She reached for the handle. It did not move.
Selene tried it again, incredulous. “It’s locked. It’s never locked.”
“You didn’t show me this on our tour.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It must, since it is forbidden.”
Selene rolled her eyes. “Locked doesn’t always mean secret.”
Crouching down, she sang into the keyhole. The door did not yield.
Victor’s eyebrow went up. “Not all problems are solved by magic.”
Wrong.With one drop of blood and a dose of misery she could open the door. The magie du sang could solve anything. Unless the magic demanded more than she could give.
“Locks are generally the most difficult way to open a door. And conspicuous. People always check the locks. Hinges, on the other hand.” He pulled out the hinge pins and swung the door open. “You see? I am of use after all.”
He looked so pleased with himself. And he should be pleased. She kissed his cheek, like she’d done when they were children. He tasted like salt and tobacco and wide-open spaces, the slight stubble a rough comfort to her lips. She pulled back, surprised by her boldness. She hadn’t been thinking; she’d slipped back into old patterns. Patterns from before the opera house, before her father’s death, back when life was endless summer skies and pomegranate-stained fingers.
Victor looked as surprised as Selene. A smile quirked on his lips, showing his dimple. Selene couldn’t bear the sight of it, standing so close to him like she’d tripped into the past. He put his hand on the small of her back, moving her incrementally closer to him.
He was going to kiss her.
She let him linger for a beat before she spun from his grasp. She twined down the stairs, unraveling with each step. She shouldn’t bring Victor down here. He was far too clever, far too curious. He’d find the door and the mirror and the ghost. She could not fathom the collision of her worlds. Still she walked, each step edging her toward madness.
The darkness of the basement was familiar, calming. Selene sang the light into her palm for long enough to find half a dozen candelabras, each with three dusty, half-burned candles. Victor took them as soon as they were lit.
He cleared his throat dramatically.
Selene turned. He’d laid out the blanket in the center of the room, complete with a spread of fruits and meats and delicate pastries. He’d poured tea into fragile cups and stirred a generous amount of honey into hers. The candles cast it all in flickering shadows.
“This is too much,” Selene said.
“Don’t worry, I acquired this all by questionable means.” Victor popped a blueberry into his mouth. “Will you sit?”
Selene folded herself down beside him, spreading out the mulberry skirt of her dress over the blanket. She made sure she was the one facing the door to the mirror. No need to pique his curiosity. The stained-glass window had been removed, all the glass and rubble cleared away. The door still blended into the stone, but there was something different.
Locks.
There were dozens of them, stacked up the frame. Locks that needed keys, combinations, and song. It would take her hours to get through. Panic crawled up her throat. Victor settled in front of the door, tilting his head.
“What are you looking at?”
He started to turn. She caught his hand, pulling him in to her. She caught his mouth with a quick kiss—just the barest brush of lips. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of this, the heat of his breath, the sweet, salt taste of his skin. The reality was cruel, the waste of a kiss for concealment. The waste ofthiskiss. But maybe it was the flickering candlelight and maybe it was the years of wanting and maybe it was just this impossible boy—she let herself forget the world and be lost in this moment. A blink, and then she was back on her side of the blanket.
She considered decorum and propriety and decided to leave it behind. With just her fingers, she picked up a piece of thin prosciutto and popped it into her mouth. It was then her stomach reminded her how long it had been since she’d eaten. She selected a pear and bit in, letting the juices sluice down her chin. Victor cut the tops off strawberries and handed them to her, one by one. She tore into a piece of still-warm bread, smeared it with butter and honey. She drank her tea, and his, too.
Finally, she looked up at him.
“Are we going to talk about what happened?” he asked.
“The kiss?”
“That was hardly a kiss.” Victor tucked a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Before that.”
Selene was afraid of this. “How much did you see?”
