He gives her a curious smile, offering his arm. “Let’s hope your courtship with death is over so we never have to find out.”
The corridors of Cygnus are much colder without her robes. While they walk, Claudia finds herself leaning into Cassius’s side to keep warm.
He lets her. He likes it. She can tell by the way his eyes dip down to hers every time her body is pressed to his.
Hundreds of students are rushing in the same direction, allwearing fabulous outfits that they never get to wear otherwise. The women wear vibrant gowns and opera gloves, while the men wear tailored suits and smart hats.
Cygnus always looks magical, but tonight, it looks otherworldly. It’s never been clearer that they are no longer in the earthly realm Claudia once knew. It’s like everyone here is a creature; so is she. The halls are decorated with violet silk draped across the stone. Grand, enormous floral arrangements top every table and flank every doorway. Stars press themselves to the windows for a glimpse at the evening ahead. Undying candles glow with gold light and lavender hearts at the center of every flame. Talk and laughter bounce off the warm stone walls.
Cassius leads her through the crowd, but instead of following the masses up the red velvet stairs when they reach the auditorium, they slip past them, turning down a corridor hidden behind a black curtain. It’s quieter, darker, and more intimate here.
“Watch your step,” Cassius says as they walk down worn stone steps that slope in the middle.
“Where are we going?”
He steadies her by the waist as she descends the last few stairs. “To wish our muse good luck.”
Coming out of the dark staircase, Claudia sees the beginnings of a crammed dressing room. Powdery stage makeup clouds the air, and half-dressed performers shoot across the room like arrows. Alistair is already there with Angel, and when he sees them, he rushes over.
“Cas and Claud, my, my, don’t you two clean up nice?”
“Thank you, dear Bones. You two look dashing,” Cassius says. He offers his hand to Angel. “Always nice to see you, friend.”
“Likewise,” Angel says with a warm smile. He adjusts the satin lapels on his red jacket and tucks his long black hair behind his ears. Then he reaches for Claudia’s hand and kisses the back of it. “And a pleasure to see you, my favorite matchmaker.” He winks and puts his other arm around Alistair.
Marcherie rounds the corner in an undone white dress with green laurels in her hair. She looks like an embodiment of natural majesty, like someone found the most beautiful slab of earth and cut a perfect woman from it. Her thick black hair is fixed in countless intricate plaits that twist at her crown. Several five-strand plaits fall down her back, all the way down to the sharp indent of her waist. Her fingers tangle at her shoulders where she fidgets with a broken strap. “Can someone please fix this?”
As the only girl within earshot, Claudia comes to her aid and fastens the white strap to the back of the dress with an expert hand. “How does that feel? Good, or too tight?”
Scowling, Marcherie says, “It’s fine.” She takes a step away from Claudia and tugs on Cassius’s sleeve, bringing his ear to her mouth. “Why is she here?”
“Because she’s with me.”
Marcherie’s jaw drops and her eyes narrow. “But she’s—”
“March,” Cassius says as a warning. “We came to wish you well in your performance.”
Through gritted teeth, she says, “Thank you.”
“Yes, good luck,” Claudia says.
Marcherie invades her space and gets far too close to her face. She looks like she’s about to slap her. “Take that back.”
Claudia’s eyes go wide. “Take… back… what?”
Marcherie groans. “You can’t wish someone good luck in a theater. Are you daft? Dolericym loves to cause mischief by denying your wishes. Wishing a performer good luck is like wishing them to die. You’re supposed to tell me to break a leg.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she says sincerely. “I hope you break every bone in your body.”
Marcherie gives a tight, sardonic smile. “Don’t be melodramatic.” She turns sharply and sits before a vanity. With a quick wave of her hand, she says, “Just go back to your seats. And don’t taunt the opera ghosts, don’t whistle, and donotsay the Scottish play.”
Head tilted, Claudia says, “Do you mean Mac—”
“STOP.” Marcherie’s glare flits between Alistair and Cassius. “Please get her and her big mouth out of here.”
“Merde, ma chérie,” Angel says, taking Alistair’s hand and motioning for Cassius and Claudia to follow.
“Oui,” Marcherie tosses over her shoulder while swiping a bloodred stain across her lips.
