Shouts echo from above. Footsteps crash somewhere in the stairwell.
But I hum as I locate the right key and unlock the door to my cell. Fire burns through me, consumes me in its wicked, wild heat.
Every moment of my life, this world has told me I’m a nightmare. So let them come for me. I will burn them up until nothing remains but ashes and smoke.
I step over the corpse and sweep down the hall.
If they want me to be a nightmare, then a nightmare I shall be.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With the guard’s elixir making my body faster, stronger, and more agile, I reach the end of the corridor, rip the iron bars from a window, and scale the window well before anyone catches up to me. I sprint into the night, blood-soaked lace streaming behind me in the icy, whipping wind.
Shadows trail me across the prison grounds, but I am faster. I make it to the outer wall and climb it in moments, leaping down to the frostbitten grass on the other side without even breaking my stride.
Channe’s lights blink on the horizon, and I focus on them as I hurtle over shrubs dying in winter’s cold grasp. I know my bare arms and face should be frozen, but with the elixir burning away all pain and all weakness, the wind feels more like a soft, spring breeze. I spread my arms as I run, letting my fingers trail in and out of the air’s current, and for a moment, I am flying.
I push my legs even faster and imagine myself soaring up to the skies. To somewhere far away from this world that would crush my music and carve my body and stop my heart.
But even flying like this pales in comparison to the flying I’ve done in the tide of Emeric’s memories. The rush of emotions that buoyed me straight into the heavens. The thrill of his music enveloping me.
The image of his empty, glassy stare fuels my fire, and I grind my teeth as I barrel up the last hill before the grass gives way to outlying, scraggly homes.
Emeric has fewer than twenty-six hours left until his memories are lost forever. There’s little room for error.
The dead man’s elixir in my system thrums to the wild beat of my heart, but I know I will need more than this to be able to take down Cyril. To face an entire city of people who would capture or kill me on sight. If I show up at the opera house during a performance as I am, there is no way I’ll make it out of there alive, let alone with a mindless Emeric in tow. Cyril will be watching his lead tenor like a hawk to make sure I did my extraction correctly. The entrances and exits are always manned by guards during events, a precaution to protect all of the important members of the Council who attend. And I have no idea where they’ll be keeping Emeric when he’s not performing, so looking for him outside of performance hours would be a waste of the precious little time we have.
Which leaves me with only tomorrow night’s show to save him.
If I’m going to return to the opera house, I need to be able to do so in a way that will ensure my success. Getting locked up again when I have minutes remaining to restore Emeric’s memory would be catastrophic for the both of us.
I think of Arlette standing like a tiny goddess in the middle of Marvault’s town square, strands of liquid elixir wrapping around her, bathing her in light and power. An entire village of people on its knees in spite of the fact that not one of them was singing.
She had to have found a catalyseur. I search my memory for any glimpse Emeric might have gotten of something she could have been holding, maybe a lump of some kind of rock in her pocket or a trinket she was wearing, but I find nothing.
My mind drifts back to that moment when the town square was full of the gold of stolen memories. Arlette was so powerful, a true force in braids.
The ground beneath my feet changes from dirt to gravel to cobblestones as I tear into the city. From far behind me come the shouts of angry guards and the thunder of galloping hooves. Somewhere back there, Cyril must sit astride a horse, his silvery blue eyes shining with an emotion I know all too well on him—determination.
Cyril would not have let Arlette die, not after what she’d shown she was capable of. He likes power too much to quash it without at least trying to harness it the way he did with me.
His words to Emeric earlier, his declaration that Arlette was dead, were lies. I knew the truth the moment I saw his jaw twitch.
Arlette is alive. She has to be.
And she either has a catalyseur or knows where I’ll be able to find one. If I can compound my power like she did in Marvault’s town square, it won’t matter where Cyril is or how many guards he has posted at the opera house. I will be unstoppable.
It’s the only way to ensure that Emeric makes it out of this with his memory intact.
I need to find her, and quickly.
I aim straight for the nearest manhole, wrench the cover from the ground, and drop into the blackness below.
Coughing on the acrid stench of ripe feces, I wade through the muck as quickly as I can.
* * *
As the hours pass, the elixir in my system slowly dulls. My hand begins to throb again, and my head swims every time I make a sudden movement. The ache in my limbs returns, and exhaustion fills my body with lead. The filthy water swirling around my calves sends chills straight to my bones.
I press on, twisting through the tunnels, winding my way deeper into the heart of Channe, turning back when I feel I’ve gone too far. Every now and then I pause to listen. I don’t know if I would be able to hear a horse’s hooves on the streets far above my head or if the shouts of policemen would carry through the ground, but still I check.
At least one thing is certain so far: no one has followed me into the sewers yet.
My teeth are clattering and my knees are knocking violently against each other when the water begins to slink lower. Soon, I am squelching across damp ground.
The air feels familiar in this tunnel. Quiet, waiting, comforting. I swear I almost hear music in its breath.
I trail my fingers along the wall. After several minutes of trudging, they slide over the unmistakable curve of a skull.
Relief surges through me almost as wild and warm as the dead guard’s elixir did. I pick up the pace, dragging my palm over femurs and ribs, vertebrae and kneecaps, until all at once, I stop. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
The scent of home.
I’ve found my crypt.
I rush forward until I reach the door, jam it open, and hightail it inside. With frozen, clumsy hands, I locate a cigar lighter. It takes several tries before my numb fingers get it to ignite, but then the flickering yellow light illuminates the room.
My bed. My things. My music.
My organ.
Pausing only to light enough candles to see by, I rip the ruined dress from my body, yank my stinking shoes and stockings from my feet, and dive for the washbasin I keep in the corner. With feverish, jerking movements, I scrub myself from head to toe with my good hand. Even though I know I will regret having wet hair when I venture back out into the cold, I dump the clear water over my head and scrub out the blood, vomit, and muck tangled in my curls.
When I feel sufficiently clean, I towel off and rush, shivering, to my wardrobe. I drag underthings on, tug a thick, warm, black dress over my head without even bothering to put on a corset first, and fumble through the buttons, trying my best to manage it with only the thumb of my left hand to help.
Cyril won’t take long to come looking down here. I need to be quick.
Once I’m dressed, I knot my hair on top of my head and pull on a cloak. Biting down on my tongue to keep from crying out, I wrap the bulging, purple mass of my shattered fingers in clean linens. Using my teeth, I tug a glove onto my right hand. I snatch one of the pocket watches from my collection of knickknacks, trying to dispel the wave of dread that fills me when I catch sight of how many hours have passed.
It is nearly three in the morning. Which means it’s been roughly nine hours since I drai
ned Emeric of his elixir.
Seventeen hours left until his memories are gone. Less than that until the show begins and I need to be in place, ready to strike.
As I stuff the watch into my dress, my gaze snags on the sheet music from Le Berger propped open on my organ, and my heart flops. I approach it slowly and brush my fingertips over Forbin’s signature and the lovely cursive title.
I lift the score and press my lips to the front cover.
Then I crush it in my fist, ignoring the way my chest seems to crumple along with it. The booklet drops from my fingers and hits the stone floor with barely a thud.
Forcing myself to breathe, I turn for the nearest bookcase and retrieve my pendant from the shelf where I left it. It glimmers, and I catch the gaze of the ballerina inside.
All my life I’ve imagined what it would be like to be her, a beauty destined for the stage. For greatness.
All I see now is a girl trapped in a pretty little prison.
Stuffing the pendant into my dress, I tug on a simple black mask, make my way across the room to my bed, and fish under my pillow until my fingers brush against the cold brass of the key to Cyril’s office.
When I took it, I imagined handing it over to Emeric. Yet every time I thought about actually giving the key to him, a part of me held back. What if Cyril loves me? I wondered. I’ve already betrayed him too much.
Now I know Emeric was right all along. Cyril never loved me. He kept me around only because of what I could do for him. Because I made him rich. Yes, he read me fairy tales and bought me an organ and rewarded me with pastries, but I’m beginning to realize that all of that was just part of his plan to keep me here, trusting him, willing to carry out whatever task he asked, blindly believing every lie he told me.
And he did it all so well. He orchestrated a relationship I cherished. I would have done anything for him. I would have walked to the ends of the earth to make him happy.
So I tuck the key into my pocket.
I don’t know where Arlette is, but I’m sure Cyril does. And if he knows where she is, odds are I’ll find a clue in his office.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The opera house is as dark and grand as ever, but somehow it no longer seems beautiful to me. Its angels and winged creatures stare hollowly out from the walls as I creep past. This place once felt like my kingdom, my home.
Now I wish it would burn.
I steal along the corridors. The air is quiet and still in the way it only is a few hours before dawn—as though it is watching the horizon. Waiting for those gray tendrils of smoky light to curl over the edge of the earth and pull the sun into the sky. Thankfully, it seems as though the police and prison guards searching for me did not think I would be stupid enough to return here.
I slip down the hallway until I find the stairs and mount to the fourth floor.
The key to Cyril’s door slides quietly into the lock. The mechanisms within give a satisfying click as I turn it, and the door opens. Shutting and locking the door behind me, I cross to Cyril’s desk and light the lantern.
I have very little time. Soon the sun will rise, and the city will be crawling with people—people who will see my black mask. Though they might think I am only a fendoir, it is likely that the story of my capture, arrest, and escape have made it through the rumor mill already. The citizens of Channe will be watching for a fleeing gravoir with a damaged hand. I will not make it far once the city awakens.
I immediately shove against the hidden bookshelf until it swings around. I gather the small pile of notebooks there and rifle through them for any mention of Arlette. Inside, Cyril’s loose cursive print fills the pages with notes about me. They date from over a decade ago. He describes my progress, the things he taught me, the questions he had about my potential.
One entry at the end of the most recent journal stands out to me, stark black and white I will never be able to erase from my memory:
Sometimes I wonder if I have chosen the right one. I have discovered so many gravoir children over the last couple of years, and I can’t help but think about how much more powerful some of them might have been. What could I have discovered in them if I had chosen them instead? What might they have been able to offer me?
Isda is a good choice in many ways. She trusts me implicitly and never questions anything I tell her. She has a great deal of control over her emotions, and she works hard. But does she have power like Les Trois did? The strength to rule an entire nation—an entire world? I have no doubts in my ability to keep her under control as her power grows. I just pray that I’ve invested my time and money in the gravoir that is capable of doing what I need her to.
Perhaps she is too young for me to be sure yet, but she seems too soft. Too wrapped up in the music and finery of the opera. She doesn’t seem passionate enough for that kind of dominion.
So, I wonder, have I chosen the wrong gravoir for my plans?
I tear the page from the journal and turn to the lantern, letting the crimson and black of curling flame eat through the words until all that is left is a pile of scraps. I stare at the ash for a long moment, trying to push the words out of my head. Instead, it’s as though Cyril himself is whispering them to me, his voice quiet and soft the way it used to be when he would tuck me into bed.
He must have been amused by how much I adored him. By how I squealed when he brought me sweets and how I drew pictures for him of us on picnics when I was small. How I begged him to read me stories and asked him to kiss my wounds when I skinned my knees.
All along, he was manipulating me more precisely than I’ve ever done to any memory.
I reach for my pendant, crushing it in my palm until the pain of it makes me hiss. I press my fist against my mouth, forcing back the tears that are filming across my vision all over again.
I cannot give him any more of myself.
I breathe deeply through my nose, and as I do, my veins ignite with the hungry, furious, delicious power that burns away all sorrow and all pain until there is nothing but hate.
I drop the pendant. It hits my chest with a thud.
“Not powerful enough for you, Cyril?” I spit, whirling to yank book after book from his wall. “Not passionate enough?” I shove the vials from his desk and listen to the sweet song of glass shattering against the floor. “Wait until I usher in a new oblivion. Wait until I stand over you, powerful and wicked and beautiful. Wait until I burn you from the inside out.”
I kick over the globe—his gift from the King—and laugh when it crashes to bits against the wall.
I know I don’t have time for this, but blood rushes in my ears and the beast screams its fury in my chest. I knock Cyril’s folders from their neat, tidy rows and tear papers to shreds with my teeth.
Destruction is a music all its own. One composed of drumbeats and a percussion of passion and pain.
Growling, I swing around and knock a statue from his shelf onto the floor. It cracks loud as a gunshot, and the sudden sound punches through the pounding in my head. I blink down at the rubble remains of Cyril’s miniature figure of Les Trois. Rose’s face stares up at me in two pieces.
I crouch to pick them up.
I think of what Emeric said when he came across that depiction of Les Trois in the hallway. I’ve never seen a painting of them before. Most people don’t even like to speak of them.
The signs were there all along. Cyril’s obsession with Les Trois and their powers, the way he glorified them as gods when everyone else was terrified to even whisper their names, should have been the most obvious one.
I scrutinize Rose’s face. It’s as though every artist who ever tried to render her was able to imbue her with that same sadness, that same ferocity in the face of death.
I know something of what she felt in that moment.
But Rose’s emotions got the better of her and resulted in her ruin. I cannot a
llow myself to be overcome by rage. Not when so much is at stake.
I set the marble bits carefully on Cyril’s desk.
My gaze strays to the fairy tale book Cyril lent me two months ago when he caught me in his office, the book he used to read to me from when I was a child. Charlotte and the Mirror of Forgotten Things lies half-open atop a pile of torn Council records.
A shard lodges itself in my chest.
Where that book was so long a comfort to me, its poem a promise of safety and love, in less than a day it has become a symbol of Cyril’s lies.
I cannot let him win.
I check the pocket watch in my dress and blanch when I realize it’s already four in the morning. Whipping back to the piles of books around my feet, I focus on the task at hand. For the next hour, I comb through every volume in his office with my teeth ground together.
I find no sign of Arlette. No hint of any other gravoir besides me. Perhaps Emeric found everything there was to find in that folder full of newspaper clippings under his bed. If there were any clue about Arlette’s whereabouts in there, Emeric surely would have gone after her by now, so there’s no use risking my life returning to his apartment to look through it.
After I’ve pulled the drawers out of Cyril’s desk and dumped their contents on the floor, I glare at the mess around me with my good hand perched on my hip.
“Where is she?” I scan the loose papers and books jumbled in piles so thick the floor is no longer visible. “Where have you hidden her?”
Something shuffles in the hallway.
I slow my breathing, straining to hear.
Yes.
Footsteps.
I whirl and sprint for the window, heart hammering in my throat. As I clamber onto the sill, my gaze snags on the envelope Cyril received last week—the one bearing the glad tidings of his promotion to Head of the Council. Cyril’s home address is printed in distinct lettering.
There are no clues about Arlette’s whereabouts here in Cyril’s office, but maybe I could find something at his home.
Sing Me Forgotten Page 22
