A small boy barely the age of five sits on my wooden chair gnawing on a baguette. Crumbs litter his arms and the floor around him. Dirt smudges his cheeks in layers so thick I’m not even sure what color his skin is underneath. His hair hangs in clumps around his head, and his filthy, tattered clothes drape from bony shoulders.
He’s obviously a Forgotten Child, one of the homeless children who wander the streets. The children whose parents got so poor they had to sell their memory elixir—and then had so much extracted that they forgot they ever had children to begin with. Twenty-six hours after elixir is taken, memory loss becomes permanent. Even if those parents purchase elixir again once they’ve come upon good fortune, they’ll never be able to recover the experiences they lost. Forgotten Children are forgotten forever.
My first instinct is to reach out to the boy and wipe the muck away, but when he sees my face and takes in my mask, his body goes rigid. “It’s a fendoir!” he cries, throwing his arms across his face to hide. “Please don’t let it take my elixir, monsieur!”
Cyril tousles the boy’s mop of hair and crouches down to tug his arms away from his face. “She’ll not touch a drop of your elixir,” Cyril murmurs with warmth. “She’s simply going to take a look at how much you have. I promise I won’t let her remove any.”
The boy eyes me around Cyril’s white head. “Why does it need to look at how much I have?”
“Because I heard stories about a fendoir sneaking around stealing elixir from people without them knowing.” Cyril nods in my direction. “This fendoir here is named Colette, and she’s helping me catch the bad fendoir.”
The story is preposterous. Fendoirs cannot extract elixir unless people are singing, and it’s not like elixir extraction is a sneaky affair—what with the golden ribbons of glowing liquid streaming out of people’s ears and all. Though I’ve never witnessed it myself, I have seen it in many memories. The only way it could be done without a person’s knowledge is if they had their eyes closed while they were singing.
The boy seems to be considering. After a moment he swallows and nods.
“Good lad.” Cyril tousles Amadou’s hair once again before straightening. “Now, I’ll need you to sing so Colette here can check your elixir levels. Go ahead.”
Amadou stares down at the half baguette clenched in his grimy hands and begins to sing. His voice is quiet. High-pitched and lovely like the trilling of a flute.
Immediately, the tug to view his memories pulls at my power through the place where the Manipulation Mark was on my ankle. I release myself to it, sinking into the gentle trickle of black-and-white images. Wading upstream past the last few minutes to the memories of a few hours ago, I dip into each scene, looking for Cyril. It takes me a moment or two, but finally I find it.
Amadou was scrounging in an old rubbish bin in an alleyway when Cyril approached him with an offering of baguettes and several chunks of cheese. The boy snatched the food from Cyril’s hands and shoved a fistful down his throat.
Hope, though wary, stirred in the boy’s gut as he blinked up at Cyril between bites. I’ll start with that—manipulating emotions is something I do well. Gritting my teeth, I feather a brittle slice of fear into the scene until the memory trembles with an edge of panic.
Squinting an eye open, I glance at Amadou and Cyril both. Amadou hasn’t changed position, hasn’t even paused in his song. Cyril is watching me, the confident grin he was wearing a few minutes before fading slightly.
Obviously manipulating the emotions isn’t enough. Gritting my teeth, I cast about for what to try next. When I’ve erased moments in other memories, all I did was focus intently on the parts I wanted to take out and sucked them away as though sucking through a straw. So maybe if I want to put something in, I should reverse that process?
But what should I put in Amadou’s memory to make him scared enough of Cyril to have a reaction that Cyril can see? I frown, thinking of the people whose memories I know best: the opera performers. What are they afraid of?
My gaze strays to a small red book poised on the end of Cyril’s desk. I recognize it instantly; it’s the book he used when he began teaching me about my powers back when I was a child. I haven’t seen it in ages. I chew on my lower lip, thinking back to those days.
The performers have come and gone over the years, but they all have come to fear the same thing. Shadows in the corners. Creaking staircases. Sudden rushes of wind through empty practice rooms.
The Opera Ghost.
It started out as an explanation Cyril made when I was little to keep the performers from becoming too curious when things moved or disappeared from their places during the night. I was careless back then, utterly unable to comprehend the danger I put myself in by risking being seen, and Cyril needed to be creative in order to keep me from discovery. At first his little ghost story had been a joke, but soon the performers’ imaginations had run away with the tale.
Now, I’m careful never to leave a trace of my presence. Other than Emeric, no one has glimpsed me in years, but the story of the Opera Ghost has lived on in the quirky noises and odd drafts of the building as it has gotten older.
Perhaps I could send some kind of ghost like that into Amadou’s memory? A terrifying beast made of shadow and fear?
I conjure up an image of Cyril cloaked in darkness with a pale face, unseeing eyes, and sharp, pointed teeth. Concentrating everything I have on the vision I’ve created, I blow it out into the memory over the sight of Cyril in Amadou’s mind.
Nothing happens. Memory-Cyril’s gray shape does not change. His smile does not waver.
The craving for Cyril’s pride and satisfaction washes through me. My whole life, he has been my confidant, my family, the closest thing to a father I’ve ever known. The idea of disappointing him now when he’s on the verge of asking me to help him with something huge makes my soul ache.
Screwing up every ounce of power I can muster, I shove the ghoulish image into Amadou’s mind. At first, memory-Cyril’s face barely flickers. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. A fire ignites in my chest, and I stoke it until it blazes through every limb, every bone.
Memory-Cyril sputters into shadow. His eyes transform into yawning, depthless caverns. His skin pales. His mouth snaps with a flash of teeth.
The edges are fuzzy, and Cyril’s white hair pokes through in places, but I’ve done it. It’s still him—recognizably so—but the new details I’ve added have transformed him into a terrifying demon spun of nightmares.
I back up in the memory and watch it play anew. This time when Cyril approaches with the baguettes, the fear I breathed into the scene earlier comes to life. I infuse the rest of the memories leading up to the present with the same imagery. Soon, what was once a recollection of a kind gentleman offering a Forgotten Child a meal has become a vision of a villain luring a helpless boy into his lair.
Amadou’s song cuts into a scream that pulls on my power in a way that makes me feel as though it’s wrenching my stomach out through my navel.
My eyes fly open as Amadou crashes away from Cyril. He scrambles over the desk, shrieks as tears turn the muck on his cheeks to mud, and dives out of sight, knocking several elixir vials askew with his foot. The vials drop to the ground and shatter, spattering gold onto Cyril’s pant leg.
Wiping my sweating palms on my skirts, I turn to Cyril, trying to get the sight of Amadou’s wide-eyed terror out of my mind.
Cyril is beaming. “You’ve done it,” he whispers, clapping his hands once before crossing to me in two strides of his long, wiry legs and wrapping me in a rib-breaking embrace. “I knew you could.”
I sag against him, suddenly aware of how weak using that much power has made me. “I did it,” I hear myself say.
“You did, chérie.” He pulls back to look me full in the face. “You brilliant girl. I knew you were ready for more.”
I can’t keep the smile
from spreading across my face, the warmth from flowing down my arms and into my toes.
Whimpers gurgle out from underneath Cyril’s desk. I glance back toward the sound. I should feel a bit more remorse for causing the child so much trauma, but I’m so high on the pride in Cyril’s expression and the satisfaction in my gut that I can barely hear the sobs.
“You’d better go over there and get him to sing so you can set things right again,” Cyril says, releasing me. “While you’re at it, erase the memory of him meeting you, too. He may be a child, but we really can’t afford the risk of him saying anything about you to anyone.”
Nodding, I make my way around the desk and crouch. “Amadou?”
He peeks at me between his hands, then shrinks even deeper into the shadow of the desk.
“It’s all right,” I say, picking up the baguette from where it dropped on the floor nearby. “Would you like some more bread?”
“Is that man still here?” Amadou shies away from me.
“No,” I tell the child. “He’s gone.”
He blinks up at me with wide, glassy eyes, and I nod at the bread. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. You’re going to be okay.”
Amadou gulps, considering my words. After a long moment, he finally accepts the baguette from my outstretched hand and, with a whimper of relief, crawls onto my lap to wrap his arms around my neck and bury his face into my chest.
I pat his back, not quite sure what else to do with my hands.
As his tears soak into the fabric of my dress, a gnawing ache fills my gut.
What have I done to this poor child?
A lump rises in my throat, and I brace my arms more firmly around Amadou’s small frame, pressing my cheek against his hair. “It’s all right,” I murmur. “Nothing is going to hurt you.”
Sobs continue to shudder through his body, so I do the one thing I can think of.
I sing.
The only lullaby I know is the one Emeric taught me last night, so I sing that one in a voice barely above a whisper as I comb soft fingers through the clumps in his hair.
I meet Cyril’s gaze over the top of his desk. He nods at me to continue.
When the child’s sobs finally slow, I pull back to wipe the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. “See? All better. Nothing to be afraid of.”
“Was that man the bad fendoir?” the child asks, lower lip quivering. “The one who steals people’s elixir?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think the bad fendoir has gotten to you. But why don’t I check your elixir again just to make sure? Would you sing a bit more?”
Mopping the rest of his tears with the back of his hands, he nods and begins to warble out a quaky tune.
I slip back into the memory and suck away the monster image until all that is left is a kind-eyed, baguette-bearing Cyril. Then I ease the feelings of fear back into the wary hopefulness they were before. Finally, I retrace my way to the most recent memories to draw my existence away from them.
By the time I’ve finished, my body is shaking with exhaustion, and the well of my power gnaws like a fragile animal in my gut. I shift the boy onto the floor against Cyril’s desk and back away from him on trembling legs. He continues to sing, the horrified expression on his face transformed into one of well-fed contentment. I back around the desk and, just as Amadou finishes his song, erase the last seconds of myself from his mind.
Cyril places his hand on my shoulder. I try to steady myself so he doesn’t see how weakened I’ve become.
“Well done,” he says.
A swell of joy gives me the strength to respond with a clear, confident voice. “Merci.”
“Where did you learn that lullaby?”
I stiffen, but Cyril’s expression is thoughtful. “I overheard the opera performers singing it the other day,” I mumble.
The doorknob rattles, and Cyril’s smile vanishes. He gestures at me to hide behind the door. Panic jolts through me, but I leap to where he indicates.
Giving me a warning look, he reaches out with a steady hand and unlocks the door. He eases it open slowly, and I hold my breath.
“Hello?” He ducks his head out into the hallway.
No one responds.
Cyril signals for me to wait and disappears through the door.
Several moments slide past. The silence is broken only by the distinct crunch of crisp baguette crusts coming from under Cyril’s desk.
After what feels like hours, Cyril finally returns.
“There is no one there,” he whispers, glancing toward the smacking sounds coming from the other side of his office. “But be careful on your way down. Wouldn’t want you to run into the Opera Ghost.” He smiles, but the lines around his eyes are still tight with suspicion.
I nod, gulp, and move toward the hallway. I pause and glance back. “Was that enough? Will I be able to go outside the opera house with you?”
Cyril smiles and tucks my unruly curls behind my ear with a slow, quiet gentleness. “We’ll practice once or twice more. And I’ll have to figure out the technicalities of everything before I can say for sure, but...” He gives one of my curls a loving tug. “I think we could make it work.”
My breath rushes out, and my chest feels as though it might explode into a cloud of butterflies. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He leans in and plants a kiss on the crown of my head. “Good night, Izzy.”
The door clicks shut behind me. I lean back against it for one long moment, breathing deeply, willing my knees to stop quaking with fatigue and my heart to stop its erratic beat before setting off in the dark.
As I make my way down to my crypt, I have to remind myself to watch every statue, every shadow, every candelabra for any hint of movement. So focused am I on the prospect of leaving the opera house that I almost forget Cyril’s warning to be careful.
But still, I see nothing. Perhaps it was only an errant gust of wind that rattled the doorknob.
My nerves dissipate when I pass through the mirror and into the catacombs. As my pace slows and my heart rate returns to normal, something stirs in the ashes left behind by that blazing fire of power in my chest.
I inserted a new image into Amadou’s mind—something that was not there before. Something so vivid and real it sent him screaming across a desk to hide. And though my stomach still knots with guilt over the boy’s tears, that stirring in the ashes fills me with a quiet sort of satisfaction.
Cyril’s words echo in my mind: You are so much more powerful than you think you are.
I feel powerful. I feel solid. I feel real. And tonight, I wasn’t hiding behind a statue, glaring down at masses of people who hate me. Tonight, I was powerful, just like Cyril said.
As I limp into my crypt to prepare for my lesson with Emeric, the ashes in my chest reignite into a small, flickering flame that grows and grows until a quiet laugh breaks forth from my lips.
For once, I did not let society cage me. For once, I was more than a phantom in the rafters. I was even more than a performer.
I was the director, the maestro, the creator.
So this is what it feels like to affect others. To be in control instead of cowering away in the dark.
I love it.
Chapter Eight
Emeric chatters nonstop the whole way from the front lobby to my crypt. He muses about the statues we pass and how he could probably best them all at arm-wrestling matches. He points out all the oddest costumes downstairs to ask if I’ve ever tried them on and even proceeds to tug a curly-haired wig over his head. Finally, as we make our way through the catacombs, he pauses to peer deep into the eye sockets of the skulls to see if he can last longer than they can without blinking.
By the time we reach my crypt, I’ve nearly forgotten my fatigue from using my powers on the Forgotten Child upstairs. I’m too focused on not snorting at Emeric�
��s intense expression of concentration as he challenges the skull to the left of my doorway to his little contest.
“Ah, Albert.” He shakes his fist at the grayish bit of bone and its wide, toothy smile. “You scoundrel. I don’t know how you did it, but I am certain you cheated.”
“Albert? Really?” I tease, leaning against the stone.
“You mean you’ve lived next door to him all this time and never bothered to make his acquaintance?” He clucks his tongue. “How devastatingly rude of you.”
“It seems I am a complete dolt. Please give Albert my apologies.”
He turns back to the skull. “You really ought to forgive the poor girl. Seems no one taught her any manners.” He cocks an ear and nods. “I know, I know, but she’s not so bad. You should give her another chance.” He pauses, then murmurs, “I see...” and turns to me. “Isda, Albert here says he’ll only forgive you on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“A kiss.”
I plant my fists on my hips. “What a charming devil Monsieur Albert has turned out to be.”
Emeric nods. “Quite debonair.”
“Well, Albert,” I say, moving next to Emeric to face the skull head-on, “I commend you for your attempts at romance, but I’m afraid I really prefer my men alive.”
Emeric winces. “Oooh, ouch.” He pats the skull’s cheekbone. “Take heart, my man. Even the most well-bred of gentlemen fall prey to the foils of love from time to time.”
A chortle blurts from my mouth. “You are ridiculous.”
“And you,” he says, jabbing a finger in my face, “are really good at assigning me adjectives.”
“Adjectives?”
“Oui. Let’s see. First there was ‘incorrigible,’ I believe. ‘Irritating’ was another. Oh, and then there’s my personal favorite, ‘impossible.’”
I cross my arms and give him a thoughtful look. “Would you say my descriptions have been inaccurate?”
“Oh no. In fact, I’ve been rather impressed by your keen attention to detail. It usually takes people a few weeks to surmise what you’ve come up with in only a day. Brava.”
Sing Me Forgotten Page 6
