Sing Me Forgotten

by Jessica S. Olson

  “Oui, isn’t it brilliant? Because there’s that masked scene in Le Berger...” He sits forward and scrawls into his notebook. “Though I’ll need to post security personnel at the opera house entrance to check people’s faces before they come in. Wouldn’t want any fendoirs to get any ideas.” He taps his chin with the back end of his pen. “I’ll have to hire a decorator, too, and someone for the food. Perhaps that place down on the corner of Rue de la Gare would do it. Their pastries are to die for...”

  I shuffle, waiting for him to look at me. Waiting for him to invite me to attend.

  Instead, he scribbles down a few more notes, muttering to himself about champagnes and tablecloths.

  Of all people, I should be invited to this ball. I am the reason behind every success worth celebrating.

  Squaring my shoulders, I ask, “Can I come?”

  He stops writing to laugh. “Of course not, chérie. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  My heart pummels against the inside of my rib cage, but I manage to keep myself from snapping something childish in response. Instead, I straighten my corset. “Fine. Of course.” I turn to leave, then pause. “I’m assuming we aren’t going to visit Monsieur LeRoux anymore?”

  “What?” Cyril squints. “Oh, him. No, of course not. I think we’re all done there.” He waves me away as though I am nothing more than a nuisance now that I’ve completed his little task.

  “Bonne nuit,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Cyril grunts in response, bending over his notebook to jot down another list.

  I stalk to the door and yank it open. The cold air in the hallway brushes along my collarbones, and I wish more than anything I weren’t wearing this stupid mask. My cheeks are boiling, and with the warmth trapped between my skin and the material, hot air steams into my mouth and nose in a way that makes me want to growl.

  Inhale. Exhale. Find my center. Settle in the silence.

  It would not do for Cyril to see how much his lack of regard for my feelings affects me. I’ve already given him too much power over my emotions and my life.

  My eyes snag on a shining brass key jutting from the door handle. Cyril must have left it there when he was busy throwing me inside like a misbehaving animal.

  Emeric’s request for access to Cyril’s office surfaces in my mind.

  Letting a rush of air out through clenched teeth, I jerk the key from its place and jam it into my pocket.

  Turning, I sweep away in a rustle of skirts. The statues watch my progress downward, and I spit curses at them as I go.

  Damn them for their flawless faces, their perfect marble hair, their knowing smiles.

  Damn this whole Memory-forsaken place.

  And damn Cyril. I don’t need his permission to go to a ball.

  Not anymore.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m stitching the finishing touches into the mask I plan to wear to the masquerade tomorrow night when Emeric shows up. The shows are taxing on his voice, so we’ve taken to spending the evenings playing Chasseur et Chassé and laughing about the ridiculous things some of the dancers have said to him backstage instead of continuing the vocal instruction. Tonight, he enters my crypt talking animatedly about something one of the papers printed about him when he sees the white, lacy mask in my hands and stops short.

  “What is that?”

  I set aside my needle and thread and the crystals I was sewing into the lace. “A mask.”

  “Well, yes, but what is it for?” He dodges past me to inspect it, but I shove in front of him.

  “The masquerade ball.”

  He laughs. “You can’t possibly be—” When his eyes meet mine, his mirth fades. “You’re going?”

  “Of course I’m going,” I snap. “They may be celebrating your performance, but who taught you? I deserve to go to that party as much as any of those dolts you share the stage with.”

  “It’s not about ‘deserving’ to go.”

  I cross my arms. “Then, pray tell, what is it about?”

  “It’s about the fact that you’re—” His voice cuts off as his gaze trails over the curves of my mask.

  “Oh, so this is about my face, is it?” I know I’m being petty, but I don’t care.

  “Of course not.”

  “I’ll be wearing a mask just like everyone else. No one will look twice at me.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  I turn away to tidy the sheet music scattered around my room. The paper crinkles as I slam the stack against the top of my organ to straighten it. “It’s only dangerous if I’m not careful.”

  Emeric doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is measured and quiet. “Why, Is? It’s only a party.”

  I whirl, accidentally knocking my stack onto the floor. The sheets of paper flutter around my skirt like dead leaves. “I’ve lived my life in the shadows, Emeric. I’ve watched their parties, envied their pretty hair and their pretty dresses and their pretty faces. I’ve imagined what it would feel like to dance on the arm of a handsome man in a tuxedo.” I pause, voice quavering. “Is that my fate? To always watch and envy and imagine?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs.

  “When is it my turn?” I ask. “When do I get to step out of the shadows and live?”

  When he still says nothing, I sigh and drop to my knees to gather the fallen pages. After a moment, he joins me on the floor, pulling the loose papers into a bundle in his arms. I reach for them, and he holds them out toward me but does not let go when I try to take them.

  I glance up to his face and meet a passionate, wild-eyed stare. “You’re not a fendoir,” he says quietly.

  “What?” My stomach spasms. I yank the stack from him and arrange it atop my own pile. “Of course I am.”

  He continues as though I did not speak. “You’re right, though. You do deserve to dance, wear pretty dresses, and eat fine foods. You are worth celebrating.”

  Words have stuck in my throat. My body has gone completely numb.

  “But they’ll kill you if they find out the truth.” He pushes a lock of hair back over my shoulder. “And a world without you in it? That’s not a world I want to even imagine.”

  I draw in a slow, shaky breath. “How long have you known?”

  “A while. I wondered about it that first night when I met you in the hallway. The way you reacted to my singing, as though your mind had been transported somewhere else. Fendoirs don’t see memories when people sing, but I know gravoirs do. And...” He pauses and reaches out to brush my collarbones. “You don’t have the mark here, but you extracted my elixir. Which means you must have carved the spiral somewhere else on your body. That only works for gravoirs.”

  I clutch my stomach, feeling suddenly dizzy. Why hadn’t I thought of the fact that he’d notice the spiral mark was missing? Of course he would suspect. “If you knew what I was, why didn’t you report me to the authorities? Why did you agree to come down here with me?”

  He opens his mouth to respond, then mops the back of his hand over his face and sits down on the edge of my bed.

  My ears buzz as they wait for his response. My hands and feet tingle as though all the blood has drained from my body and I’m nothing but bone and dying nerve endings.

  “You’ve seen Arlette.” It is not a question.

  I swallow the dryness in my mouth and nod. “Yes.”

  “Then you already know why I didn’t report you.”

  “Fair enough. But why did you agree to the voice lessons? You knew I’d go rooting around in your memories. You knew what I was capable of.”

  “Because you reminded me of her, and I...” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head. “I failed her in so many ways. And you had that same wild, desperate hope in your eyes.” He pauses. “You seem to think I should have been afraid of you, but I grew up with a gravoir. Fearing you ne
ver crossed my mind. I figured I’d be able to handle anything you might throw at me.” He turns away from my gaze and shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I decided I had nothing to lose.”

  “Nothing to lose,” I repeat faintly.

  It’s too much, standing here as all of our secrets unravel. I don’t know how to have conversations like this. I haven’t a clue how to listen when someone bares their soul or what I’m supposed to do when it comes time to speak my truth with words instead of songs. I turn to my stack of papers and lug it over to my bookshelf as though hiding from him might shelter me from the fear. And the hope.

  “That was just at first, though,” he continues. “Once I heard you play, heard you sing... Everything changed. I never knew music could be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’s taking over my soul. Like it’s changing me from the inside out. Like it’s filling the world with color and light.”

  He approaches me, but I don’t turn. I feel him behind me, the warmth of his body just inches away. I want to lean back and let that warmth enfold me, let it cocoon me in a place where there are no questions and no answers, only quiet.

  Instead, I don’t move at all. I don’t even breathe.

  “Before you, music was just music. But not anymore. Where everything was dull and mute before, you’ve brought brightness and life. I don’t want to lose that.” He grasps my arms and pulls me around to face him. “Please don’t go to that ball, Isda.”

  I tremble under the tenderness in his touch and the intensity in his gaze. I want to nod, to give him my word I won’t go, to promise him I’ll stay away.

  But something in my chest flickers hot and smoking.

  “I—I am going to go.”

  He releases my arms. “Why?”

  “Because I want to.” My voice rises in pitch. “I’m sorry if my wanting to spend one harmless night as a normal person jeopardizes your music, but I don’t exist only to improve things for you.”

  He rears back as though I slapped him.

  “All my life I’ve been doing Cyril’s bidding. Hiding away and serving him so that he can reap the benefits of what I am and what I can do. I’m sorry if I don’t feel like doing the same for you, too.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “What did you mean then, Emeric?” My voice is edging toward hysteria. “I make your world brighter? I make music better for you? What about me? What about what makes my world brighter and better?”

  “How about not dying?” he snaps. “Seems like that would be a good start.”

  I glare. “I don’t understand you. You come barging into my life flinging caramels everywhere and spouting off platitudes about how it’s unfair of Cyril to keep me locked up down here, and yet that seems to be exactly what you’d have me do, too.”

  “Not wanting you to die is not the same as keeping you locked up.”

  “And what your mother did for Arlette is so much better?”

  His eyes flash. “Yes. She gave her sunshine and a family who loved her.”

  “Sorry to be the one to break this to you, but not all of us are so lucky. My mother had me dumped in a well before I was five minutes old. I take what I can get.”

  “It’s not a choice between hiding down here and throwing yourself to the wolves,” Emeric says, his tone softening. “There are other options.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  He gestures at himself. “Living somewhere safe, out in the open where you could breathe fresh air. I could take you there.”

  “And throw away everything we’ve worked for? Throw away the career you just launched?” I bark a laugh. “Do not make light of what we’ve accomplished by tossing it aside like it means nothing.”

  He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “Why do you have to make everything difficult?”

  “I make things difficult?” Now I’m the one reeling back as though I’ve been slapped. “Feel free to leave if you’d like. I wouldn’t want to trouble Channe’s new favorite tenor.”

  Emeric turns and stalks past me to the door. “Funny, Isda, because to me, it seems like that’s exactly what you want.”

  I slam the door shut behind him.

  Chapter Twenty

  For all of my confidence and determination last night when I told Emeric I was going to the masquerade, I feel awfully tiny and terrified now that I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror.

  I’m wearing an old wedding dress I found in the basement storage area. I noticed it years ago and have always wondered why such a lovely gown had been banished from the costume gallery upstairs. Though I’m sure it was once white, it has now faded to ivory. It is low-cut in the front and features off-the-shoulder sleeves that make me feel elegant and exposed all at the same time. Lovely lace has been stitched over every bit of it, from the fitted bodice to the wide skirt, bustle, and train. I’ve made it my own by sewing tiny beaded crystals everywhere that sparkle when they catch the light.

  Reaching up with sweaty hands, I adjust my mask. It doesn’t fit as well as my others—it’s the old white one I used to wear—but I’ve covered it in spare lace from the dress and stitched in beads so that it matches.

  I let my hair fall over my bare shoulders, the red coils a stark contrast to my ivory dress, and take one last look in the mirror.

  I hardly recognize myself. Even Cyril probably wouldn’t realize it was me. Not that I’m going to risk letting him. I’ll make sure to leave before he finishes his meeting in Chanterre. He’ll never know I was there.

  Clutching my stomach as though I can somehow push my anxiety away with my hands, I take as deep a breath as my corset will allow, turn, and venture out of my room.

  As I ease the crypt door back into its place, I catch the nearest skull’s eye. “Don’t look at me like that, Albert. I’m going to be careful.”

  I feel the skull’s gaze on my back as I make my way up the corridor and have to force myself not to glance over my shoulder.

  Goose bumps erupt on my arms, which are not used to being uncovered here in the underground air. Shivering, I quicken my pace, pulling my skirts away from my feet so the lace doesn’t drag on the dirty floor.

  Though quiet and far away, the ball’s music trickles down to me when I emerge into the basement storage room. The sound of it knots the breath in my throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  I’m going to a masquerade ball.

  Trying to keep my shaking hands under control, I climb the stairs until I reach the main level. Following the symphony’s song, I make my way toward the south end of the opera house and the grand ballroom there.

  I pause in the shadows near the side entrance. The doors have been propped open, and golden light floods into the hallway.

  So long I have hidden just outside the line of light. All my life I have ached to step into it and let it bathe me in its warmth. But now that I stand here on the edge of it, I cannot seem to move. My limbs feel as though they’ve been turned to stone—too heavy, too cold.

  People pass without even noticing me, their faces obscured by fashionable masks in every shape and color. Gowns glitter under the light of glowing candelabras. Laughter punctuates the symphony’s music, and glasses of champagne clink. The scent of butter and roasted duck makes my mouth water.

  I catch sight of Emeric and nearly choke.

  He stands off to one side clad in a fitted tuxedo that makes him look supremely important and wickedly handsome. His hair has been swept away from his face into a low ponytail. A simple black mask accentuates the perfect arch of his brow. In his hand is a glass of some kind of sparkling drink, but he makes no move to taste it. His eyes flick from person to person as though he’s looking for something.

  Or someone, perhaps?

  Steeling my nerves, I plunge into the light. My heart hammers, and I squeeze my eyes shut, certain someone is
going to see me and know instantly what I am hiding beneath my mask.

  I take another step forward and chance a peek. No one seems to have noticed me.

  No one but Emeric.

  His eyes meet mine. A myriad of emotions tumble across his face. Confusion. Recognition. Shock. Relief.

  Setting his untouched glass on the nearest table, he makes his way straight for me.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he says, taking my hand and bowing to brush his lips along my knuckles.

  My whole body quivers, and heat rushes up my neck. I manage a stiff curtsy, the echoes of his harsh words last night still repeating in my head. “Bonsoir.”

  “You look—” He pauses, stepping back to take in the full effect of my dress. “Different.”

  “Different how?”

  “You usually wear black.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that the white of that dress makes you look like...”

  “Like what?”

  “Like an angel?” He pauses, his cheeks dimpling as he smiles. “Oui, an angel of music.”

  His words rock through me, crystalline and bright and real. I stumble for a response, but my mind has gone completely blank.

  “I’m sorry for what I said last night,” he says. “I was not very kind.”

  I nod, brushing imaginary dust from my dress.

  “Don’t get me wrong—I still think it’s unwise for you to be here.” I open my mouth to make a retort, but he holds up his hand. “But I recognize that you’re fully capable of deciding where you go and what you do. I’ve made my point clear, and you’ve made yours. Now it’s time for me to respect your decision.”

  “Thank you.”

  He grins. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Good. Because I think they piled every morsel of food in Vaureille onto that table over there.”

  He holds out his arm, and I take it. As he leads me through the crowd, I try not to focus on the curve of his bicep under my fingertips.

  Whispers follow us as we approach the table.