Cyril chuckles. “It was probably the Opera Ghost.”
“Opera Ghost, monsieur?”
“Oui. They say there’s a phantom that haunts these hallways at night, though no one has ever been able to prove its existence.”
The boy frowns, glancing past Cyril again. “That was no ghost. Whoever it was knocked over a candelabra.”
“My dear Monsieur Rodin. Emeric, was it?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Emeric. I make rounds every evening at eleven. If there are any thieves on the loose, I will no doubt find them.” Cyril crosses long, thin arms across his chest. “Now, unless I am much mistaken, I thought I made it clear when I hired you this morning that you were to mop the third floor corridor by ten o’clock.”
“Oui, monsieur, I was just finishing up.”
Cyril pulls a polished watch from his breast pocket. “And here it is nearly ten thirty.”
Emeric nods and drops his gaze to the floor. “Oui, monsieur. I’m sorry, monsieur.”
“I suggest you get to it.” Cyril pats the tenor’s shoulder. Emeric flinches at the touch, and in his sudden movement, something flashes at his throat. I squint to get a better look.
Through a small opening in the collar of his shirt, a blue stone peeks from the gap between his collarbones, strung on a thick, leather cord. It is clear and bright as a summer sky, and I tighten my grip on my own necklace to keep from gasping at its luster.
Emeric shifts again, and the stone disappears from view.
“Don’t you worry about the thief or the Opera Ghost or whatever it was you might have seen,” Cyril continues. “I run a tight ship around here. Nothing gets past me.”
Emeric frowns, and his thick brows furrow as though he’s not quite convinced, but he nods and takes off at a lope back the way he came.
I find myself leaning out of the alcove to watch his departure, eyes tracing the sharp angles of his broad shoulders and the steady stride of his long legs.
Once the boy has disappeared and the sounds of his footfalls have faded, Cyril speaks but does not turn. “Isda?”
I swallow, releasing my pendant and tucking it back into the neckline of my dress. My hand smarts where the corners of the trinket jabbed into my skin. Though my blood still surges thick with the excitement of all I saw in Emeric’s memories—the colors, the light, that gravoir girl—I force my breathing to slow. “I’m so sorry, Cyril. It was an accident. I—”
Cyril turns tired eyes on me. “We cannot afford accidents, Izzy. You must be more careful.”
I nod, cheeks burning under my mask. “I know. I got distracted.”
He sighs, then gestures toward the stairs. “Shall we?”
Gathering my skirts in a sweaty grip, I follow him up to the fourth floor and down the hall to the ornate oak door of his office. He shoves a large metal key into the lock, scrapes it sideways, and eases the door inward. The room exhales a cold puff of air into my face. I trail inside behind Cyril and begin lighting the lanterns on the wall as he crosses to the open window to pull it shut and latch it tight.
Usually, Cyril is all abuzz at our nightly postperformance meetings, jabbering about ticket sales and the amount of money earned and the enthusiasm of the guests as they bid him their goodbyes. Tonight, however, he avoids my eyes, rearranging the items on his desk like they’ve personally affronted him, his jaw clenching and unclenching so forcefully I’m afraid it might crack.
The lanterns’ orange light illuminates thousands of books crammed into every spare corner of the wall-to-wall shelving. Golden titles wink their cursive script from worn-out spines. A framed map of our city, Channe, and another one of our country, Vaureille, stand propped against the back set of shelves. Golden vials of memory elixir line every spare space alongside piles of elegant fountain pens and playbills from past shows.
My breath stills, as it always does, when I catch sight of the small statue Cyril keeps on the shelf behind his desk.
It is a depiction of Les Trois, the three terrible gravoirs spoken of only in whispers. The three women who once bathed Vaureille’s streets in blood and taught the world to fear people like me. To kill us.
I tear my gaze from their disfigured faces and bared teeth as I take my place in the wooden chair across the desk from Cyril, a chair I’ve sat in so many times it curves like it was built to nestle along the contours of my spine. Knotting my hands in my lap, I stare intently at the floor, ignoring the way the eyes of Les Trois seem to bore into my forehead, and wait for Cyril to say something. Anything.
“I’ll try to be more discreet,” I reassure him. “I won’t let it happen again.”
He plucks a book from the shelf, studies its cover, and places it on his desk, careful not to rattle the array of vials standing in neat little rows in one corner. Gripping the cover between his slender hands, he grimaces at its title for a long moment before raising his gaze to mine.
The gray-blue of his eyes swims with emotions I know so well on him I could put them to music. Disappointment pulls their corners tight. Frustration smolders in the set of his brow—so low his lashes quiver against its ridge. But his fear is the strongest; it ripples in the color of his irises as though a stone has been dropped there and the worry has grown into a tide. I could compose an entire concerto exploring that look with tentative quarter notes and underlying bass beats.
I rise, cross to the table, and place my hand lightly over one of his, never once blinking, never once dropping his stare. “I’m all right, Cyril. He didn’t see me. He doesn’t know what I am.”
“You’re certain?” His voice is barely a whisper.
“Oui. I’m safe.”
As we silently regard each other, I can almost hear an echo of his voice reading methodically through the poem at the end of my favorite fairy tale, Charlotte and the Mirror of Forgotten Things, and the way the tired quiver of each syllable lulled my tiny, five-year-old body into slumber. When Charlotte looked in the mirror, she saw a great many things, he murmured more times than I could ever count. A bone, a bauble, a book, a barrel of berries picked last spring...
“It’s all right.” I reassure him with a squeeze of my hand.
Cyril blows out a breath, jaw working, and then, finally, nods. “You cannot let your guard down, Isda. Not ever.” His voice lowers. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that carelessness could cost you your life.”
I shake my head. “You don’t.”
“Good. Because losing you would—” He swallows and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It would ruin me.” He drops his hand and settles his palm over my knuckles as the corners of his mouth tick upward. “Besides, you’ve made yourself pretty indispensable to me with your memory modification prowess. I don’t know if the opera house could manage without you.”
I chuckle. “I’m glad I’ve been helpful.”
He searches my face with gentle eyes. “But does it fulfill you? I wish as much as you do that you didn’t have to hide, that you could be a bigger part of the shows. Heaven knows you’re a better vocalist than any I have ever hired.”
A blush warms my cheeks. “It is enough for me.”
He cocks his head, sensing the tremulous lie. We both know that nothing but being on that stage will ever be enough for me.
I lean closer to him and meet his gaze. “It is more than any other gravoir has had a chance for, and for that I will be forever grateful.”
“Promise me you’ll be more careful.”
I nod. “It won’t happen again.”
He holds my stare for a long moment, then releases his grip on my hand, taking his place in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. His expression relaxes. “Now. Other than what happened with the Rodin boy, I’d say you did quite well tonight. The audience seemed in great spirits after ‘La Chanson des Rêves.’”
I perch on the edge of my seat, n
ot even bothering to keep the excitement out of my voice. “I was able to erase that moment where the tenor’s voice cracked from the memories of at least three-quarters of them.”
Cyril’s lips curve into a pleased grin. “You are getting faster. You keep this up, and we’ll sell out every seat in the place for Le Berger in a few months.”
“Selling out that show shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Cyril plucks one of the vials of memory elixir from his desk and rolls it along his palm. “It has historically been a crowd favorite, that’s true.”
The vial in his hand is identical to every other vial I’ve ever seen, and yet I find myself mesmerized by the sight of it. Barely the length of the pad of the thumb, the spiraling fendoir symbol carved into its surface is so tiny it almost looks like nothing more than a chip in the glass. The memory elixir inside glimmers gold, and as it slides back and forth when Cyril turns it over, I marvel at how the memories I see in the minds of the people who visit the theater could come from such a simple yet elegant substance.
It’s too bad fendoirs—the ones who extract the elixir from people’s minds—are not allowed into the opera house. Otherwise I might have been able to get into one’s mind and see what it must be like to do such magic. To siphon away human memory’s base form—the pure essence of remembering, ready to be sold to the highest bidder who can then drink and use it to compound their own ability to recall the past.
Does the elixir of Emeric Rodin’s memories look different from everyone else’s? I imagine it to be a dazzling thing, shining with every color fathomable and somehow full of music.
“Have you held auditions for Le Berger’s lead tenor role yet?” I ask absently, hypnotized as Cyril transfers the vial thoughtlessly from hand to hand.
“Oui. This morning.” He tosses it up in the air, then catches it and points its cork at the door behind me. “That boy showed up asking to be considered. Never a day of training in his life.”
I frown. “I heard him singing. That’s why I was distracted. His voice—”
“Doesn’t matter if he has a nice voice. Critics can spot an untrained performer within the first three notes of the opening number.” Cyril slides the vial back into its place among the others and steeples his hands in front of his chin, regarding me with a thoughtful expression. “I offered him the janitor job instead. Perhaps if he spends enough time mingling with the right sort of people, he’ll work his way up to be something of consequence someday. And I’ll pay him handsomely, so if he’s smart about his finances, I daresay he may one day be able to afford a tutor.”
“I suppose...” But it still seems a pity Cyril never let the boy sing for him. Just remembering Emeric’s voice now sends a thrill of gooseflesh down my arms.
“Speaking of Le Berger...” Cyril’s eyes sparkle, and a tiny smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He reaches into his suit jacket and retrieves a stack of papers bound together by golden thread. “You’ll never guess who was in the audience tonight.”
“Who?” My eyes are sharp on the papers in his hand. Though only the back of the stack is visible, the thickness of it and the way it is bound together make it look as though it might be a set of sheet music.
The grin steals wide over his mouth as he flips the booklet around for me to see the cover. Gold lettering betrays it as a special edition printing of the organ arrangements of the music from Le Berger. “André Forbin.”
“No!” I squeal, leaping to my feet. “Where was he sitting?”
“Box seat below mine.” Cyril holds the music out, and I snatch it from him and flip open to the front page where Forbin’s regal signature loops in elegant black ink below where it lists him as the opera’s main composer. “I discovered the sheet music when I was visiting Chanterre last week. I know you already have the organ arrangement, but when I saw this was a special edition, I couldn’t resist.”
I run shaking fingertips over the music notes, stark midnight against the pristine white of the parchment, barely daring to breathe or blink.
Cyril’s voice goes soft. “Well? Do you like it?”
I launch myself at him, flinging my arms around his neck. “I love it!”
He chuckles and pats my curls. When he releases the embrace, I clutch the music to my chest and sit back down in my chair, barely able to keep myself from bouncing.
“If only you could play the lead soprano in Le Berger. You have the perfect range for it,” he muses as he returns to his own seat.
“Thank you.” The words are sour on their way out, and I purse my lips. Because he’s right. I do have the perfect range for it.
Just not the perfect face.
He sighs, tugging a slender folder from the shelf and flipping through its pages.
“Any trouble lately for the Council?” I survey the rows of record books on the shelves behind his desk. Cyril spends his days working on the King’s Council of Channe and has done so for as long as I can remember. His wealth and influence in the city have made him a very prominent member of the governing body.
“Hmm? Oh, no.” He rummages in his drawer for a fountain pen and scratches a few words on one of the pages. “Usual things. Keeping the Memoryless from getting out of hand in the streets, checking in on the fendoirs in their Maisons des Souvenirs to make sure they’re behaving, things like that.” He heaves a great sigh and looks sideways at me. “You know, one day soon I will be more than a simple clerk on that council.” He pauses a moment, rubbing a thumb across the tip of his smooth chin.
“What is it?” I ask.
He slides both hands flat against the desktop. “It’s just... LeRoux. The Head of the Council of Channe. He’s so careless. He keeps terrible records, and he does not take seriously the danger brewing within our city.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fendoirs are planning something.” Cyril’s eyes dart to the window, and he grimaces. “I see them congregating in the streets, whispering together. LeRoux is too soft with them. Gives them too much freedom. He forgets our history, what happened last time we let them roam like this.”
My eyes dart to the statue of Les Trois, and I shudder. “Do you really think it could happen again? Even without gravoirs?”
“Fendoirs pose their own risks, though you’re right, it would not necessarily be as terrible as last time right away. But the longer we turn a blind eye to the subtle insurgencies, the greater the threat becomes,” Cyril says. “I’ve expressed my concerns, but LeRoux never listens. He is putting us all at risk. If he isn’t stopped soon, we’ll all suffer for it.”
“It’s that bad?” My eyebrows rise.
Cyril mops a hand over his face. “I sincerely hope I’m wrong.” He stares down at his files, but his gaze is far away.
“You’ll figure something out.”
He smiles. “I always do. Now, off to bed with you. I’ve got a lot to get done before I can go home.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” I make my way to the door, nearly knocking over a wooden globe on my way.
Cyril chuckles. “Careful, chérie. That was a gift from the King.”
“Right. Sorry.” I steady the globe before tugging the door open. With one foot in the hallway, I look back over my shoulder. “Thank you for the music, Cyril.”
He lifts his eyes from the file he’s writing in and nods, fond wrinkles crinkling around his mouth. “Of course, my Izzy. Of course.”
I pull the door shut, then shuffle along the hallway, around a bend, and down flight after flight of stairs. Deeper and deeper I plunge into the belly of the opera house, where lustrous hallways adorned with gilded angels give way to stone and cobwebs, where the air grows cold and quiet, where brilliance transforms into the quiet mystery of nighttime and solitude.
Chapter Three
The catacombs deep beneath the opera house are my domain. In them, I fall into the sweet, acceptin
g embrace of darkness and the unassuming simplicity of silence and secrets.
I slip through the tunnel that leads to the empty crypt I’ve claimed as my own and strike a match to light the array of candlesticks that adorn every corner and surface of my room. Flickering firelight makes facets in the stone walls and ceiling sparkle like a lace of orange, winking stars. It illuminates the bed in the corner draped with a duvet the color of red wine and the ornate shelves crammed with songbooks and massive stacks of loose sheet music.
In the center of it all stands my organ. I move toward it, running my hand along its smooth, carved edges and its shining metal pipes. Cyril had it brought in for me when I was six years old, and other than him, this organ is my oldest and dearest friend.
The allure of its keyboards pulls me around, and I take my place on the bench. Shoving aside the composition I was working on earlier today, I set the new Le Berger music in its place and study it for a moment. My gaze follows the climb of the sixteenth notes up the staff where they trill for a beat before tumbling back to the bottom. I trace my pinky finger along the artistic flourish of the treble clef.
I don’t need to read the sheet music to play the pieces from Le Berger; I’ve had the whole score memorized for years. My fingers go right to their positions for the opening aria, but before I dive into the familiar right-hand ascending scale that ushers in the beginning bass tones, I pause.
The memory of Emeric’s voice is still there in my inner ear, curling its way quietly, languidly into my head and down the hollow of my throat to the place where my heart triple-beats the rhythm of his melody.
My hands slide upward into a new position.
I exhale.
And play.
The music comes from somewhere deep inside, like a gentle beast awakening. My fingers speed one over the other, dancing across the keys, skipping along sharps and flats like a stone along the ripples of a pond. The balls of my feet depress the pedals, filling the chamber with a rich sound, thick and slippery and deep as molasses against the stone walls.
My piece begins as an echo of Emeric’s, but soon it transforms into a rush of the emotions I felt in his past. Love. Safety. Hope. As I trail out sixteenth notes as high as the warbling of birdsong, I pause.
Sing Me Forgotten Page 2