After a long moment, he speaks, though when he does, the words are barely more than a murmur. “You’re right. It’s not fair.”
“I’d like to teach you,” I continue, never dropping his gaze. “Because your voice is remarkable, and it deserves to be heard.”
Though his expression is intent, the faint furrow in one of his brows tells me he is still not entirely convinced. “Where would these lessons take place? And when?”
I swallow. The only possibility, the only place where we won’t risk discovery, is in my crypt underground. Cyril hasn’t come down there in years, and it’s not likely he’ll return anytime soon. But the idea of bringing someone into that place, that private, peaceful, intimate place, drops a stone in my gut.
Balling my fists around my skirt, I respond, “I live here in the opera house. Well, below the opera house. You’d come with me down there to study every night at midnight.”
“Seems awfully...secretive. What if we simply asked Monsieur Bardin for a practice room somewhere during the day?”
Time is running out. My ears are trained on the ceiling above us, waiting for a creak, a click of heels, some sign that Cyril is coming to find me. “Cyril allows me to live here, to hide away from the fendoir profession as long as I promise not to meddle in anything or risk his reputation. I daresay he’d not love the prospect of me teaching voice lessons in broad daylight somewhere anyone could stumble upon us.”
“Cyril?”
“Monsieur Bardin,” I snap, annoyance flaring. Why is he asking so many questions? “He’s an...old family friend.”
Emeric’s demeanor lightens. “Really? So you know him well?”
How much do I tell him? “I suppose he’s more than a family friend. He’s like a father to me.”
Emeric’s brows rise, and the corners of his mouth curve upward.
I glance past him toward the stairs, convinced I see Cyril’s long, willowy shadow descending toward us. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Would you like the lessons or not?”
Emeric follows my gaze over his shoulder to the same empty staircase, but he no longer seems unconvinced. “As long as you promise not to steal any of my elixir during these lessons...”
“Really, Monsieur Rodin, you insult me.”
He holds up his hands. “One can never be too careful when lovely, masked ladies are involved.”
I start. Did he just call me lovely?
He holds out his hand again for me to shake. “When will we begin?”
I eye his hand for a moment before settling my own into his grip. The sensation of someone’s skin against mine sends a jolt of panic through me. Panic—and something else. Something sweet, like the warm embrace of a bright cantata.
“Meet me at midnight in the front lobby,” I release his hand, stride past him, and mount the stairs. Once I’m sure I’m out of his sight, I let out a steadying breath.
It worked. Emeric believed me, and in less than an hour, we’ll meet again for our first lesson.
If I pull this off, I might actually end up like that gravoir in his memory: free.
Chapter Five
My meeting with Cyril is brief, and when we’re through, I fly down the stairs to straighten things in my room. I stuff dresses and stockings under my bed and tug the duvet into a more presentable arrangement. Glancing at a small, silver-lined wooden clock on my nearest bookshelf, I groan. There are still dirty goblets on my night table, and crumpled pieces of parchment litter the floor from when the composition I was working on last week gave me trouble, but midnight is only a few minutes away.
I grab a dagger from a shelf and tuck it into my sash, then stuff a handkerchief into my pocket and sprint through the catacombs and up into the opera house.
Around the corner from the front lobby, I stop to straighten my mask and tug my corset into place. After waiting a few moments for my breathing to slow, I roll my shoulders and stride forward.
Emeric stands with his back to me in front of the main entrance, gazing out the window at Channe’s peaked roofs and the black-blue sky beyond.
“Monsieur Rodin,” I say, pausing halfway across the lobby.
“Emeric,” he corrects without turning. “Doesn’t the city look remarkable at night? All the streetlights and the smoke from the chimneys?”
“I’ve always thought so.”
He faces me, eyes as bright as the stars behind him. “Have you lived in Channe your whole life?”
I pull the handkerchief from my pocket. There’s no time to chat—Cyril could pass by at any time. “We should get going. Blindfold yourself.”
He snorts. “Definitely not.”
I take a few steps forward, still holding it out for him. “It’ll be...safer if you don’t know the way.”
“Safer?” He raises an eyebrow, but he’s grinning in a lopsided sort of way that deepens the dimple in his right cheek. “Forgive me if the idea of being unable to see while sneaking around a haunted opera house with a mysterious fendoir carrying a dagger doesn’t make me feel ‘safe.’”
I scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I’m the ridiculous one?” He shakes his head, his smile widening into both cheeks.
“Put the blasted thing on.”
“No.”
I glare. “What if I say ‘please’?”
“Gentility is always worth a shot.”
I roll my eyes. “Please?”
“What a remarkable, polite little thing you are. But...still no.”
I shove the handkerchief against his chest. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Incorrigible. Irritating. Impossible.”
“Yes.” He laughs. “And, might I add, that was some impressive alliteration.”
“Now I see why you’re so good at mopping floors.”
He squints. “What does mopping have to do with my best character traits?”
“You said your mother made you scrub things every time you were troublesome.”
He throws back his head and lets out a laugh as bright and clear as church bells. “Touché!”
His laughter, though quiet, echoes against the tile and the walls. I cast a look over my shoulder, praying Cyril is either so consumed with work in his office that he doesn’t hear it, or that he’s already packed up and headed home for the night.
“Fine.” I turn back to Emeric and snatch the handkerchief back. “Don’t wear it.” Spinning on my heel, I stalk off.
“Am I supposed to follow you, or...?”
I whirl. “Honestly, were you dropped on your head as a child?”
“I’d say that is a definite possibility. It would explain a lot.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Yes, you’re supposed to follow me.”
“Right, glad that’s all straightened out.” He jogs to catch up. “Lead the way, Isda.”
I freeze at the sound of my name. Though I’ve heard Cyril say it thousands of times, it’s never sounded like that.
“Everything okay?” Emeric is watching me, curiosity crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Yes. Perfect.” I walk briskly down the corridor without bothering to check if he’s coming.
We round a corner and come upon a floor-to-ceiling painting of Les Trois glaring at Saint Claudin as he swings for their throats with a shining, curved blade. A shiver prickles down my spine, and I avert my gaze from the contorted faces of the three gravoirs whose screams are forever immortalized in oils on this wall. I make to stomp right on past it, but Emeric halts. He stares intently at the image, his mouth twisted in a knot.
I follow his gaze to Les Trois. Marguerite is on the left, the tallest and fairest of the three, with hair so pale it’s almost silver flowing like water along her willowy frame. Violet eyes sparkle in a frame of thick lashes as her mo
ttled face pinches in fury.
Éloise is next. She is petite and round and fierce, her hair as red as mine and cropped short so that it flares like fire around her face.
And on the right is Rose. Hair black as ebony trails straight and silky to her bare feet. She is always the one who sends a chill straight into my bones with her long, spindly fingers and dagger teeth. The arch of her neck, the clench of her fists, the flush in her cheeks—her entire being exudes rage. But there is pain there, too. In her eyes. An ache, a longing, a betrayal. For it was she who loved Claudin, according to the legends. And it was she whose blood he spilled first when he killed Les Trois and became the savior of the world.
Emeric steps forward and runs a hand along their gowns, where brushstrokes of black paint swirl like smoke around their legs. His fingers trail upward to the blood dripping from dozens of marks carved into every inch of their exposed skin. I recognize the Manipulation Mark on their ankles—a straight line with a lightning bolt through it that resembles my old scar, the one that unlocked my ability to do my work every night for the opera house. The runes shine crimson from their forearms, their collarbones, their throats.
I’ve asked Cyril about the other gravoir marks many times. His answer has always been that they are too dangerous, too volatile, and that it was already risky enough teaching me to use the Manipulation Mark.
Yet, every time I pass this painting, I wonder what else I am capable of. What I could do with those other symbols.
But I’ll never find out. If Cyril caught me with any of those runes carved into my skin... I shudder at the thought. His trust is one of the few things I have in this life.
A little voice in the back of my head whispers that I’m betraying Cyril now by bringing Emeric to my crypt and allowing him into my world.
This is different, I reassure myself. I’ll be careful. Nothing is going to happen.
“We should go.” My voice squeezes through the tight space in my throat. What if Emeric rethinks his assumption that I’m just a simple fendoir hiding from her destiny? What if he sees what I truly am in Rose’s face?
He drops his hand and nods, but his eyes linger on Les Trois. “I’ve never seen a painting of them before. Most people don’t even like to speak of them.”
“Really?” I glance back at the image. There are dozens of similar depictions throughout the opera house, and Cyril keeps that small sculpture in his office. But now that Emeric mentions it, I guess I’ve never seen paintings of them in any of the memories I’ve witnessed.
“They’re beautiful,” Emeric says softly.
I stare at him. “What?”
He catches sight of my expression and laughs. “I mean, they’re terrifying, too, of course. Don’t misunderstand me. I’d probably soil my britches if I ever came across them in real life.”
I snort. “Right. Uh...this way.” I continue down the hall, and after a moment, he follows.
We walk in silence for a while. Only our footsteps and the trailing of my skirt on the ground make any sound. As I lead the way into a side stairwell that spirals down to the opera house’s basement, Emeric says, “You never answered my question.”
“Which question?”
“Have you lived in Channe your whole life?”
I trail my hand along the banister as we descend into blackness. There are no windows down here, but I know these stairs and hallways like I know my own heartbeat.
“Yes,” I say simply. “Never been anywhere else.”
“Never? Not even to Chanterre? It’s less than a day’s ride away.”
“Not even to Chanterre.”
He whistles, then stumbles and knocks me into the wall. “I’m sorry. I can’t see a thing.”
Of course. I dip a hand into a pocket and pull out the simple cigar lighter I use to light the candles in my room downstairs. I flick it on, and the tiny yellow flame illuminates Emeric’s face.
“Better?” I hand it to him and resume my descent.
“Excellent.”
The firelight behind me casts my shadow on the floor, long and unnatural. The feathers in my mask jut from my head like the horns of a demon, and my stomach prickles. I tear my gaze away as I lead Emeric past storage boxes and old costumes piled haphazardly in the basement to a large, gilded mirror on the wall in the far corner of the room.
We stand before it, the reflections of his face and my black mask wavering eerily in the lighter’s glare. I press a hand to the cold glass and push. The mirror swings inward, revealing a set of steep stairs trailing downward. The icy, silent air of the world underground sends a familiar chill up my legs.
“You live down there?” Emeric holds the flame out into the opening, but its light does little to penetrate the blackness below.
“Are you scared?”
“You know, if I’m being completely honest with you...” He meets my gaze. “Yes.”
“Don’t be. I’m the scariest thing down there, and you don’t seem to have a problem with me.”
“Yet.” He says it like it’s a challenge. “After you, mademoiselle.”
I move into the dark, and he follows close behind until we reach the bottom.
He surveys the granite tunnel, the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, the damp floor beneath our feet. “Well, this is downright homey.”
“Over here,” I say, and he trails me through the tunnels, around sharp curves and down long ramps until we reach the catacombs.
Brown, crumbling bones line the walls, and massive crypt doors inscribed with old runes poke out among the femurs and skulls every few feet.
“Who were all these people?” Emeric inspects one of the skulls as we pass, his face so close his nose skims its jaw.
“They exhumed the remains in the cemeteries when Channe began to get too crowded a few decades back. Had to put them somewhere.”
“So they decided to arrange them in artful patterns underground. Makes sense,” Emeric muses as we reach my crypt. I shove the stone door aside and usher him through. The candles within are still lit from when I came down to clean earlier, and their soft glow seems to calm him. He puts out the lighter and hands it to me as he passes.
I breathe in slowly through my nose as my stomach claws its way to my throat.
I’ve brought a person into my room.
Emeric pauses and stares. “This is where you live?”
I bustle past him to the bookshelves against the far wall and thumb through a stack of papers there for some music. “Yes.” I feign indifference, but the hackles on my neck rise as his gaze roves over my trinkets, my bed, my clothes. My organ.
Gritting my teeth so fiercely my temples ache, I pull out a few arias from well-known operas and turn back to Emeric. I catch sight of him inspecting the piping at one corner of my organ, and the blood drains from my hands.
“This is beautiful craftsmanship,” he says.
“Don’t touch it.”
He blinks at me, his thumb poised on one of the thicker pipes. “What?”
“I said—” I stalk to his side and smack his hand away “—don’t touch it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Are you familiar with any of these arias?” I shove the sheet music into his face, hands shaking, cheeks pulsing hot.
Maybe it was a mistake to bring him here. This is my world. These are my things. This is not a place for meddling hands or judgmental eyes.
Taking the papers from me, he thumbs through them. “Yes, more or less. I love this one from Agathon.” He holds it up for me to see.
“We’re going to sing through a few of these so I can get a sense of your range, ability, and control. So I understand better what I’m working with.” I whisk them out of his hands and take my place on the organ’s bench, fanning out the pages and steadying my breath.
He stands behind me, keeping hi
s hands in his pockets. He is so close that if I leaned back a bit, I’d brush against him. I sit stock-straight and try not to think about the way his scent is curling around me, an aroma of vanilla and burnt sugar.
I place my hands on the keyboard as my eyes flit across the music, noting the key and time signatures. Emeric inhales behind me, and I launch into the opening aria of the opera Agathon.
When Emeric’s voice fills my crypt, it takes everything in me to keep his memories at bay. If I am to pass as what I say I am, if I am going to be able to convince him that I am worthy of his time, I need to behave like nothing more than a vocal teacher now. He needs to trust that I have no ulterior motives. Which means I must focus on his technical ability—not on the beautiful images and soul-shattering emotions his voice sends into the deepest recesses of my heart.
Not to mention the fact that if I surrender myself to his memory tide now, I may never resurface.
As we flood the room with sound, my fear and nervousness at bringing him here melt away. The cascade of notes from my organ mingles with the rawness of his voice, and my skin cools.
His music was meant to be here.
When we finish the Agathon piece, we move on to another. Then another. The more I hear, the more I never want him to stop. Now that I’m paying attention to his voice instead of his memories, the injustice of it all makes my blood turn to ice.
Cyril never even let Emeric audition. He turned him away simply because he’d never been trained.
The world deserves to hear this. In all my years at the opera house, I have never known a voice meant to command a stage more than this one.
If I could listen to him every night for the rest of my life, this ache I’ve had to live with since birth, this thirst for the outside...all of that might finally fade. With a steady supply of his vivid memories, I wouldn’t need any of my own. I could live through him. If he became an opera performer, I could spend my nights in his memories of the stage. The things I see in his mind feel so real, it would almost be like performing myself. Even if I am never able to learn anything about that gravoir during our lessons, if I can find a way to get him to stay here forever, to be hired on as a Channe Opera House salaried performer, I might have a chance at living a life that feels almost whole.
Sing Me Forgotten Page 4
