Maman’s face flushes with joy as she darts forward to clasp the woman in a loose hug. “No one will ever know you were here. Merci!”
I drag myself out of the memory as the midwife gathers her things and leaves. Emeric’s fear, his relief, his confusion all pull on me as I do, but the song is nearing its end, and there’s more—much more—I want to see.
I skip forward, dipping in here and there, catching glimpses of the little gravoir child as she grows. The cottage from the earlier memory is gone, replaced by a tiny house on the edge of the apple orchard. Emeric’s mother must have whisked her children away to prevent Arlette from being discovered. Which is why Emeric grew up so isolated from the world, why he sang to toy animals instead of other people, why he never had the funds nor means to have any sort of vocal training.
Emeric’s voice softens as it nears the end of the song, and I am filled with a longing so strong my heart might burst. I’m not ready to be done living and seeing and breathing in his past yet. I could remain here, swirling in the lights and colors of his memories until the end of time, and it still would not be long enough.
As he hits the last note, I glimpse Arlette facing an eleven-year-old Emeric in a small bedroom. He is singing, and golden strands of elixir are pouring out of his ears.
My hands jam sideways into the keys, sending a shock wave of noise blaring through the organ’s pipes.
“Isda!” Emeric rushes to my side. “Are you all right?”
I lurch away from him, my mind reeling. “I’m—I’m fine...” I say, but my hearing has gone fuzzy, and his voice sounds as though I’m hearing it from underwater.
Arlette is not a fendoir. Yet there she was, extracting elixir straight from Emeric’s ears just like one. Are gravoirs capable of that?
Am I?
I’m stumbling back and forth from one end of my room to the other, hands knotted in my hair. Emeric follows me a pace or two behind, begging me to tell him what’s happened.
I whirl to look at him. He stands there in his dusty, patched jacket and gray trousers, his cap tied into a knot between white-knuckled fists.
“Isda,” he says quietly. “Please talk to me.”
I release my hair and smooth my skirts. “I’m sorry. I think the exhaustion of the day has finally gotten to me. That’s all. I’m fine.”
His brow furrows. “Are you sure?”
“I am.” I lead the way back to the door and escort him into the catacombs. “I just need some rest.”
He frowns, but then, finally, nods. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He puts the cap back into its place and turns to leave, pauses, then reaches out to brush my shoulder. “Take care. Please.”
His touch shocks through me. I freeze as he strides off into the dark.
His footsteps fade, and I am left in silence.
It takes every bit of energy I have left to snap my jaw shut and turn back toward my room.
I catch sight of the skull right next to the crypt’s entrance, grinning at me like it sees right through my mask to my stupefied expression.
“What are you laughing at, Albert?” I huff past and heave the door shut.
Chapter Nine
I face my room. Books are strewn about from our lesson, and pages lie scattered on the floor where I must have knocked them down in my dazed state. The candles burn low, and the clock on the nearest shelf reads nearly 2:00 a.m. Though my body is more exhausted than it’s been in as long as I can remember, my mind is abuzz and my heart is wild.
From projecting that demon into the Forgotten Child’s mind to discovering that gravoirs might be capable of fendoir power, tonight has sent my world spinning.
Of course I’ve known that there is more to my power than the manipulation I do every night. But elixir extraction is a fendoir ability, not a gravoir one. And gravoirs are born without the fendoir birthmark that seems to be what allows fendoirs to do their magic. I suppose a gravoir could carve the symbol into their skin, but I’ve inspected every rune in that painting of Les Trois upstairs, and the fendoir symbol—the spiral in the space between collarbones—is decidedly absent.
I ease into my bed and pull the duvet up to my chin, not even bothering to change out of my clothes or take my boots off.
But try as I might to sleep, all I see behind my closed eyelids is the trail of golden elixir in Emeric’s mind. All I feel is the tingle of curiosity that shivered through Emeric’s chest at the sight of his baby sister at her birth. All I hear is the echo of his heartrendingly beautiful voice, soft as velvet in my ears.
My thoughts stray to Cyril, to the years of learning I spent at his knee as he struggled to teach me the intricacies of a magic he didn’t have from that small red book on his desk. It’s possible he didn’t know the extent of my power.
He always told me we kept away from the other gravoir symbols because he wasn’t sure what they did, wasn’t sure which ones might set me on a path of madness from which he would be unable to retrieve me. He wanted to keep me from becoming volatile and treacherous like Les Trois.
Perhaps there is something to elixir extraction that I do not understand. Maybe it affects gravoirs differently. If he knew I was capable of it, then he kept it from me for a purpose, and I should leave it alone.
But...
My body shivers with curiosity. With excitement.
Reason tells me to wait and ask Cyril about it tomorrow night, but the zing in my blood won’t let me think of anything else. Cyril would likely tell me it’s not safe for me to try it, and he would probably be right. Besides, he might get to asking how I found out it was possible, and I’ve never been good at lying to him.
Which means if I want to see what extraction is like, I’ll have to betray his trust for the second time.
The thought of sneaking around behind his back even more when he’s already risked so much for me makes my stomach churn, but now that I know elixir extraction is possible, I cannot ignore it. I have to know more.
I think of all the hours he spent honing my ability, reading about my magic from that leather-bound tome in his office and teaching me the things he found there.
As a child, I was never curious about the book, never took it upon myself to try to read it—I had better things to do, like hiding in the dressing rooms to steal trinkets from the dancers. Now I wish I had cared more.
What exactly is written in it? What more could I learn about myself from it?
I have to know.
So in spite of the tremor in my limbs and the heaving of my lungs, I toss the duvet aside and make my way through the catacombs up into the opera house.
As I prowl through the deserted black hallways, shadows of great angel statues watch me, spreading their wings to guide me in the dark. Starlight glimmers on the floor. I brush my fingers against windows as I pass, and their panes send a chill up my arm like ice filming over a lake in midwinter.
When I reach the corridor where Cyril’s office is, I slow my pace and creep closer to the wall. Though it is after two o’clock in the morning and Cyril is likely long gone for the night, I keep my footsteps silent. He’s been known on occasion to work later than usual, and I’d prefer to not be caught tonight. Plus there’s still the disturbing possibility that someone tried to enter his office earlier, and if that was the case, whoever it was might still be hidden in this hallway somewhere.
I slide against the oak door and press my ear to its surface, holding my breath.
No sound comes from within—not the creaking of the leather in his chair nor the clink of glass vials nor the shuffle of papers. I press my palm to the doorknob and twist.
It is locked.
I curse. Of course it is locked. It always is.
Sighing, I lean my cheek against the door once more, as though the wood’s grain might whisper the answer to me. The distant scratching of the branches against his office
window bristles through my ear, and I pause.
The tree.
Whirling, I sprint up the hallway, down several flights of stairs, and through half a dozen corridors until I reach the back exit where the janitors and other employees leave during the night. I prop it open with a nearby rock and duck into the shadows of the trees that line the building.
And stop.
Blink.
I’m outside.
The blood drains to my feet.
The sky is so big. I stare, the breath whisked clean from my chest, the beat stolen from my heart. Gaping at wispy clouds drifting across diamond stars, I tip my head against the stone wall and inhale deeply.
The air is chilly and tastes of crisp leaves and chimney smoke. Though I’ve smelled these scents from the windows a thousand times, there’s something entirely new and different about having them tickle through my nose and into my lungs out here in the open.
I reach out tentative fingers to the tree in front of me and stroke the nearest golden-edged leaf. It trembles beneath my touch. Its edge is not unlike the tips of the raven feathers that adorn my mask.
The tree rustles in the autumn breeze. Somewhere far away, a cab’s wheels clatter across cobblestones. A horn blares. Crickets strum a harmony.
It is more beautiful than any symphony I’ve ever heard.
The city is quiet, as though listening to the same music. I imagine its people asleep in their beds, their faces soft and unblemished, their hearts untroubled.
There are no gunshots, no angry shouts. No one to condemn me.
They may have forced me into the dark, but I am not as powerless as they would have me be.
I grind my heels in the dirt.
It must be nice for them to live in a world that welcomes them. That lets them walk, unafraid under the stars, free to experience the world’s symphonies, its musks, its tastes. That grants them the liberty to harness their own destinies, whether that be on a stage or anywhere else.
One day, somehow, they will pay for their laws, for all the gravoirs they’ve murdered, for the years their disgust has imprisoned me underground. I don’t know how, and I don’t know where, but when that day comes, I will be free, and they will be the ones who will live in fear.
But first I need to find that book. Whirling, I creep around the side of the building, keeping behind the shrubbery. I find the wall where Cyril’s office is and count the windows across. It should be the twelfth window from the end of the hallway, which would put it somewhere around...
There. The familiar scratching sound of branch against glass is louder out here. I inspect the tree leading to his window and rub my hands together, willing them to warm up in spite of the cold wind.
I gather my skirts in one arm to free my legs and hoist myself into the tree. Luckily, the branches are low and evenly spaced enough for me to make it most of the way up without much trouble. By the time I reach his window, however, I am gasping for breath, and my arms and legs are burning. It probably would have been a better idea to come back and do this when my body was not quite so spent, but even as the thought crosses my mind, I know I wouldn’t have waited for anything. My need for answers would not have allowed me to.
Shimmying across the branch, I drop my skirts so I can hold on to the tree with one hand and reach for the window’s latch with the other. It pops open, and I clamber over the sill to land in a heap on the floor next to Cyril’s map of Channe.
Air burns in my lungs, and my corset feels suddenly too tight, like my ribs might burst through its boning. Gasping, I pull myself upright and light one of the lanterns.
I glance at the corner of the desk where the book was earlier this evening, but I find only a stack of psychology reference books.
Turning, I scan the titles on the shelves, searching for the red cover and the distinct cursive scrawl of its title. Hundreds of record books from the King’s Council of Channe stand in tidy black rows, uniform and rigid as soldiers. Then there are the atlases and the encyclopedias, the music scores and the folders filled with Cyril’s opera house dealings.
Rapping my knuckles against their spines, I whirl and dive for the shelves on the other side of the room. Here live the books he likes to read for entertainment. Literary magazines and lengthy tomes by ancient philosophers.
I search every single shelf. Even the children’s books on the back wall that Cyril used to read to me when I was young. Nowhere in the room is a single book about gravoirs or fendoirs. Not even the history books, which are sure to discuss how fendoirs affect the economy, seem promising enough for me to pull them from their places and flip through.
Grinding my teeth, I fling myself into Cyril’s chair.
What did he do with that old red book? Where could it be?
I pick up one of his elixir vials and roll it around my palm, chewing on my lip. The amber liquid sparkles, and I lean it closer to the lantern’s light to inspect it. The elixir glows as though it’s made of stardust, glittering motes suspended in molten gold. I think of how that elixir looked in Emeric’s memory as it spilled from his ears toward his sister’s outstretched hands, tiny ribbons of light pulled from somewhere deep in his soul, shining in the afternoon sun.
I lean back against the chair’s armrest and gaze absently at the books on the wall, trailing the tip of the tiny vial along my jaw at the edge of my mask.
If I were Cyril, what would I have done with that book?
The vial slips from my sweaty fingers and shatters against the tile, spraying the hem of my gown with liquid sunlight. I curse and rummage through Cyril’s drawers for a handkerchief.
But when I turn to mop up the elixir, I pause, frowning. Is the puddle...shrinking?
I drop to my knees to get a better look.
The glowing pool of liquid is definitely getting smaller.
I crouch lower until my nose brushes the floor and run my fingertips along the smooth gloss of the marble. My hands pause on a small, almost imperceptible groove in the tile. I follow the line of it to where the elixir has almost disappeared completely.
“What on earth?” I mutter, tracing the crease all the way to where it meets up with a gap between the shelving on the walls.
The nearly invisible crack in the floor forms a perfect semicircle outward from one of the bookshelves.
Pinning my lower lip between my teeth, I approach the bookshelf and, keeping my feet just outside the semicircle, shove on one end of it. At first nothing happens, so I dig in my heels and throw all of my weight into it. The tile groans, then finally gives way, and the bookshelf swivels to reveal another set of shelves mounted on its other side.
“Sweet Memory’s song,” I breathe.
The hidden bookshelf is nearly empty. Only a few small tomes rest on the middle ledge: A pile of tattered, black journals, and the book with the faded, red cover I saw on Cyril’s desk earlier tonight.
I pluck it from its place and angle it toward the light so I can see its title.
An Exploration of Fendoir Magic.
Footsteps click in the hallway outside the door.
Panic slices through me. I swing the bookshelf back around and jam the book into my pocket just as a key scrapes in the lock and the doorknob turns.
“Isda?” Cyril stares at me, shock written in every wrinkle on his face. “What in Memory’s holy name are you doing here?”
“I—I was looking for a book,” I blurt.
“At three in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I remembered all those fairy tales you used to read to me before bed...” I step in front of where I spilled the elixir. Though the golden liquid has all disappeared into the crack in the floor, I’m afraid he might notice the broken glass, and I discreetly kick it under his desk.
He pulls his key from the lock and crosses toward me, mopping his face with a long-fingered hand. He clutches a t
orn envelope in his fist. “How did you get in here? I keep it locked.”
I shrug, hating myself for every lie as it slips from my lips. “You must have forgotten.”
He holds up his key and frowns. “It was locked just now.”
My cheeks burn. Why am I so terrible at this? “Oui, I—I locked it behind me. I was afraid that whoever it was that tried to open the door earlier might come back.”
Though the excuse rings obviously false, he doesn’t seem to hear the quaver in my words. He simply nods and makes his way to the stack of children’s books. His implicit, unquestioning faith in me makes my heart ache.
“These are the fairy tales,” he says. “Was there one in particular you were looking for?”
“Oh, I’m sure any of them will do.” I knot my fingers together so he won’t see them shake.
He slides one out of its place. “Ah, Charlotte and the Mirror of Forgotten Things. This one was always a favorite of mine.” He holds it out.
I take it and tuck it under my arm. “Me, too.”
“Do you remember the poem at the end?”
I nod, every nerve in my body buzzing. “Of course I do.”
“‘When Charlotte looked in the mirror, she saw a great many things...’” He whispers the words with the same lilt he used to when I was a child.
The familiarity of the poem eases the spike of adrenaline in my body. When I join him to recite it, he smiles.
A bone, a bauble, a book, a barrel
Of berries picked last spring.
All the images she’d forgotten
As her mind grew old and gray
Little details, bigger ones too,
A thousand nights and days.
But her favorite thing to see
When she looked into its depths:
A four-layer cake, fourteen roses,
And sixty strands of baby’s breath.
The lace on her sleeves and veil,
And the ringing of bells up above.
The thud of her heart, the strum of the strings,
As she gave her soul to her love.
For a moment, I am six years old again, tucked into a small cot in the corner of a practice room down the hall from here, clinging to the dregs of consciousness. Cyril is brushing the hair from my face and pulling a comforter to my chin. “Good night, chérie,” he’s saying.
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