The first few notes come out quiet and weak as my nerves choke up into my throat, but as the melody progresses, I settle into the ebb and flow of the musical line, let my body sink into the percussion of the staccato notes and the gentle feather of the largo ones.
LeRoux’s eyebrows rise slowly as my song progresses. I feed on the way his eyes widen when I hit my high E’s and the way his mouth drops open when my voice slides through a run without stumbling.
When I finish, he jumps to his feet, applauding like a madman. “Incroyable! Magnifique!” he cheers. “A voice like an angel!”
Pride heats my cheeks, and a small measure of relief settles my nerves. He’s buying the act so far. “Merci, monsieur.” I dip into another curtsy and wait for him to sit again before launching into my next piece.
As I sing, I hear the places where Emeric’s voice would fit against mine. I let my memory of the sound of him twist through me, and as it does, the loss I feel for him grows, filling my chest with an ache that snakes its way into my song, too. The music surges, saturating everything until I’m afraid the fire in the grate might catch on the charge in the air and send the whole room up in a torrent of smoke.
When the song ends, I stand there, hands numb and chest heaving as though I’ve run miles.
Monsieur LeRoux wipes a sloppy tear from his cheek. “It’s like music can reach inside of you and touch your soul, don’t you think so, Monsieur Bardin?”
He has no idea how close to the truth he is.
“Oui, monsieur,” Cyril says. “There’s nothing else like it in the world.”
LeRoux nods like they’ve had a profound discussion and turns his attention back to me.
For the next half hour, I entertain him with ballads and arias until his face has gone red with the wine and the excitement.
I was born to perform like this. To affect people with my music. To make them laugh and weep. But even as the joy of the song rushes through my blood, my chest aches for the missing harmony.
So I let my eyelids fall shut and imagine. As long as I keep my eyes closed, I can almost convince myself Emeric is there with me, that if I reached out my hand to the side, my knuckles would brush against his, that if I peeked through my lashes, I’d catch a glimpse of his dimples in the starlight.
But then each song ends, and all I am left with are the coals in the fireplace, Monsieur LeRoux’s clumsy grin, and Cyril’s willowy shadow near the door.
No scent of caramel. No brush of a callused hand. No dimples of stardust.
“Now, as part of the Channe Opera House’s tradition,” I say once Cyril nods that it’s time to wrap things up, “I’d like you both to join me in a rendition of ‘La Chanson des Rêves’ before we finish for the night.”
“My favorite part!” LeRoux claps his hands and sits up straighter, loosening his cravat.
I begin the familiar tune, and he sings along with me. Though I keep my eyes on LeRoux, I can feel Cyril’s penetrating gaze. Watching. Waiting. Urging.
I glance at Cyril after a moment and frown. He’s not singing with us.
With a start, I realize I’ve never actually heard him sing. I reach back for any memory where he might have serenaded me with a lullaby or demonstrated a musical phrase during my vocal lessons.
There are no such memories.
Emeric’s words, He does not care for you, rush through my mind once more, this time dropping a weight in my chest that makes it difficult to breathe.
Cyril offers me an encouraging smile, and I force the thoughts away. I’ve got a job to do here. I need to focus.
LeRoux’s flat, nasally song makes the mark on my thigh tingle, but I ignore that sensation and instead let the one on my ankle pull me into the lazy current of his memories. I move back a few years’ time, considering silently where would be the best place to start implanting the hallucinations Cyril described. Perhaps something subtle, like a dream? I sift through the flow until I find one.
These are some of my favorite memories to peruse. It seems no matter what a person’s face looks like, the world of dreams equalizes us in its unassuming, undiscriminating exploration of our deepest fears and grandest hopes.
Wading into one, I find LeRoux galloping bareback on a mighty stallion through whipping golden grass.
My voice slides along on the edge of my periphery, spouting out the lyrics of “La Chanson des Rêves” without effort as I conjure up a non-Cyril version of the pale-faced demon I placed in the Forgotten Children’s memories.
This time will be a bit trickier, as I will need to create the whole body as well as its movement instead of simply pasting it over Cyril’s form. I imagine the ghoul’s face first, with the gaping holes where its eyes should be and the wide, snapping mouth. A dark cloak might be easier than a detailed form, I decide, so I drape the beast’s head with a black hood and attach a fluttering form below that glides like a specter in the wind.
As dream-LeRoux rounds a copse of trees and urges his steed toward an imperial city in the distance, I push the demon into the air in front of him. Concentrating on making the cloak whip in the breeze, I widen the specter’s jaws as it lunges down from the sky toward the rider.
Once the vision is complete, I siphon away the euphoric emotion of the dream and feather the air with an unmistakable dread.
Perfection.
LeRoux is still singing, his words sluggish and slurred with drink. Perhaps I should find one more memory to alter.
During the final verse of the song, I implant my monster into another dream. Instead of riding a horse, this time LeRoux is sailing on the back of a great, winged beast with a lovely, black-haired woman in his lap. When I’m finished with the scene, the ghoul sails upward from below the giant bird and rips the woman from LeRoux’s arms in a shower of shadow and blood. I put in an echoing, soul-rending scream for effect.
Satisfied, I release my grip on LeRoux’s memories as “La Chanson des Rêves” ends.
LeRoux’s jovial expression has faded just a tad. He watches me with glassy eyes.
I meet Cyril’s gaze and incline my head slightly. He smiles and strides forward to take Monsieur LeRoux’s hand. “Merci bien, Monsieur LeRoux. It has been such a privilege to come into your home.”
“Oui, oui. The pleasure truly has been mine. I’m dying to hear more of her spellbinding voice tomorrow night.” He smiles as he gets to his feet.
“You flatter me, monsieur,” I murmur.
Cyril extends his arm. We exit the room, and it takes everything in me not to lean too heavily on him. My legs wobble, and as we climb into the cab and rattle back through Channe toward the opera house, I grip the seat to keep from toppling right off it.
“So?” Cyril asks. “How did it go?”
“I altered two memories. Distant ones, like you said. I think I was successful.”
“You played the part of opera diva very well,” he says.
A thrill goes through me. “Merci.”
“And? Was it fun?”
I grin in spite of my weariness. “Better than I ever dreamed.”
Cyril smiles so wide his eyes crinkle up. “LeRoux seemed quite enchanted with your performance. I think our little arrangement will work out splendidly. Especially if he plans to continue drinking that much alcohol every time.”
I nod and look out the window, watching as houses and trees clatter by. Maybe the reason Cyril doesn’t sing in front of me has nothing to do with me. Maybe he’s simply embarrassed by his voice, or maybe he just doesn’t like to perform.
But I can’t shake the way my insides gnaw at my heart, asking questions I’m not sure I want to know the answers to.
“Why did you save me?” I blurt, keeping my gaze away from Cyril’s. I tell myself I’m not looking at him because I’m so enraptured by the sprawling mansions glittering from the window, but deep down I know it’s because I’
m afraid of what his reaction might be.
“What?”
“When you pulled me out of the well. The night I was born.” My voice comes out squeaky. “Why did you do it?”
He sighs. “Haven’t I told you this story about a thousand times? I was out walking nearby and heard you struggling alone in the water. I didn’t know you were a gravoir at the time. It was too dark. All I knew was that a baby had been abandoned to drown.”
“Yes, but why did you keep me once you saw what I was? Why not dump me back into the well or turn me over to the authorities? They have rewards for things like that.”
“Because of your eyes.”
I stare at him, momentarily forgetting in my shock that I didn’t want to look at his face. He hasn’t told me this before. “What?”
His expression is soft. Warm. Fatherly. “Oui, your eyes, sweet Izzy. I looked into your little face and they were all I could see. I had no choice. I had to keep you. I swore to myself I would do everything I could to protect you—I would keep the world from hurting you and teach you to control your emotions and your powers so that you wouldn’t be a danger to anyone.”
I swallow the lump that has suddenly grown in my throat and wipe my hands on my dress, but the silk does little to soak up the dampness on my palms. Trying my best to blink away the moisture collecting on my lashes, I turn my gaze out the window again.
“You truly did splendidly tonight,” he says, shuffling through his papers once more.
“Thank you.” Though my body sinks lower with exhaustion, my heart roars its pride.
Because he’s right. Tonight, I was not hiding in the shadows. Tonight, I was a terrifying phantom come to turn dreams into nightmares.
The only time I’ve ever felt more powerful was when I was wading through Emeric’s memories, siphoning away his elixir. Even thinking of it now makes my power raise its hungry, tired head and lick its lips.
Arlette’s face flashes across my mind. Does she know what people like us are capable of? Has she discovered any other secrets I don’t yet know? Has she found a catalyseur—that mysterious object mentioned in the red book that is said to compound gravoir power?
I may have chased Emeric out of my crypt, but I’m not ready for him to be gone. Not while I still have so many questions. Not while my body craves his music like this. Not while I cannot sleep for fear of seeing him in my dreams.
I cannot steal his elixir again, no matter how much I want to. But his memories would give me the answers I need. He is sure to have more of Arlette, more clues about gravoirs I could use. And, even if there is nothing else to be learned of her, his music would at least soothe me, soften the edge of the weakness I feel now. What I wouldn’t give to have his voice trail its caress through me one more time.
My eyes fall shut as the cab jolts over the cobblestones. As we make our way home, I see Emeric smile on the inside of my eyelids. A shadow of floppy, black hair traces his brow. A crooked grin quirks his lips. Dimples crease his smooth cheeks.
I cannot live the rest of my days wondering about the secrets his past holds and what those secrets might mean for my own life, and I surely cannot survive without his voice.
I refuse to.
Chapter Fourteen
The following evening after another successful performance at the Council Head’s home, I retreat to my crypt to change the veil and silk for a simple, unremarkable black dress and a thick cloak. I keep the new mask on and pull the hood low over my brow.
“You’ll be happy to know,” I tell Albert as I pull the crypt door closed and tug on a pair of gloves, “that I am going to apologize.”
The skull’s grin mocks me, and I cluck my tongue.
“Unless you’ve got any better ideas, you can quit with the attitude.” I whirl and stalk off.
This time when I duck out of the opera house’s back exit, the tremor of fear has been replaced by a sudden calmness. I am the Channe Opera House Ghost. Bearer of nightmares. And just as worthy to walk under an open sky as anyone else.
I follow a trail of streets familiar from all the memories I’ve seen over the years, marveling at the way autumn leaves crunch under my heels and the chill, night air draws its fingers into my hood to stroke my neck. I relish the feel of the cobblestones and the uneven shuffle of my footsteps over them. Though I spent little time in Emeric’s recent memory during our time together, I caught glimpses of his apartment, and with my knowledge of every street in Channe, I am able to navigate to the small flat without much trouble.
It isn’t until I’ve entered the leaning building and climbed the creaking stairs to the top floor where he lives that my stomach sinks.
I threw a candlestick at his face. Screamed at him. Chased him off. No matter what he said or implied about Cyril, I cannot deny that my behavior was extreme. How is an apology going to help? I wouldn’t forgive me, either.
My hand hovers over the wood for a moment. I steel my nerves and rap on the door.
There’s a thud and a shuffle inside followed by footsteps. The door tugs open halfway, and Emeric pokes his head out.
Even in the dark, his appearance is striking. His hair sticks up in every direction as though he’s spent the night running his hands through it.
“Hi.” My eyes stray to the bit of bare collarbone peeking out where the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. The blue stone hangs from its leather cord, as usual, and it bobs as he swallows.
He squints, his brow furrowing as though he’s trying to decide if he’s supposed to know me. After a moment, the corners of his mouth turn down. He must have figured out who I am.
“I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of the night,” I say in a rush. “Unfortunately, the middle of the night is really the only time I could come.”
“Why are you here?”
My hands are already twisting my pendant’s chain though I don’t remember pulling it from my neckline. “I wanted to apologize. My behavior last week was unforgiveable. I should not have extracted your elixir without permission, and I should not have spoken to you that way.”
He rolls up his sleeves to the elbows and crosses his arms. “Correct on all counts.”
“I’m humiliated by my actions, and I’m terribly sorry.”
“Good. Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
He makes to close the door.
I brace my hand against it. “Wait. No.”
He leans his forehead against the doorframe and raises an eyebrow.
“I...” I take a deep breath. “You were right. I didn’t consider what taking that elixir would mean to you. I didn’t recognize how violating it would be, how wrong I was to even think of it. I got too caught up in the prospect of what it would feel like... And, I’ll be honest with you, it was the first time I’d ever extracted. I let my excitement and curiosity run away with me.” I pause, searching his dark eyes. My voice lowers. “But it was wrong for me to even try it in the first place, and I...” I trail away and drop his gaze, cheeks heating.
“You...?” he prompts, his voice a touch softer than it was before.
I squeeze my eyes shut and let the words tumble out. “I swear I won’t do it again. Please forgive me.”
He is silent for an eternity, but I can’t bear to open my eyes to check if his expression is thawing. Finally, he sighs. “Is that a new mask?”
“What?” I squint through my lashes. He is now bracing an elbow against the doorframe and leaning his head against the back of his forearm. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his bare skin. “Oh, yes. It is.”
“It looks like a real face.”
“I think that’s the point.”
He coughs in a way that almost sounds like a laugh and pushes the door open wider. “Fine. You can come in. I was about to make a new batch of caramels, so I guess that means you’ve earned yourself the much-coveted positi
on as my assistant tonight. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Come into Emeric’s apartment? I think of how exposed I felt when I invited him into my home. Is he truly allowing me into his?
My head spins, but I follow him inside.
As I ease the door shut behind me, Emeric rushes to a spindly, three-legged table in the center of the room. Strewn across it are what look like dozens of newspaper clippings. He shoves them unceremoniously into a folder and tosses that under his unmade bed.
I pull my hood back with quivering hands, letting my hair spill out over my shoulders. Yanking off my gloves, I say, “I’m afraid I won’t be much help with the caramels. I’ve never set foot in a kitchen in my life.”
“Never?”
“Not once.”
“Well, then, let me introduce you to my favorite room of every apartment, home, and restaurant in the world. I think you’ll find it quite enchanting.” He gestures to the far end of his one-room flat where a cabinet and counter combination piece of furniture stands near a fireplace. A warm fire crackles merrily in the hearth. “Kitchen, Isda. Isda, meet the kitchen, and may you never recover.” Though he smiles as he says it, his voice is still stiff.
I chuckle nervously. Does this mean I’m forgiven?
Emeric doesn’t mention a word of my apology, however, as he rustles about in the cabinets to retrieve a cast iron pot with a long handle. Hanging it from a hook over the fire, he scoops in a lump of butter and a measure of sugar and hands me a wooden spoon.
“Your job is to stir that until the sugar melts and turns golden.”
I cross to the pot and jam the spoon into the mound of sugar at the bottom.
“So that was your first time extracting elixir?” Emeric asks, pulling a jug of milk from the tiny icebox on the counter.
My stomach twists, but I force my voice to remain even. “It was.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Memory, you really don’t shy away from an awkward conversation, do you?”
“Not when I can help it.”
I give a nervous laugh through my nose and dig at the sugar, gripping the spoon so my hand won’t shake. “I did it because...” I lick my lips, searching for a lie as close to the truth as possible. “Because your voice is so different from any other I’ve ever heard. I was convinced your elixir had to be different, too. I half expected it to be as colorful and full of life as you are.”
Sing Me Forgotten Page 12
