Sing Me Forgotten

by Jessica S. Olson

  The footsteps grow louder and then stop outside the door. The doorknob rattles as a key slides into the lock.

  I fling myself out the window and onto the tree branch just as the door clicks open behind me.

  Swallowing a cry of pain from accidentally using my bad hand, I shimmy quickly to the trunk and climb the rest of the way down to the ground.

  Cyril’s gasp of shock echoes out the window, followed by a string of curses and crunching footsteps over broken glass as he pounds his way to the window. I leap into the bushes and pull my feet out of sight an instant before his head ducks into the wind.

  “Who’s there?” he shouts.

  I cover my mouth with my good hand to stifle the heaving of my breaths.

  “Isda.” My name sounds like poison in his mouth. “Where are you?”

  Still I do not move. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for him to leave the window so I can flee.

  “You can’t hide from me forever, chérie. Creatures like you don’t last long in our world.”

  My bad hand is pinned underneath me, and the longer I wait, the more it aches. It pulses blades up my wrist, which slice through my arm.

  Go, Cyril, I plead silently. Please go.

  Though I do not open my eyes, I hear the rustle of his suit jacket as he leans out over the window’s ledge. The steady in and out of his breath through his nose. The wet snick of his tongue sliding over his teeth as he waits.

  I grit my teeth as the agony in my hand explodes sparks across the inside of my eyelids.

  I chance a peek through the brambles. Cyril is looking at the street a few yards away.

  Maybe if I move very, very slowly... I inch my pelvis upward into the air as carefully as I can. The bare branches of the bush brace against me, and I beg them not to crackle.

  That’s it. A little more.

  The pressure on my hand lessens as I arch my back. I ease my arm gradually out from underneath my weight.

  All the while, I keep one eye pinned on Cyril.

  My body trembles with the exertion of keeping my spine arched away from the ground.

  Easy. Easy, I tell myself.

  The muscles in my back spasm, and my heels skid on the dirt.

  I thud against the ground. The branches I was pushing against rustle back into place.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Cyril’s gaze snaps down onto my face.

  “Bonjour, chérie,” he says.

  I wrench myself out from under the bush and run.

  Chapter Thirty

  My lungs burn and my sides ache as I dash through Channe. It seems Cyril has already managed to alert the police, as the slumbering streets of Channe echo with shouts so loud I cannot gauge how far away they are. But I no longer have elixir pumping through my veins, and my body is weak with fatigue. The pain in my hand and my head are blinding, and my body is still trembling from how much power it took to drain Emeric. Channe’s police force will catch me.

  Unless I find some elixir.

  Grasping to that thought, I search the storefronts as I pass. Bookstores, cafés, banks, churches. Where are the Maisons des Souvenirs? And why did I smash all those vials in Cyril’s office instead of stealing them?

  I swing around a corner and catch sight of the familiar, whipping crimson flag with its golden stitched Extraction Mark. Gasping with relief, I make a beeline for it. When I reach the door, I yank on the handle, but of course it’s locked. I peer through the glass, cupping my good hand around my face to see if I can glimpse anything inside.

  A grand desk looms in the dark, bleached pale by the silver glow slanting in from the gaslight behind me, but there is no one there. Likely the fendoir who runs this place is home asleep in his bed.

  A clatter of hooves reaches my ears from somewhere nearby, and my stomach lurches to my throat. I need a way into this Maison now.

  I whirl as adrenaline jolts through me, making my head spin so painfully I gag. Catching sight of a loose cobblestone, I skid toward it, pry it free, and hurl it as hard as I can at the window.

  The crash splits through my eardrums as shards scatter across the tile in front of the reception desk. I glance over my shoulder to check if I’ve been seen, but every shopfront on the street is as silent and still as before. I launch inside.

  In all the memories I’ve seen of people visiting Maisons des Souvenirs, there’s always a grand receiving desk like this one in the front room for some kind of receptionist. The elixir extraction usually takes place inside one of an array of private rooms adorned with cushy pillows and dimmed lights. As soon as the elixir is extracted, the vials are whisked away. So there’s got to be some kind of safe or vault somewhere in the back where the fendoirs keep their supply until it is picked up by government officials for sale and distribution.

  As I dash for the dark hallway on the other side of the desk, someone grabs me from behind and yanks me back.

  “No!” I shout, trying to disentangle myself from the stranger’s grip.

  “Easy there, child.”

  I stop and stare up into a pair of iron-gray eyes framed by a silver fendoir mask.

  “You don’t look like a thief.” He cocks his head and surveys my black mask, the thick knot of still-dripping hair atop my head, and the bandaged lump of flesh on the end of my left arm.

  “Please. I need elixir. They’ll catch me, and I—”

  “Why the mask? If you were a fendoir, you’d have the symbol there.” He nods at the place where my collarbones meet. My gaze darts to his collar. The top of his own spiral mark peeks out above it. “So what are you?”

  “I—I—” I glance past him through the broken window to the street. The shouts are getting closer.

  I meet his gaze with my chin held high. I may be a gravoir and he a fendoir, but we are not too different from each other. Both of us hide our appearance from the world. Both of us don’t quite fit into the society we were born in. We are two sides of the same coin, he and I. Perhaps trusting him is the only way for me to make it through tonight alive.

  So I hold my breath, slide my fingers under the edge of my mask, and lift it away from my face. It clatters to the floor between our feet.

  “You’re a—” He steps back, his face going pale and his eyes widening.

  “Please,” I whisper as the shouts outside grow ever louder. “They’ll kill me.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes in the full effect of my face.

  Then he turns. “Hey!” he bellows, stomping toward the window. “She’s in here!”

  Acid ripples through me.

  Even a fendoir?

  The beast in my chest growls.

  As a fendoir, this man’s elixir is untouchable for me. But he can still bleed.

  I grasp a shining shard of glass from the ground and leap for him, plunging it deep into the side of his neck. He stumbles backward, groping at his collar. Blood spatters his mask and soaks his shirt. He topples.

  Leaping over the reception desk, I careen down the hall, ramming open door after door, searching for the elixir.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I growl each time the room is filled with only pillows and overstuffed chairs.

  Finally, at the far end of the hallway, one of the doors is locked. Mustering up every ounce of life left in me, I jam my foot through the feeble wood. It splinters, opening a hole wide enough for my arm to fit through. Sliding my hand into the darkness, I unlock the door and duck inside.

  A glass case stands in the corner, full to the brim with glowing vials.

  My mouth waters. My knees go weak.

  I stumble to the case. Wrenching it open, I uncork vial after vial, guzzling down the contents as though I’ve never drunk a thing in my life. Elixir splashes down my front in my haste, and my fingers quiver with each new glass bottle.

  The more
I drink, the more alive I feel. Once again, my exhaustion fades, my vision sharpens, my hands steady, and the pain dissipates.

  A crash and a shout come from the reception area.

  I throw back one last swallow, wipe my mouth on my sleeve, and turn toward the door. Shadows twitch on the wall across the hall. Footsteps crackle on broken glass.

  Body thrumming with power, I prowl forward. I pause at the doorway, and the toe of my boot nudges against something propped against the doorframe, knocking it sideways. I crouch and catch the object before it hits the floor.

  An umbrella.

  I hold it aloft.

  A guard strides into my view and points a pistol at my head.

  “Bonsoir,” I purr, grinning when he catches sight of my unmasked face and blanches. I ram forward, jamming the umbrella’s sharp tip into his gut. He grunts, and the gun drops from his fingers. It goes off when it hits the floor, filling the air with the bite of gunpowder.

  Boots pound in our direction. The guard in front of me gags, reaching for his gun, but blood is pooling on his lips, and his fingers shake. Kicking his arm aside, I pick up the weapon, face the shadow hurtling toward me in the dark, and fire.

  The bullet takes the second policeman in the forehead, and he drops without another sound.

  Shoving the pistol into the sash of my dress, I stride down the hall and into the reception area. Cold wind bites through the room. Pausing only to retrieve my mask from where it lies a few feet from the fallen fendoir, I fasten it around my head and duck outside.

  A pair of sturdy, dark brown horses saddled in police garb paw at the ground where they stand tied to the nearest gaslight pole. Sifting through a hundred memories of how to handle horses, I make my way cautiously to the bigger one.

  I unknot his reins, hoist myself one-handed into the saddle, and pause. I think back to the moment I found Cyril’s letter in his office earlier and try to remember the address scrawled across the envelope. 12 Rue de l’Orchidée. I purse my lips. It is not a street name I recognize. How am I going to find it? Tapping my knuckles against my knee, I quickly think of all the addresses and street signs I’ve glimpsed in my years sneaking through the corners of people’s minds.

  I imagine the soft, bright petals of the orchid for which Cyril’s street is named. A small collection of flashes of street signs from other memories pop up. Rue de la Tulipe. Rue du Lis. Rue de la Violette. Tulip. Lily. Violet.

  There must be a neighborhood with street names that all come from flowers.

  I latch on to the memory of Rue de la Violette—the one with the clearest glimpse of the area. In the memory, the sun is setting to the left. I glance at the sky and take note of the grayish glow on the horizon. Yanking on the reins, I pull the horse around in the right direction and, mimicking the behavior of riders in memories I’ve witnessed, urge him into a gallop.

  As I lean low over the saddle, I remind myself of the things I must do before Emeric’s performance.

  I need to track down Arlette, get her somewhere safe, and ask her where I can find a catalyseur. I need to locate one, retrieve it, and make it back to the opera house in time for the show.

  And I need to do it all within the next fourteen hours without being caught.

  “Hang on, Emeric,” I mutter through my teeth as the wind whips my hood back. “Once I get my hands on that catalyseur, nothing will be able to stop us.”

  It takes me the better part of half an hour, courtesy of a few loops and backtracks, before I finally arrive at Rue de la Violette. I continue more slowly, scanning each street sign as I pass, searching for Rue de l’Orchidée. The boxes hanging on every lamppost and public wall are draped with the shriveled remains of lilies, chrysanthemums, and roses. Dead petals rustle in the wind.

  I slow the horse to a walk and urge him along each street, straining to see past grand, sky-high fences to the palatial homes beyond.

  There it is. Rue de l’Orchidée. Though dark, purple-black clouds are gathering in the sky and obscuring the approach of dawn, a gilded sign on a nearby gate bearing the number 12 still glimmers in the faded light.

  Dismounting, I tie the horse to a tree around the corner near a birdbath. He ducks his muzzle into the half-frozen water and gulps noisily. I stroke his mane once in thanks before slipping around the back corner of the brick wall at the perimeter of Cyril’s yard, ducking to hide behind icy bushes whenever a cab or carriage passes on the street. Cold air puffs silver in front of my face as I make my way forward. With every step, the sky grows thicker and darker, and the wind picks up its ferocious howl.

  Though I know from the memories I’ve seen from people at the opera that my legs will be sore from riding later, the elixir coursing through my system keeps away all pain, and I walk proudly in spite of the icy air that has frozen my wet hair solid.

  When I’ve reached a small alley between Cyril’s back wall and that of the nearest neighbor, I wedge my feet and good hand into the bricks and climb up and over. Even with a useless arm, the elixir makes the feat easy, and before I know it, I’m skirting the lawn of his backyard, watching the pale gray house for any sign of movement within.

  For the most part, all of the windows are dark. It isn’t until I round the corner on the south side that I see yellow light shining through gauzy white curtains.

  I crouch behind a massive trash bin and peek around its edge, squinting to see if Cyril has come back home or if it is someone else who is moving about inside.

  A shadow passes one of the windows, and the curtain ruffles enough for me to see the customary white uniform of a chef. How many servants does Cyril have? What time do they arrive? If I’m going to be able to search for clues about Arlette, I’ll need to get in and out quickly and with as little of a ruckus as possible.

  Chewing on my lip, I wait for a sign that anyone else is home, but I see only the chef bustling his way back and forth in what must be Cyril’s kitchen.

  Steeling my nerves, I creep out from my hiding place and scuttle along the walkway and onto the back porch. I slide my hand onto the brass handle of the back door and give it a slow twist. It pops open silently on well-oiled hinges.

  The air inside is warm, and the scent of freshly baked baguettes makes my mouth water. I pull the door closed behind me, taking care to turn the handle so it doesn’t click when the mechanism slips back into place. I pause a moment with my back to the door, inhaling the fragrance of bread and tea.

  Pots and pans clang from the kitchen’s entrance a few yards ahead. I creep forward, pressing my back to the wall until my fingers curl around the lip of the doorway. Sneaking a quick peek around the corner and finding the chef’s back turned my way, I take a deep breath and leap into the darkened hallway beyond.

  The clamor of dishes pauses for a moment, and I freeze, flattening myself in the shadow of a bookcase and holding my breath. Once the noises from the kitchen resume, I steal forward, taking care to tread softly on the polished floors. As well-kept and lovely as this house is, the wood could still creak if I step on it wrong.

  I poke my head into room after room. When I come across a parlor filled with plush, red seats and marble statues of winged beasts, I pause. The glass pieces of a gilded chandelier glitter in the dark. Even the scent of the place is that of burning candelabras with the faint hint of expensive cologne, just like the opera house. I turn away, unease rippling the hairs on my arms.

  Moving into the next room, I find a smaller version of Cyril’s office. A beautiful mahogany desk with a high-backed black chair is surrounded by more floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A life-size statue of Les Trois stands in the corner, and I stifle a gasp at how fierce and lifelike the three gravoirs are. How many more depictions of Rose, Éloise, and Marguerite are there in this house? Chills that have nothing to do with the cold snake under my skin. Why exactly is Cyril so obsessed with gravoirs? Obviously he wants to use us for our power, but to what end?
Is it simply to control Channe? Or does he hope to one day rule over all of Vaureille the way Les Trois once did?

  Darting a glance toward the kitchen, I pull the door closed and light the lantern, avoiding the women’s gazes, and get to work. My body still thrums with the remaining elixir in my system, though as the minutes tick by its power trickles slowly away.

  I start with the drawers, pulling each one out and rifling through its contents. Stationery, extra wax, stamps, fountain pens, and paperweights. Nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing to do with gravoirs or Arlette. With a huff, I cross to the nearest wall and run my fingers along the spines of the books, scanning the titles embossed on them as quickly as I can.

  How long do I have before Cyril returns home? How many servants does he employ? Will one of them come into the office to clean out the trash can before I’m finished? I can almost feel time crackling away around me, setting my teeth on edge, making my heart beat faster.

  I scour every title in the room, and though I find whole shelves devoted to gravoir history and the rise, reign, and death of Les Trois, there are no notebooks or logs that might give me Arlette’s location. Despair sinks its cold teeth into my chest.

  Was this a waste of the precious little time Emeric has left?

  Maybe I was wrong about Arlette. Maybe I imagined Cyril’s mouth twitching, and he wasn’t lying to Emeric when he said he had killed her. Maybe I’m on a fool’s errand, and I’ll never discover what a catalyseur is or how to find and use one.

  Maybe I wasn’t meant to save Emeric.

  Maybe I was meant to die.

  No. There has to be something here. Somewhere else to look. Maybe in a bedroom or a storage cupboard or a cellar.

  Even if there is nothing, I will not lie down and let them take me. Not when fire snaps in my veins and music roars in my soul.

  Extinguishing the lantern, I stride across the room to unlatch the office door. I prowl out into the hallway and come face-to-face with the chef.

  Chapter Thirty-One