Oh, gods.
She’d been going about this all wrong and all right. Guessing his name like he was some fairy-tale thing as jest while she warred with blood and magic and mirrors. This wasn’t a game. Sheneededhis name. That was all. The one thing that truly belonged to him.
She threw off her blankets and dressed, quick and desperate. She already knew there was nothing for her in the library and that Madame Giroux would be of no use, even if she knew. There were no answers in the opera house. She needed Victor.
Time to put on a show.
Frost formed on the glass. The last of the autumn leaves fluttered from the tree boughs. The air was metallic and cold. They’d have snow before the end of day. Selene could already imagine the dusted carriages and the luxurious furs of the spectators. She could feel the magic of beautiful things worn by beautiful people, followed by the spectacle and extravagance of L’Opéra du Magician.
The dress she chose was the churning green of the sea. She’d had this dress made on a day she missed her father too much to speak. The scalloped collar hid every scar. The silk was smooth against her skin. She did up the buttons on her back with a needle prick and a portion of blood and the memory of her father singing siren songs at the sea’s edge.
Selene took one look at her dark gray cloak. It would hardly be warm enough for her breakfast with Victor with snow on the horizon. She pricked the skin between her forefinger and thumb. She cleared her mind of the thousand things that cluttered it. The shadows lifted from her skin, shimmering over the cloak, and slipping into the fabric. Selene willed herself a pair of matching gloves and new boots for good measure.
When she was finished, she twisted the black cloak over her shoulders. She’d lined it with a pale fur that was too soft to be real. The gloves were lined with the same, coming up to her elbow. Selene laced her boots and went downstairs.
“Going somewhere?” Priya’s eyes were wide and predatory.
“It’s none of your business,” Selene said.
“I saw your pretty prince in the foyer.” Priya’s eyebrow arched up. “Selene Dreshé, allowing herself to be distracted by a boy. I never thought this day would come.”
Selene’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t about Victor, but about the doors Victor could open for her. Mainly: the door outside. He was her only chance to go see Benson and get her music out of the mirror. “You should go warm up, Priya. God knows how long it will take your voice to match mine.”
Priya’s face soured. Selene didn’t look back at her.
In the foyer, Victor leaned easily against the marble railing, looking up at the painting of his great-something-grandfather and the ghost.
Selene slid her arm into his, her eyes dragging over the face of the ghost. “Do you think history remembers the names of all those people behind the king?”
“Do they matter?”
He reached around and gripped her hand, too tight. Selene went very still, like a rabbit caught in a trap.
“What was your name again? Serena? Christine?” He looked so much like Victor. He was softer around the edges, though, like he’d never seen an honest day’s work. And it was clear he put a lot of effort into looking effortless. It was the eyes that gave him away. They were dark and empty, like looking into the eyes of a shark.
“Henri,” Selene hissed. “Let go of me.”
“You haven’t seen my brother, have you? I suppose not, since you thought he was me.” Henri showed all his teeth. “I could be, you know. If I wanted.”
His fingers dug into her skin, overpowering her with unsettling ease. Selene would remove him from her, crown prince or not. She started to sing, still formulating what sort of violence she needed.
Henri clapped his hand over her mouth, holding tight to her face. Selene twisted in his grip, pain sharp and bright shooting through her jaw. Spots danced across her vision. She struggled for air.
“Things are going to be very different from now on, Selene.” He brought his face close to hers, the tip of his tongue touching her ear. “You’ll see, soon enough.”
“Get your hands off her.” Victor’s voice was low and dangerous.
Henri released her, holding his arms up in surrender. Selene tilted back, trying to get her feet under her. Victor was beside her, catching her before she hit the ground. She held on to him, cold air surging in her lungs, rage burning in her veins.
“There you are, brother. I have a message for you from the king.”
“Get out.” Victor stood taller, straighter, one arm wrapped protectively around Selene.
“Father won’t like it if you don’t listen.”
“Get the fuck out, Henri.”
“Suit yourself,” Henri chuckled. “I’ll be seeing you, Selene.”
