Sing Me Forgotten

by Jessica S. Olson

  And one day, maybe, Cyril can make this city a place where fendoirs and gravoirs are not only welcome but also are no longer viewed as threats to those around them. So I stuff away my remorse, grit my teeth, and do what needs to be done.

  Besides, LeRoux would have me “disposed of” if he knew what I was. I should not pity him.

  Meeting with Emeric after each session soothes the trepidation and helps me forget that twist of guilt in my gut. He’s learning at a remarkable rate, picking up techniques that took me years to master, blossoming under my care. That first night back, he brought Chasseur et Chassé with him, and it has become a nightly routine for us to play a round or two once we’re done with lessons. He supplies the caramels, of course, and a healthy dose of laughter.

  Things are too good. Everything is progressing too well. I find myself dodging glances over my shoulder, waiting for the illusion to shatter, for this tiny bubble of contentment I’ve found to burst. Performing every night for a captive (albeit small) audience, and then making music and laughing with Emeric until dawn? My life was never supposed to feel this comfortable or this joyous. How long will it last?

  * * *

  No matter how many times I ride through Channe, I can’t seem to pull myself away from the window. Tonight, I watch the shops pass in the same fashion they have every night for the last two months since I started meeting with Monsieur LeRoux. Though the midnight hour means the shops are always closed and the lights are always out, when I look at them, I see new details of the world I once only knew through faded memories.

  “I brought you a little surprise.” Cyril hands me a brown paper bag with its top folded over.

  “What’s this for?”

  He flashes me a knowing smile as I take the bag. “The effects of our little visits are beginning to take their toll on Monsieur LeRoux. There were murmurs among the members of the Council today that the Head might be hitting a spot of ‘emotional trouble.’ They were discussing whether or not to contact King Charles.”

  “Really? It’s working?”

  “You, Izzy, are a marvel. In only a matter of weeks, I’ll be able to take over and make Channe a better, safer place, and it’ll all be because of you.”

  I lean back in my seat, faint with a thrilling rush of shock. “Because of me.”

  He nods at the bag. “Open it, chérie.”

  When I unfold the top, the distinct scent of sugar and butter makes my mouth water. I peer into the opening and gasp. “Pastries!”

  Nestled inside is an array of little bundles wrapped in parchment. I pull one out and tug the paper off to reveal a flaky croissant oozing red jelly. I lift my mask up past my mouth, take a hearty bite, and moan when the sweetness squeezes onto every corner of my tongue.

  Cyril chuckles and pulls a notebook from his briefcase.

  I finish off the pastry, and, though I’m dying to tear into the religieuse or one of the pains au chocolat peeking out from their wrappings, I wipe my lips, pull my mask back into place, and fold the bag closed. I’ll keep the rest of these to share with Emeric later.

  The thought of him with crème pâtissière caught on his lower lip makes my smile widen even further. He’s nearly ready now—ready to take on the Channe stage, ready to take on the world. The more time we’ve spent together, the more I want to be with him. Listening to his music. Drowning in his memories. Laughing at his jokes. Finally sharing my dark little corner of the world with someone who wants to be part of it.

  True to my word, I have not stolen any more of Emeric’s elixir, though I have watched more memories of Arlette. None of them hinted at any further powers. But even if those memories teach me nothing else about my gravoir abilities, simply living in them is enough. While I am in his past, I’m no longer Isda, the shadow in the dark. I am Emeric, and I am loved. I eat at a rickety table with a teapot ring burned into its wood. I fall asleep listening to my mother’s lullabies. I spend summer evenings chasing fireflies in the apple orchard with my sister.

  The more I live in Emeric’s past, the more I want him on that opera stage. Every moment of every memory is enlivened by his passionate dream.

  So over the last few days I’ve been mulling over an idea.

  I turn to face Cyril. “How are things going for Le Berger? Opening weekend is coming up quickly.”

  He scribbles something down in his notebook. “Splendid, splendid.”

  “I’ve been watching rehearsals. Seems like a good cast.”

  Cyril sighs. “It’s passable. I had high hopes for the man I cast as the lead, but he doesn’t quite live up to his reputation.”

  I grimace. I’ve heard that tenor sing. He’ll be an absolute embarrassment to our opera house. Emeric is four times the vocalist he is.

  “That’s too bad,” I muse, trailing a finger along the glass as the landscape outside changes from businesses to residential buildings. “Do you remember that new janitor you hired not too long ago?”

  Cyril’s gaze snaps to mine, but I keep my expression soft, uninterested. “Oui,” he says slowly. “I remember him.”

  “I overheard a few of the dancers talking about him backstage. They say he’s been getting lessons from a very accomplished tutor.”

  “What tutor?”

  I shrug. “They didn’t say, but they did mention that the boy’s become quite good.”

  Cyril purses his lips.

  “I think their exact words were, ‘Whoever snatches him up stands to make the largest fortune Vaureille has ever seen.’” I let that sink in.

  Cyril leans back, his hands settling in his lap. “The dancers know very little about what it takes to make a star.” But his tone is curious. Intrigued.

  I nod, turning my gaze back out the window as though I don’t care a single bit about it. “You’re probably right.”

  Neither of us speaks for the rest of the ride to the Council Head’s house, but the scent of the pastries under my seat permeates the cabin, and I can’t help but think of how in the last few weeks I’ve been able to control so many more things than I ever thought possible, like a master puppeteer twitching her marionettes until they dance exactly the way I want them to.

  Once, I would have balked at the idea of manipulating Cyril like this, of lying to him to get my way. But now as a tiny twinge of guilt needles into my chest, I think of the secrets he kept from me about my powers, and I let that twinge sizzle and fade.

  It’s just a small lie. And Cyril will thank me for it later.

  My breath steams a cloud on the glass, obscuring the reflection of the satisfied glimmer in my eyes.

  * * *

  Shafts of golden light dance across the gilded designs on the walls in the grand theater. The plush, velvet seats are empty, and the stage is quiet but for the ear-gnawing sound of one tenor’s voice.

  I slink from shadow to shadow in the rafters, clad all in black. My feet are light as I struggle to keep every movement silent.

  My stomach twists into a knot of fluttering wings and dancing things. I force a slow inhale and then an even slower exhale, find my center, and settle in the silence for a moment.

  Ropes twitch nearby as I climb onto the upper railings of a massive set piece—a magnificent palace. I crouch behind its turrets and move to where there’s enough of a gap between the wooden pillars to peer out through knots of fake vines.

  The man stands on the stage below. He’s singing the finale, a piece that should leave any listener’s soul in pieces. With a voice like the sawing of a blade against metal, this man’s version will be more likely to leave listeners’ eardrums in pieces than anything else.

  I reach into my neckline and pull out my pendant. Pressing it to my lips, I wait.

  The tenor grips his libretto loosely in his hands, waving it about as though it’s a lacy handkerchief, and moves stiffly through a set of choreographed strides across the stage to a stai
rcase in the corner.

  Once he reaches the top of the stairs, he belts out several warbling syllables.

  Squeezing the pendant, I give in to the tug of the man’s memories on the scarred skin at my ankle.

  This had better work.

  Instead of going back minutes or hours or even days, I skip along in the place just seconds ago, where the memories are flowing out as though from a gurgling spigot. The slow, practiced mounting of the stairs only a measure or two earlier in his song.

  I push the image of my eyeless, fanged monster into his mind. It swoops down toward him from the chandelier like a bat, blasting through his body.

  The man’s singing chokes into a shout, and I open my eyes to see his face pale and his arms flail. He careens backward, crashes down the stairs, and lands with a sickening crunch on his right leg.

  He cries out in agony, wrapping his hands around the place where a jab of white bone protrudes bloodily from his thigh.

  My stomach knots at the sight of the twisted limb—I didn’t mean to hurt him that badly—but something deeper and darker inside of me, that quiet, smoldering beast in my chest, raises its head and smacks its lips.

  Yes, a broken femur will keep this tenor out of my way for good.

  With a small smile, I fade into the darkness, nothing but a phantom in the rafters.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Isda!” Emeric’s shout sends a thrill through me. I tuck tonight’s veil and dress away under my bed as he comes careening into my crypt waving his arms. “It happened!”

  “What happened?”

  He skids to a halt when he reaches me and huffs and puffs for a moment to catch his breath. His eyes dance, and his face is flushed. The dimples in his cheeks crinkle.

  “Cyril has given me the lead role in Le Berger.”

  Relief, pride, and satisfaction roll through me. “What? Why? When?”

  “Apparently the man who had the role fell off a set piece during rehearsal and broke his leg. Monsieur Bardin asked me to come to his office and audition for him tonight. Only listened to a few bars before he offered me the job.” Emeric wraps his arms around me and swings me in a lopsided circle.

  “That’s fantastic!” I squeal as he lowers me to the ground, keeping his arms around me.

  “I can’t believe it,” he murmurs into my hair, and the feeling of his breath on my nape makes the skin on my back tingle. “You did it.”

  A spark of panic zaps the tingle away. “What do you mean?”

  He pulls back to look at me. “Your lessons, Is. There’s no way he would have chosen me if not for the things you’ve taught me the last two months.”

  “Oh.” I let the flare of anxiety fade. No one knows what I did. “My lessons may have helped, but it was you he chose. Your voice, your talent.”

  “My looks.” He releases our embrace and winks.

  I roll my eyes. The underground chill swirls around me in the absence of his touch, and it leaves me wanting to reach for him again. “You deserve this, Emeric. If anyone in the world does, it’s you.”

  “This calls for caramels,” he declares, punching the air.

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  We settle onto the ground with our backs to the side of my bed, and he digs into his pocket to produce a small mountain of the little wrapped candies. Dumping them on the floor between us, he unwraps three and pops them all into his mouth at once.

  I wolf down six in as many seconds, barely pausing to chew.

  He nudges me. “Don’t you know candies are terrible for your voice?”

  “You keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’ll make no promises on that count.”

  “Fair enough.” I snort. “I don’t think you could keep quiet if you tried.”

  He nods gravely. “Silence is not one of my talents, I’m afraid.”

  “Most assuredly not,” I say around a mouthful of caramels. “Doesn’t Le Berger open next weekend?”

  He nods. “I’ve got a lot of practicing and memorizing to do. I’m enlisting your help.”

  “Do I get a say in the matter?”

  He flashes me a smile. “Not at all.”

  I laugh and toss in another caramel. “What can I do?”

  “You know the play, right?”

  “By heart.”

  “That’s what I thought. I was hoping you’d walk me through some of the choreography and help me prepare. Monsieur Bardin has called special rehearsals next week to make sure I’m on track, but I really don’t want to mess this up.”

  “Of course I’ll help.”

  Emeric grins and pulls a libretto out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “I was thinking we could go through the finale scene. The one on the grand staircase at the end.”

  “The duet,” I say dreamily.

  It’s the biggest, most emotional scene in the whole opera. The final love declaration between the lead tenor and the princess he has spent the whole play searching for. It is my favorite piece from this particular show—maybe from any show, ever.

  Wiping his mouth, Emeric gets to his feet and pulls the organ bench out into the middle of the floor. “Why don’t we use this as the staircase for now?”

  “If that’s the staircase, it needs to be farther to the side. Stage left.”

  He obeys, and the memory of how I hated him touching my organ the first night he came here flashes through my mind. The idea that I feared him is almost laughable now.

  “All right, where do I start?”

  I stand, wipe dust from my skirt, and steer him to the other corner of the room close to my music books. “Stage right.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “I don’t enter until the middle of your verse. When I do, I come from the palace up here at the back.” I move into place.

  I spend the next half hour teaching him the movements and the blocking for the entire scene. He catches on quickly, and soon is moving fluidly across my room as though he’s been rehearsing for months and not moments.

  “Now let’s try it singing a cappella,” I say, returning to the back of the room.

  He nods, flipping through his libretto to the beginning of the song.

  When he opens his mouth and floods the crypt with the duet’s opening bars, I know. It doesn’t matter the sacrifices or the risks I took to get him here. Even if Cyril finds out what I’ve done. Even if the world somehow unearths the truth about the Channe Opera House Ghost. Everything will all be worth it the moment the audience hears this sound, feels it in their bones. It’s a sound like magic, tender and seductive and full of sparks, sliding and spreading through space and time, filling everything with gold and light.

  And it is mine forever.

  For as soon as people hear him sing, they won’t want him to stop. He’ll have a job at the opera house for the rest of his life.

  Which means that no matter what else happens, no matter if I never find out what a catalyseur is or if I never find a way to live outside the walls of the opera house, I will have a life through Emeric.

  In that way, I will finally be free.

  I step forward, letting my voice roll out to meet his.

  He turns and sees me. I know he’s acting, playing the role of a lowly shepherd finding his princess, but the way his face lights up and the way his smile opens the tremor of his voice in a new, vulnerable way makes my knees weak.

  We approach each other, our voices quieting into the soft, andante lull before the song’s chorus. He reaches for me, and I lift my hand to meet his, as the choreography dictates. Just before our fingers touch and shatter the air with electricity, I twirl away from him, imagining myself to be that little dancer in my music box. Lovely and perfect. Meant to be seen. Heard.

  Emeric follows, and we circle to center stage as the chorus of our voices crashes bright and clear
.

  He glances quickly at the notes he wrote down in his libretto before charging toward me, determination and fire in his gaze. I waver a step back, stunned by his sudden ferocity.

  He pulls me against him as our voices reach the highest notes in the melody. Trembles shake through me, and I know he can feel each one of them.

  Then, silence.

  We stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving against each other, his grip strong and hot on my waist.

  As his hands move to mine, he pulls me backward up to the organ bench. We climb atop it, and I imagine myself trailing him up the stone steps on the stage, a brilliant, cream-colored dress with a bustle and train flowing around my legs. Lights shine on my bare, clear, unblemished face. My hair tumbles in waves over my shoulders, glowing fire red.

  The duet reaches its climax, but instead of crescendos and crashes, it is pianissimo. Our voices are barely more than breaths, like the shivering of a crimson leaf on the autumn breeze just before a final wind spirits it away to the night.

  We fade in unison.

  I hear the orchestra’s last notes in my mind, and then all is quiet.

  Emeric’s eyes dart back and forth between mine, his cheeks flushed, his hair swept away from his forehead. His fingers are warm against my palms.

  My body vibrates, more alive than it would be if I drowned myself in elixir. My heartbeat is everywhere. In my chest and in my throat and in the air.

  “And then...” Emeric releases one of my hands, and his fingers press against the mouth of my mask. “We kiss.”

  I feel the pressure on my lips through the material, and my head spins.

  He leans closer. So close the heat of his body sends tingles across my skin. I taste the caramel on his breath.

  His fingers trail over my mask, and I wish I could feel the brush of that caress. He reaches my chin, and then his thumb strokes against the skin of my bare throat.