Silence.
Emeric’s embarrassed, apologetic grin fills my mind. His deep dimples. His dark hair trailing shadows in his eyes.
I drag my hands to the left and let the resonant, booming notes there roll, somber and dark as a ballad of the night.
It is only when my fingers slip from the keys that I realize my arms are shaking. I open my eyes, pull my mask off to scrub my fists across my gnarled cheeks, and blink when they come away wet.
I stare down at the glitter of tears on my knuckles.
What has this janitor done?
All my life, I’ve longed for the world outside. To be one of the opera performers who come and go as they please. I’ve glimpsed family dinners around beautiful wooden tables, springtime walks in Channe’s city parks, the adoration of a lover’s eyes just before a kiss.
But never until tonight have I seen it with such clarity, in full color, so sharp and detailed that the memories feel like they are my own. Never before have I grasped what living could truly be like.
Now the world outside pulls at me, begging for me to join it, to breathe it in, to taste it.
Tears continue to film across my vision as I turn my mask over in my hands. This mask was meant to hide my face from that world out there, keep the secret of what I am a bit harder to unravel. Cyril had it made especially for me by taking my measurements himself on my sixteenth birthday last year and sending them off to an artisan in the north. When it arrived, it was a plain, black thing that covered me from forehead to chin, ear to ear. I added the embellishments, the tiny crystals that encircle the eyes and lips, the beads swirling in filigrees of sparkle across the cheekbones, the raven feathers around the eyes.
With a mask like this, I am almost beautiful.
I trace a finger lightly along one of the feathers.
Keeping my promise to Cyril means I cannot go looking for the janitor boy.
But I don’t have a choice.
For though the harsh world out there would destroy both Cyril and me if I am discovered, one thing has become so clear it rings straight through my bones and into my soul: I have to find Emeric Rodin again. I have to hear him sing.
For now that I have tasted the world hidden in the lushness of his voice, my chest churns with a hunger deeper than I have ever known. A craving that has taken hold of every part of me. A need rooted in the cracks of my core.
But it isn’t only the vividness of his memories.
That little gravoir girl with the smile on her lips and the sunshine in her hair... I have to learn more about her.
Gravoirs are killed at birth, executed as soon as their monstrosity is discovered and ascertained by the authorities as worse than the markings of a fendoir. I was lucky that Cyril saved me from that fate, but who pulled that little girl from the water? How is she living in a world of open skies and smiles and blue hair ribbons?
Is a life like that—a maskless, free life—possible for someone like me?
If I can figure out how she’s achieved it, I may finally be able to stand on a stage like the one far above me, and not just when the patrons are gone and the lights are out. Maybe there’s something that Emeric’s memories of this girl could teach me...some way for me to finally have the spotlight and the backup symphony and the awestruck audience.
I glance upward, as though I can see past the stone ceiling all the way to Cyril’s office.
He asked me to be careful, and I gave him my word that I would. But Emeric’s memories hold in them the possibility of not only stepping outside the opera house but living in that wide world out there. Finally breaking free from the society that has chained me to the shadows. Performing on a stage. Affecting people with my music.
I can’t just crouch back into the corners and hide anymore.
Cyril, for as much as he loves me, has never felt what I have at the hands of this hateful world. If he had, he would understand.
Emeric’s voice echoes in my mind. I close my eyes, letting my skin shiver with pleasure, and grip my pendant in my fist.
Cyril doesn’t have to find out.
Chapter Four
I sit at my perch the following evening, grasping the cherub’s meaty stone calf with one hand and knotting my finger in the chain of my pendant with the other. I try to lose myself in the memories of the singers onstage, but the images there suddenly seem so dull, so lifeless, so distant after what I experienced in Emeric’s mind. And, now that I’ve seen the colors of his past, the grayscale memories I’ve already viewed dozens of times from the same cast I’ve been watching for months no longer thrill me the way they did before. I find myself scanning the audience and peering into the faces of ushers in the doorways, looking for that suntanned skin and pair of dimples that haunted my dreams last night.
When the performance ends and Cyril takes the stage to begin “La Chanson des Rêves,” I snap to attention.
Focus, Isda.
Tamping down the adrenaline sparking like fire in my veins, I peer between the cherub’s knees into the faces of the patrons below. They open their mouths and begin to sing.
Their memories do not assault me the way Emeric’s did. They tug lazily at my power, a half-hearted prickle along the place where the Manipulation Mark used to be on my left ankle. I sigh and grip onto that feeling, propelling my mind into their memories and beginning my work.
If I’m going to be able to listen to Emeric sing again without Cyril finding out, I’ll need to do my job just as well as any other night. Cyril is an observant man. If anything is out of the ordinary, he’ll know I’m up to something.
Channeling everything Cyril has ever taught me about keeping my emotions in control, I breathe deeply through my nose and barrel through the sea of memories below me.
When the song reaches its finale, every audience member is smiling.
With sweat slicking the back of my neck and my chest heaving, I slouch against the curve of where the wall meets the ceiling, twirling a stray bit of hair around my thumb, and wait for the opera house to empty and the lights to go out.
An eternity has passed by the time I’ve deemed it safe to slip through my trapdoor, and my nerves are so raw I feel as though I might explode out of my own skin. The simultaneous thrill of knowing I’m about to go looking for a boy I’m forbidden from seeing and the anxiety about the risk I’m taking in doing so have me quivering.
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to run straight for the third floor where Emeric is supposed to mop the tile. I cannot allow him to see me this time. I need to be much more careful than I was last night—no getting lost in the memories and toppling into candelabras. I’ll hide, listen, and watch, and no one will know.
I slow my pace and lift my skirts so they don’t rustle against my legs. Keeping to the edge of the hallways and hugging the corners, I force my breathing to stay even and silent.
What if Emeric already finished mopping? What if I missed him, and he’s already gone home for the night? What if he decides not to sing while he works this time?
As the panic of that thought seizes me, a muffled humming trails from a few corridors away. I pause, gripping the nearest statue to steady the sudden quake in my legs as relief fills my whole body, and follow the lovely lilt of the pure tenor tone I’ve been hearing in my mind since last night.
Once I get within range of where my power can latch on to the music—this time I’m just down a short flight of stairs and around a small bend—I ease into the space behind a velvet chair and sink to the floor.
His memories surge bright and beautiful, pummeling against my power, trying to get in. The skin on my ankle thrums along to the beat of his song as I close my eyes and try to focus through the barrage of images. Plunging past the ones of earlier tonight, I swim backward through time, dipping my face into each scene long enough to search for the gravoir girl before pulling back out and continuing my
search.
After a dozen memories, anxiety begins to knot in my chest. I haven’t found her yet, and the realization of how long it might take to look through an entire lifetime of memories makes my blood run cold. I don’t have that kind of time. Emeric could finish mopping and leave soon, and Cyril is expecting me in his office to talk over tonight’s results. If I don’t show up, he might worry and come looking for me.
I spin through the memories faster and faster, ignoring the way my stomach feels like it’s being wrenched out through my throat every time I have to pull myself out of a particularly beautiful moment to move onto the next one.
Images blur past of a small apartment, a candy shop, a kind-looking man with curly, black hair and a plump, round belly. About a hundred nights spent sitting outside an opera house—though not Channe’s opera house, I can tell that much. Dozens of coins being collected in a small wooden box and then later dumped out onto ticket counters. Emeric sitting enraptured, grasping the armrests of a plush theater seat and staring wide-eyed at performers on a stage, desire and need twining through his gut.
Clenching my fists, I tread backward faster and faster to Emeric’s childhood, skipping whole years as I go. Scenes flash past of him serenading rows of homemade, hand-stitched toy animals in kitchen chairs, of him practicing dance combinations in a quaint bedroom, of him singing to a sweet little girl in a pale blue nightgown—
The memories vanish, and I gasp as though I’ve been plunged into ice-cold water. It takes me a moment to orient myself, to remember how to breathe, to get my vision to focus.
“Are you okay, mademoiselle?” a voice asks nearby.
I jolt sideways, smacking my head on the back of the chair. I leap to my feet, wincing, and scramble away from the shadow towering over me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just...you were huffing and puffing back there. I worried you were having some sort of fit.” The figure leans forward, and a shaft of starlight slants across his face. He grins. Dimples deepen in his cheeks, and a turquoise stone glimmers at his throat.
The need to run surges hot in my blood, but my legs feel as though they’re made of lead.
Emeric runs a hand through his hair and cocks his head.
Right. He’s still waiting for a response.
The words stick in my throat. I open and close my mouth like a suffocating fish.
I’ve never spoken to anyone besides Cyril in my life. Never made eye contact or had a conversation.
“I—I’m perfectly well, merci.” My voice comes out squeaky and high-pitched. I swallow, remembering Cyril’s oft-repeated words, If you aren’t in control of your emotions, you aren’t in control of anything. Willing my heart to stop its feverish attack on the inside of my rib cage, I straighten my skirt. If I act too strange, this Emeric boy will suspect something’s off. In order to stay alive, I need to prevent that at all costs. “For your information,” I force out, “I was not having a fit. I was...resting.”
“Ah. That makes so much more sense.” He nods, white teeth flashing. “Because hyperventilating is a fantastic method for putting oneself at ease.”
I blink. Is he...mocking me? “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”
“Oh, how rude of me.” He holds out his right hand for me to shake. “I’m Emeric Rodin. I was hired on as a janitor here yesterday. Never been a janitor before in my life, but my mother’s favorite punishment for misbehavior was making me scrub our house from top to bottom, so I suppose I’m actually quite the expert when it comes to mopping and dusting things.”
His hand hangs awkwardly in the air for another moment before he finally shoves both of his fists into his jacket pockets and leans casually against the wall.
“Uh...were you going to tell me your name, or am I supposed to guess?” he asks.
The starlight casts a bluish glow along his profile.
“Because,” he goes on with a nervous chuckle, “I’m historically terrible at guessing games. I’d probably come up with something like ‘Celeste,’ and then you’d tell me that that was the name of your favorite aunt who died last week, and then I’d feel like an imbecile.” He pauses, eyes widening. “Wait, you don’t have a dead Aunt Celeste, do you? Or a deceased pet cat with that name?”
I purse my lips. Fear has clenched a fist so tight on my insides that my dinner is threatening to come back up. My gaze darts upward to where Cyril is waiting.
“I am deeply sorry if you know a dead Celeste,” he goes on in a rush, cheeks darkening. “I told you I’m bad at this. But, see, I’m even worse with awkward silences, and you standing there not talking is making me quite nervous, so if you could just muster up the strength to say something, I’d appreciate it a whole lot.”
I take a deep breath and force the terrified quiver out of my voice. “You talk too fast.”
“Thank you,” he says in a whoosh of an exhale. “Er—I mean, sorry. I do talk fast. My uncle tells me that a lot. Can’t get me to shut up most of the time.”
“I believe that.”
He snorts. “Ouch.”
My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean... I just...” I wring my hands. I’ve talked to Cyril plenty of times. Why is having a conversation with this boy so absurdly difficult?
He smiles. “It’s all right. And completely fair. I think I even passed out once because I was talking so much I forgot to breathe.”
“Really?”
His chuckle is like music. “Maybe.” He gives me a devil’s grin. “So should I call you ‘mademoiselle,’ or have you got a name tucked somewhere behind that mask of yours?”
My stomach jolts at the mention of my mask, but I keep my hands soft against my skirt and my breathing as normal as I can. Perhaps he’ll think me only a simple fendoir and not a gravoir. While fendoirs by law aren’t allowed in any public places where people may sing, they are protected by the King of Vaureille due to their ability to extract memory elixir. Even though fendoir faces are nowhere near as misshapen as gravoir ones, they are required to wear masks when they go out in public. Granted, those masks aren’t usually adorned with feathers and crystals—just simple silver bits of fabric to cover what the unmarked would rather not see—but hopefully this Rodin boy won’t think too hard on that.
He’s still waiting for my response, bouncing a little on his heels.
What harm could there be in his knowing my name? It’s not like it’s in a record book anywhere.
I clear my throat. “I’m Isda.”
“Lovely name.”
“Isn’t it?” I say before I can help myself. I’ve always loved the name Cyril chose for me.
“All right, Isda...is there a reason you were crouching behind that chair?”
I brace my shoulders and lift my chin, trying to exude far more confidence than I feel. “I was listening to you sing, actually. You have a remarkable voice.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh...merci. It was just an old tune from my hometown. Nothing special.”
“The song may not have been, but your voice was.”
He darts a glance at me. “Awfully kind of you to say so.”
“I wasn’t being kind. Only honest.”
“It was kind all the same.”
I bite my lip, thoughts racing, the images of his memories still dancing like ghosts on the insides of my eyelids. I need some way to get this boy to sing for me—and sing for me a lot. If I’m ever going to be able to wade through seventeen years of memories, I’ll need time. Time that will have to come from more than just stolen moments stalking him in hallways.
The vision of him from his childhood performing on a makeshift stage in front of an assortment of toys flashes across my mind. It’s obvious he loves music. I waded through hundreds of glimpses of what looked like an obsession with the opera.
I think of Cyril’s words
from last night about Emeric coming here to audition for the winter show.
“You really deserve to be on the stage, not back here mopping floors. Have you ever considered auditioning?” I try to act casual even though my mind is whirring at top speed, weaving together the threads of an idea. An idea that goes against everything I promised Cyril last night about being careful. But if I succeed, it might be worth the risk.
He shrugs. “I have, but no one seems to want to even hear me sing before making up their minds about my abilities.”
“Have you been professionally trained?”
“Do I look like the type of guy with enough money to afford something like that?” He gestures to his patched jacket.
“Without any training, no opera house is going to look twice at you. But, as it so happens, I am a very accomplished vocal teacher.” I’m surprised at how easily the lie slips from my lips. I just hope he doesn’t hear the edge of eagerness in my voice.
He raises one eyebrow. “You? You can’t be old enough to—”
“It’s not about age. It’s about experience, and I have a lot of it. So what do you say? Would you like vocal instruction or not?”
“I can’t pay you.”
“Did I mention money?”
“If you’re not in it for pay, then what are you in it for?”
For the way your memories make me feel alive. For the things I could learn from the gravoir girl in your past. For the chance to be free.
“If I can get a singer onto the stage here,” I say, fabricating the lie as I go, “I can prove my worth as a—a vocal professional. Get the world to take me seriously.”
“But...” He pauses awkwardly, running his hand through his hair once again. “But you’re a fendoir, aren’t you? Fendoirs aren’t exactly allowed to work in musical professions, what with the risk of you extracting all our elixir or whatever.”
“Don’t you find it a little unfair that the only thing fendoirs are allowed to do is work in Maisons des Souvenirs?” I ask. “What if you were born with some talent, some ability that you hated doing, and you had a passion for something else—say, music? Should a person’s whole life be defined by what their face looks like, some power they wish they could have been born without—” I drop my voice to a deep, intense whisper “—or some fate they never asked for, never wanted?”
Sing Me Forgotten Page 3