who she’d become without him. When the weight of his broken promises would crush him.
It was supposed to happen in this dress, with the aria she’d written for her father, and the voice she’d nearly lost all those years ago. And then Selene would be back in the palace—the last place she’d seen her father.
