Henri walked out the front doors as if he’d never been there at all.
Selene let out a ragged sob. Victor held her, brushing the blooming bruises on her face with gentle fingers. She winced, opening and shutting her jaw to make sure she would still be able to sing. She’d be sore, but she’d manage.
“I’ll kill him,” Victor said. “I’ll kill the bastard.”
“Don’t.” Selene wished there were water hot enough to scald off Henri’s touch. “That will make you king.”
“If that’s what it takes to make sure he never touches you again.”
She turned and pressed her face against his chest, breathing in the summer scent of him: the sea and all its promises. It was enough to calm the race of her heart, to bring her back near adagio. She looked up at him. His military jacket was open. No buttons to miss. He had leather gloves in his pocket and his boots went up to his knees, all free from mud or dust. He looked so formal, like he meant to impress her.
She’d wanted to give him up, offer him to the mirror. But the mirror had not taken him. If there was rage or disappointment, it was swallowed by the pressando of her heart.
“Please, let it go.” Selene’s voice was small.
“Whatever you wish.” Victor’s eyes were still dark, his jawset.
Gathering herself, she looked up to the cold eyes of the ghost and back to Victor.
“Whatever I wish?” she said playfully.
“Anything.”
“Take me away from here for a few hours.”
“You are not permitted to leave the opera house.” Madame Giroux’s condemnation was scythe sharp, her mouth tight. The silence of her approach startled Selene.
“A word, Madame Giroux.”
Victor walked leisurely down the hallway, not waiting for Madame to follow. It was the assumption of power, something that belonged to someone of Victor’s stature. He wielded it like a sword. Madame’s unchecked rage radiated from every fiber of her being.
Hoping to catch the conversation, Selene curved indiscriminately against the railing. She wouldn’t look at them directly. Instead, she watched their reflection in the freshly polished gold statues. Victor looked wild with fury—just for a moment before he smoothed it away. He smiled that lazy smile and made his way back to Selene.
“You think you’re saving them, but you’re damning them.” Madame Giroux pointed her cane as if she’d unsheathed it and could impale Victor with a single strike.
“Madame Giroux, they’re already damned by your inaction.” Victor had his gloves on, intent clear. He wove his fingers with Selene’s. “We’ll be back before curtain.”
“Long before.” This was her whole life sharpened to a point. Her purpose. She’d win back her father’s legacy. She’d win and take her place in the palace. Selene would have everything. She’d already paid the price.
Marcus caught them by the door. He looked nervously up into the space Madame Giroux had vacated. “What time are the mirrors arriving?”
Victor’s smile was pure triumph. “This afternoon. Right in time for L’Opéra du Magician.”
“You’re making enemies, you know.”
“It will be well worth the spectacle.”
Marcus shook his head and went back toward his office. There was a line of people there. So much to do before tonight.
Victor paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the painting of King Renard breaking ground on the opera house.
“My father says I look like him,” Victor said. “Except for the teeth.”
“Weren’t his pearls?”
“Yes. After a very unfortunate incident with his whipping boy.”
“I thought it was an accident,” Selene said.
