Before she could respond, he sidestepped her and hurried down as though he couldn’t escape fast enough.
Her knuckles tightened at the memory as she fanned out the loose collar around her neck after lifting a toolbox. Already she’d worked up enough of a sweat to take off her coat and tie back her hair, when the doors of the show hall opened with a large, creaky echo into the room. Kallia turned at the sound of footsteps making their way into the theater.
“As you can see,” Mayor Eilin said, leading the pack, “the changes are quite extensive.” He gestured across the sea of red velvet seats, and the canvas-covered theater boxes along the walls. When he pointed toward the stage, he faltered at the sight of Kallia.
Behind him, a new crowd filed in, making their way around the workers and labor magicians. Judges Bouquet, Armandos, and Silu were all in tow, in their morning top hats and coats. Demarco stood impassively among them, Janette at his elbow. A few others she didn’t recognize, in glossy fur coats and arms linked with Erasmus Rayne, the only face that lit up at her appearance. “Darling, what are you doing here?”
“Exactly what it looks like.” Kallia wiped the dust on her hands against her pants.
The mayor gave a tight purse of his lips. “How charitable of you to offer your … talents. Especially so close to showtime.” His dour expression brightened when he pivoted back to his guests. “Our magicians have their methods of preparing. Some choose to conserve their energy, whereas others squander it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call this squandering, Mister Mayor,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “The key to keeping your magic in shape is to never let it rest too long.”
It was a lesson Jack had drilled into Kallia since she’d first started practicing with him. Though magic took its toll when overused, it was a muscle that required exercise and care.
“One girl’s philosophy.” Judge Armandos gave a lackadaisical stroke of his beard. The other judges chortled.
“Sure, it’s one philosophy,” Kallia countered with a cutting smile. “I’m certain your other magicians practice their own, putting their time to good use with wild nights at the bar—”
“Now, now, now,” Erasmus interjected. “Play nicely, kittens. Don’t want to scare off my guests before they’ve even had a look at the place.”
“It would take a bit more than a little bite to scare us off,” said a woman in a black fur coat that hung off her like thick molasses. She didn’t seem the Glorian type, with her bright lip color and chain-strung jewels dangling in mounds around her neck. She tilted her head up at Kallia, more with intrigue than distaste. “Are you in the show, miss? A magician?”
“The only female magician in the competition,” Erasmus boasted with far too much victory. “Do say you will stay for the next show night, my gem. You should really see her perform, she’s absolutely marvelous. Like something from another world…”
Kallia combed her fingers over her limp hair as Erasmus continued advertising her like a prize up for auction. There could only be one reason why.
“Please join us, Kallia! I’m giving some of my old acquaintances from New Crown a tour of the Alastor Place.” His grin stretched so widely, it was a wonder his cheeks didn’t crack from the pressure. “They also have a … keen interest in the success of Spectaculore, I’m sure you understand.”
Investors. They were different from the ones Kallia was used to seeing at Hellfire House, who’d drunkenly sling themselves over card tables. These people appeared refined, their sharp eyes hunting for potential.
“We are giving a tour,” the mayor cut in. “Our young magician seems to be quite busy, so if we could—”
“Not at all. You caught me at a perfect time.” Kallia jumped off the stage, landing cleanly on her feet. “I was about to take a break.”
“Splendid!” Erasmus crowed, while the mayor scowled. The only one who looked more displeased was his daughter, whose frown pinched her delicate face.
“Are you sure you don’t want to freshen up first?” Janette viciously inspected Kallia’s appearance: a pair of black pants tucked into knee-high scarlet boots, and a baggy white shirt cinched with a black-belted sash. A little dust and sweat from hard work, but Kallia didn’t mind them. Even though it seems to bother the others for some outrageous reason.
“I’m sure.” Kallia brushed her fingers against one of her sweat-dampened sleeves. “Though in exploring an old abandoned manor, I fear more for your attire than I do mine.”
Janette’s cheeks went red. She was decked out in a long peach-colored day dress whose glossy hem peeked out from beneath a smooth tan overcoat. She quickly turned away from the group, migrating toward one of the large side doors.
They all filed through the cobwebbed hallway and deeper into the heart of the Alastor Place. The theater section of the building had been receiving the most treatment during renovations. The rest, to Kallia, remained mysterious, uncharted territory. The air smelled musty, thick as the pages of a well-worn antique book. She inhaled deeply as they walked down the dimly lit hallways, still teeming with debris and dust at the sides.
“For the ball, I want a very, very big space,” Janette declared, clapping her hands together with relish. Her giddiness echoed off the walls. “With a large floor for dancing, room for tables and refreshments—”
“Dear, why not have it at the Ranza Estate?” The mayor sighed, treading gingerly as if the ceiling might collapse any second. “Or in the Vierra District? The slight fixes we’ve made there over the years make it the perfect setting to—”
“No, Father.” Her stance mirrored the cadence of her voice: firm, decided. “I’m in charge of planning, and I want the Alastor Place. What point is there in renovating the show hall and not the rest? What a waste of potential space.”
“Are there even any viable rooms here for that?” Judge Bouquet turned his nose up at every dusty corner and cobweb.
“I’m afraid there are,” the mayor said in weary surrender. “The Alastors held their share of parties, it was told. Nobody’s braved these halls in a long, long time though, nor what’s left of the grand ballroom. They called it the Court of Mirrors.”
Janette let out an excited squeal, dragging Demarco with her to the front of the pack. He gave a gruff cough. “Mirrors?”
“The room was positively covered with them. Another show hall of sorts since this place is riddled with them, but not as large as the main theater, of course.” Mayor Eilin shrugged, glancing back with a snort. “Don’t worry, Demarco. There are worse things to fear than shattered mirrors.”
The party went silent. A silence so loud, Kallia had half a mind to leave while she still could. Mirrors were likely not the same beasts to Kallia as they were to Demarco, but she could understand his hesitation. She hated fearing something so fragile, so common.
Once they reached the grand double doors of the Court of Mirrors, it was too late to turn back. The sweeping details carved across the faded wood had dulled, the golden veneer charred along the edges like burnt toast. No doubt grand once upon a time, the doors now carried a rotted, decrepit beauty. Captivating. As though welcoming them to a ballroom of the underworld.
All too eagerly, Janette strode through. Her delighted shriek echoed immediately, and the rest filed inside curiously in stunned silence.
Kallia’s jaw went slack.
The Court of Mirrors went on like a stretch of frozen sea from one end to the other. She stood at the top of a double grand staircase, mirrored on the other side with another just like it. The space between was an arena designed to fit scores of people, dancers, and entertainers alike—overrun by overturned tables, islands amount of debris and broken glass abandoned from long ago. Ransacked, from the looks of it. The frames hung crooked along the walls empty of their portraits, or so scorched and blackened their images were beyond recognition.
Kallia’s eyes lingered upward at the paint-faded ceilings, where rows of broken chandeliers hung lopsided on weary chains. To imagine someo
ne had left this whole building to ruin with age, and age with such loneliness. To think of the parties and balls, the life that must’ve graced these halls and lit these rooms, was to watch a candle flame die in one harsh breath. There was something tragically forgotten about it all, this place that yearned to be remembered, whispering behind walls of blackened, broken glass.
“My dear, you’re shaking.”
Kallia jerked when Erasmus came up next to her. She crossed her arms tightly. “I’m just … taking it all in.”
“A beaut, isn’t she?” His hand fluttered in a dramatic flourish. “If it can’t be loud and flashy, be beautiful and dramatic.”
“It’s absolutely perfect!” Janette trilled, sidestepping fallen furniture and pieces of broken statues like an eager explorer bent on covering every inch. Her father trailed behind, voicing his concerns with every step until distance softened them.
Kallia was surprised not to see Demarco hanging off Janette’s arm like the dutiful escort he’d entered as. Instead, he’d ambled off on his own toward a large, empty fireplace that dominated the wall like the roaring mouth of a lion. Occasionally, he’d pick up a fallen item to inspect it closer. Aimlessly wandering like Kallia, admiring and searching for something he wasn’t quite sure of yet.
“The ghosts will be angry with you if you keep touching their things,” she said finally.
Demarco bent toward the ground with a reaching hand, but his fingers never closed. He rose, keeping his back to her as he brushed his hands over his dark coat. For a moment she thought he might ignore her to avoid a repeat of this morning, until he said, “Tell that to the rest of our party. Though I’m sure ghosts will only excite them more.”
He spared a brief look over his shoulder before continuing on to the ornate fireplace. His terse response somehow set her nerves running, and she hated it. She’d never wanted to make an enemy out of him, and she didn’t want him to imagine her as one, either.
“Are we strangers now, Mister Demarco?” Kallia called after him. “Or are we just playing a rather intense game of silence and avoidance?”
Demarco’s shoulders straightened into a resigned line, but he turned. “What are you talking about?”
“I think you know. Even this morning, you could hardly look at me.”
“I didn’t realize you wanted me to.”
She didn’t even try fighting the wry grin on her face. “I did not come over here to argue with you. I came here to apologize.”
“You? Apologize?”
“I know. Between us, it’s a first.”
“Why?” He propped himself against the wall beside the fireplace, his head tilted. “You made your point very clear that I’m the one who erred, that I should be groveling at your feet with apologies.”
His tone carried such bite that Kallia paused to reconsider him. This Daron Demarco was no longer uncertain and proper. She’d never seen him act more bold, arms crossed in disinterest. His mind, decided.
Since he believed in the power of apology so much, perhaps it would set things right between them. Maybe it would ease the heaviness that had settled in her core after Canary’s story. But it was much harder coming up with the right words. It was a wonder that Demarco could do it so many times with her.
After more fraught silence, he let out a quiet laugh before shoving off the wall to walk away.
Her pulse sped. “Wait.”
“You think I’m simply going to stand here and let you pick me apart again?”
“I’m not—will you just listen?” Kallia huffed sharply, pulling him to a stop. “I don’t … I don’t do this very often.”
“And what is that, exactly? Chase after people who won’t give you the time of day?”
“Apologize,” she growled.
“And why do you want to make peace with me so badly?” His brows arched, his face curious and expectant and unreadable all at once. She hesitated, the full breadth of his attention on her suddenly too much.
Breathe. She chewed the inside of her lip, trusting that if she answered honestly, it would be enough. “Even for a prince, you’re a man of honor. Put a plate of money and jewels in front of you, and you’d probably set off on a tireless search for the owner.”
“You make me out to be some sort of saint, but I’m not.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nor am I a prince.”
“Nevertheless, you’re decent. And it was terribly presumptuous of me to accuse you of being otherwise.”
“Why did you, then?” His eyes shuttered, nowhere near softening. “Were you really so desperate to turn me away?”
Jack flashed like lightning in her mind, but Kallia held her tongue. Breathe. “I was not myself. It was a tiring show, and took a lot out of me. And unfortunately, I lashed out at you.”
Demarco merely nodded as if turning the words over in his head to find a fault with them, and failing. “Well, thank you for explaining. I accept your apology, Kallia.”
The pressure started lightening in her chest, until he began walking away. The sight of his back was a slap to the face. “Wait, that’s it?”
“What do you mean? You offered an apology and I accepted. That’s how forgiveness goes.”
“Sure, but…” She couldn’t rein in her thoughts. But what? What else had she expected? What else had she wanted?
“You didn’t really need to apologize to me, anyway,” he said, slowing his steps. “I do appreciate the gesture, but it’s for the best if we leave it at that.”
A whole new level of fury trickled into her veins. “What do you mean ‘it’s for the best’?” she demanded. She hadn’t stood there making a complete fool of herself, only to have her words thrown back at her feet. “Don’t go making rules where there aren’t any.”
“But there are, Kallia. You don’t see them because you walk all over them. There are rules to this competition, and restrictions to what can and cannot happen.” Shoulders tense, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re a contestant, and I’m a judge. It’s best if we remain professional and stay on our respective sides while the show goes on. Agreed?”
“What sort of boundaries would we be crossing by talking?” She gestured at the both of them. “Would this, by your definition, be perceived as unprofessional? Or would you rather turn your back every time I enter a room? Because that sounds immature.”
“Not on my side of the table, it doesn’t.” He gave a short sideways glance at the others who occupied the far corner of the room. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t show you the favor you want—”
“It’s not favor that I want from you.”
“Then what? What else could you want from someone like me? Friendship?” He let out a harsh laugh, more at himself than at her. “I’m only a name. A judge.”
Kallia had thought he was her tentative ally, too, but she’d clearly been wrong about that. Demarco was so set on dismissing her that he’d forgotten he was the only reason she was here in the first place. He’d recognized her potential, given her a chance. Those weren’t small acts to her.
“So what?” she said, nostrils flared. “Would it be so terrible if we were friends?”
“Based on our interactions thus far, I don’t really think we’d make very good ones.”
“We’re better off as enemies, then, is that it?”
The edges of his lips quirked up, and Kallia’s pulse quickened. But the light in him dimmed just as swiftly once he started off toward the center of the ballroom. “We should get back to the others,” he said brusquely.
He could hide it all he wanted, but she’d seen his smile. How it had wanted to spread, if only he’d let it.
“You’ll warm up to me again in time, Demarco. I’m much nicer than my thorns betray, you’ll see.” Kallia trailed after him with the lazy, sure click of her boots. “Maybe we could practice together sometime? Do some tricks and exercises—”
“No, I can’t. We can’t.” Demarco glared at her over his shoulder. He gave a quick, suspicious look around the
room, always looking at the others, though the rest of the party had long since migrated far from them. “Listen, I accepted your apology. Let’s leave it at that.”
At that, he left without looking back. The loneliness prickled against her skin, until it became a burn. Rising from her neck to her cheeks.
She’d apologized, admitted she was wrong. Practically begged for him to be her friend. Over the years, she’d endured much worse. Wardrobe malfunctions, midperformance. The disdainful slither of men’s eyes running over her, their hollers following her everywhere.
But if this right here wasn’t pure embarrassment, she didn’t know what was.
Her nails dug into her palms. The scorching sensation swept through her, merciless and sure.
Separate, firecrown. Jack used to whisper in her ear when they practiced. He’d always stress the importance of the magician finding power within. Depending on anyone else bred weakness. Magic was meant to be a lonely gift.
You are your power.
Separate.
Little by little, the fury cooled from her skin.
Separate.
22
Spectator after spectator filed in, flooding the aisles of the Alastor Place to no one’s surprise. The first night proved Spectaculore was what it always promised to be—the light that drew others out, a spectacle no one could miss out on.
“Did I not tell you?” Erasmus clapped his hand on the mayor’s shoulder, looking out into the crowd. “Wonderful turnout. Wonderful.”
Daron gritted his teeth. The renovations on the show hall were finally complete, but only barely. With the majority of workers and labor magicians making headway on Janette’s plans for the ballroom, he feared they wouldn’t be finished with the theater in time for the second show.
But Erasmus was always one for entertaining the masses as soon as he could, and the success of it was starting to go to even the mayor’s head. The show must go on, they each said in turn. Nothing grated Daron’s senses more now than that phrase.
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