by Mary Fan
I automatically return to the case storage area and begin tuning my instrument. My mind can’t seem to focus on anything other than the familiar, mechanical motions of plucking my strings and twisting the pegs.
Colored light flickers beside me, and I know it’s Dámiul’s hologram. My mind is too blank to react. I just draw my bow across the C and G strings, making sure they harmonize.
“What was that about?” he asks.
“I’m playing the Lament.” My two lower strings ring out in a perfect fifth. I move on to the middle ones. “I… I’m replacing Estelle.”
“That’s fantastic.” His face brightens.
“I-I don’t know if I can do it.” Another perfect fifth. I’m scarcely aware of what I’m doing as I move on to the last two strings.
“I’ve heard you play this song a dozen times. Believe me, you can.”
He sounds sincere, but his words don’t impact me. I continue tuning my instrument because it’s the only thing I know how to do. A high-pitched beep sounds over the comm, indicating that it’s time for the next act to take their places.
Which, in this case, means just me.
I approach the door, and it hits me: I’m about to walk on stage and play a legendary solo never before performed by a Papilian. Everyone’s anticipating a shattering performance from the great Estelle, and instead, they’re getting a section player who barely made it into the ensemble. My face goes cold, and I freeze, suddenly nauseous.
Dámiul reaches toward me. “Don’t be afraid. I know you can do this. And I’ll be there for you.”
I sense his touch on my shoulder and nod. Inhaling deeply, I walk toward the wings. Scared as I am, I can’t back out.
The audience is waiting.
I’m suddenly aware of the Zexa device in my skirt pocket, and I feel Dámiul’s presence follow me even though I can’t see him.
My breath shakes. If I’d come prepared, sparkling in a soloist’s gown instead of shrinking in my simple black concert dress, I might feel slightly better. The audience claps for the Octet. There are so many people, staggeringly many, and I’ve never even played for them outside the Pit. How can I face them alone?
I’m not alone. Dámiul’s with me, and I’m playing for him.
The Octet walks off, but I barely see them. This fear—I wonder if it’s anything close to how Butterfly felt when she learned her prince was dying.
The audience quiets. A soft beep from behind me tells me it’s time. I stride onto the stage, telling myself the story of Butterfly to distract myself from the thousands and thousands of eyes staring at me.
Once upon a time, there was a magic kingdom where people could transform into the animal closest to their souls. Butterfly was as beautiful and lively as her wings would suggest.
I stop center stage. The lights around me dim, and a watery spotlight surrounds me.
In a kingdom above the clouds, a prince looked down and was enchanted by the girl’s loveliness. He broke the laws of his kind to descend to Earth.
Like how Dámiul violated interstellar laws to enter Papilio. As I bring up my instrument, I catch the glimmer of a faint hologram in the wings and know it’s him.
They fell in love at once, but after three days, the prince’s strength began to fade. An old prophet told Butterfly that the prince had to return to his kingdom—or he would die.
That’s where the Lament begins. I think of Dámiul and how a part of me wants to cry each time he leaves, since I can never know for sure if he’ll return. I play the opening melody, pouring my longing into the strings.
The prince’s father sent his guards to bring his wayward son back. Butterfly watched, helpless, as they took her love away.
I recall how powerless I felt when Security dragged Dámiul out of the quad. Because of them, I’ll never feel the warmth of his touch. My chest tightens, and I dig my bow into the strings.
Every day, Butterfly looked to the clouds. She could see her prince’s face and knew he loved her still. But no matter how she cried, no matter how he fought the guards, he couldn’t return to her.
No matter how I dream, no matter how fierce his spirit, Dámiul will never return to me. If I tried to tell someone how much that hurts, my words would surely fail. So I let the melody speak for me, and I mean every mournful, sighing note.
One day, unable to stand the heartache, Butterfly transformed into her namesake creature and flew toward the clouds, determined to be with her prince again.
My fingers flutter up and down the strings. Around and around she flies, losing pieces of herself as she reaches for the impossible. The aching in my heart deepens. I can reach for Dámiul all I want, but my hands will only grasp empty air. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying, won’t keep acting like he’s here.
But he’s a ghost, and I’m playing make-believe. I almost want to laugh as I share in Butterfly’s madness. Why, Creator? Why send me someone I can never have?
She kept flying until her heart gave out. With her dying breath, she flapped her wings, soaring up in one final burst of energy.
My finger leaps up to the Lament’s final note on the highest string, and I hold it out as long as my bow will let me, letting its wail tell the world how I, too, reach in vain.
She fell to the ground, lifeless.
I lift my bow. Even the most valiant of efforts can’t last forever. I wait for the reverberations to die down and realize that my cheeks are wet.
I did it. I relax and look to the audience for a reaction.
Silence.
Clapping hands—one person, alone but enthusiastic. More join in, and the thunder spreads through the auditorium. I can hardly make out the “Bravas” of the Earthlings through the Adryil’s enthusiastic cries of “Toká!”
“Iris… you were amazing.” Dámiul’s breath of a voice feels warm in my head. I look to the wings, but he’s no longer visible. In his place, Master Raucci grins and applauds with the audience. Vera, here in holographic form, stands beside him, her face glowing with pride. Master Raucci must have called her at the last minute.
I bow. As delighted as I am that the audience appreciates me, I can’t erase the aching in my heart.
Enough, Iris. I’ve indulged my mythical tragedy, and it’s time to return to the real world.
Master Raucci motions for me to approach, and I leave the stage. As soon as I reach the wings, he spreads his arms. “Brava, Iris! Not since Katarin has an audience made a noise like that!”
“Thank you, sir.” My mind is still in a haze, dulling the joy I should feel.
Vera beams, almost sobbing with happiness. “That’s my Iris!”
I walk backstage. Several Orchestra members congratulate me, and I nod, attempting to look appropriately thrilled even though I’m still reeling.
“This was her plan!” Estelle’s shrill voice is audible even through the office’s thick walls. “She poisoned me!”
I ignore her and continue on my way. A sudden emptiness hollows my heart; Dámiul’s presence is gone. It’s more than the usual absence—it’s desolation. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye unless it was urgent, especially now. Something on Adrye must be pulling him away from me.
Butterfly’s lament may be over, but mine’s just beginning. If Dámiul really disappears this time, I may find myself crying to the stars, as Butterfly cried to the clouds.
CHAPTER 16
I STARE AT THE ZEXA device in my hand, wondering if something’s wrong with it. Three days have passed since the Spectacle, and there’s been no sign of Dámiul. Did I accidentally change the device’s settings? Even if I had, and Dámiul tried to contact me, I would still feel his presence, wouldn’t I?
I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he can. My own thoughts ring of false reassurance. I keep recalling how weak he appeared. Is he sick? What if he’s dying on Adrye?
I fling the thought away. I’m being ridiculous. He’s probably caught up in something. Or maybe he left for his mysterious government assignment
. But if that were so, wouldn’t he at least say goodbye?
I need to stop this. I’ve told myself time and time again that all this longing and dreaming can’t lead to anything good. What’s the sense in yearning when you know you can never have what you seek? Even if I were sent to Adrye tomorrow, I still couldn’t be with him. Maybe, by some miracle, he could find me there, but he’d still be called away. I’d find myself right back here—alone and lost, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck at sea.
Why is it that even though I’ve just experienced the greatest triumph of my life, all I can do is think about a boy? I should be worrying about how I’m going to keep up the momentum from the Spectacle, not about where Dámiul is. But no matter how much I try to bring my head back to where it belongs, I can’t take my mind off of him.
It won’t do me any good to lie around pining. I sit up in my bed. The schedule on my monitor tells me I have the next hour free. I drop the Zexa device in my pocket and slide off my bed. It occurs to me that Dámiul’s not the only one who disappeared after my performance; I haven’t heard from Milo since the Spectacle either.
I’ve tried messaging him about a dozen times, but he hasn’t responded. Not that I’ve had much time to worry about it—Master Raucci has been keeping me busy. I’ve rehearsed with more small ensembles—quartets, chamber orchestras, and such—in the past few days than in my entire life before that. Apparently, he wants to find more ways to showcase my skills. Could Mistress Duval be doing the same with Milo? Or has he been in a practice hole of his own, like I was in the days leading up to the audition?
Wondering if he responded to my messages yet, I bring up my Linx profile. The green number 13 beneath my name makes me grin. From over a thousand to the top 20—I can scarcely believe it. I’ve never heard of anyone’s ranking rising so fast, and every patron in that audience now knows who I am. Typically, a patron will watch an Artist in at least three or four performances before deciding to hire. If I can keep my ranking at these stratospheric heights, I could be on Adrye by this time next year.
I glance over my inbox, which is full of congratulatory messages. Milo left a shout-out on my profile, but hasn’t contacted me otherwise. Wondering if he posted anything, I go to his profile. To my dismay, a red 144 sits beneath his name. That’s still decent, but a far cry from what he was hoping for. And for a principal, having your ranking decline after a show can be disastrous. This must be killing him.
There’s nothing on his profile since before the Spectacle. Maybe he knew his number would sink after the lukewarm reviews of his performance and has been avoiding Linx altogether. I check the time. It’s getting close to noon. I might be able to catch him for lunch.
I leave my room and head to the Ballet’s sector.
As I approach the Ballet’s dormitory, I see Sabina ahead and wave, calling her name.
She turns to face me, eyebrows raising. “Yes?”
“Have you seen Milo?”
She purses her lips. “No. He’s missed every rehearsal and coaching since the Spectacle. I’ve tried to get him to come, but he keeps ignoring me.”
My spine tenses. The reviews must have affected him more than I thought. “I’d better go talk to him.” I turn toward the dorm.
“You won’t find him in his room. I saw him heading for Dogwood earlier.”
“What?”
“That’s where he’s been spending his time, though at least he’s been returning before curfew.” Sabina sighs. “You’re a good friend of his, right? Maybe you can convince him to return to his assignments before the school expels him. He won’t listen to me.”
“I’ll do my best.” I rush down the street, heading toward the West Gate. The Milo I know is too dedicated to skip anything, let alone miss three whole days. I don’t blame him for needing a break after pouring so much effort into the last Spectacle, but what he’s doing could destroy any chance he has.
By the time I make it to the West Gate, I’m breathing so hard, I barely hear the security bot’s customary reminder about curfew. I speed through the town, retracing the steps Milo and I took last time.
The sun highlights every dying vine and dried-out blade of grass surrounding the stained tenement walls. With the winter-gray hands of nature seizing the buildings and the wind-chilled silence in the streets, I feel like I’m entering a ghost town. Everyone must be at work in the manufacturing plant. I start toward the building where Milo’s family lives, then freeze. He didn’t want to speak with them before because he was too stressed. I doubt he’d go to them now, when he’s neglecting the school they worked so hard to get him into.
The only other place I can think of to check is the housing project where I met Phers. I hope Milo’s not there. As I enter the building, I tell myself I’m going in to make sure he isn’t, not because I think he is.
“Milo?” I make my way forward. Most of the doors stand open, and every room I peer into is empty. I wonder if they leave their doors open because they have nothing worth stealing.
The chatter of voices drifts toward me from the end of the hallway. Recognizing Phers’s voice among them, I break into a run. When I reach the open door of the cramped room, I find Phers sitting on the floor, along with several young men and women, each with either an opaque cup or a cigarette in his or her hand.
“Hey, you’re back!” Phers raises his eyebrows at me.
Spotting a head of blond curls, I feel my face fall with dismay. “Milo!”
Milo turns toward me. His eyes are glazed over, and his slouch is so unlike him, I briefly wonder if I’ve got the wrong person. “Oh, hey Iris.” He holds his cigarette out toward me. “Want some?”
“What are you doing here?” I step over someone’s legs to approach him. “It’s the middle of the day!”
He puts the cigarette to his lips. “So it is.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Phers leering at me. “C’mon, pretty lady. Make yourself comfortable.” He presses down on my shoulder, trying to force me to sit.
“Get your hands off her!” Milo jumps up and shoves Phers.
Phers holds up his hands. “Cool it, man.”
Milo’s eyes snap with fury. “Touch her again, and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
“I’m all right,” I say, startled by Milo’s sudden and unwarranted violence. I’ve never seen him like this before.
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you!” I let him lead me out of the room, then shake him off as soon as we’re in the corridor. Someone shoves Phers’s door, which swings shut with an unceremonious click. “What’s going on?”
Milo shrugs. “I’m finished. Thought I’d give it a few days just in case, but my mind’s made up. I’ve already started filling out the resignation docs.”
“You’re quitting?”
“Yeah.” He leans back against the wall. “I’ll never make it anyway. Whether tomorrow or in four years, I’m going to end up here. Might as well spare myself the extra debt.”
“What about your family? They’re counting on you!”
“Sucks for them.” He gives a limp shrug. “My parents hate me for blowing my big break. Sent me a message telling me how disappointed they are. They sacrificed my sister’s chances by spending all their money on getting me into Papilio first, so they can’t forgive me for failing them. They’re ready to disown me anyway. Well, now they can pull the trigger.”
Sorrow pricks my heart. How could his parents say that? “But… But you’re a wonderful dancer.”
Milo examines the cigarette in his hand, avoiding my gaze. “Have you seen the reviews? ‘Decent,’ they said. And that’s all. I gave them everything and got a collective shrug in response. Do you know what it’s like when your best isn’t good enough?” He angles his mouth in a humorless smile. “No, of course you don’t. You’re gifted. I’m not, and… I accept that.”
“I’m not gifted. I—”
“You don�
�t even realize how talented you are, do you?” Milo gives me an incredulous look. “Estelle had good reason to be afraid of you. Your playing speaks to people. We all saw it on stage. I, on the other hand, have nothing but technique. Maybe a little flair. But no matter what I do, something’s just missing.”
“That’s not true! Mistress Duval—”
“Mistress Duval picked me because I’m better than the other guys in the Ballet, but that doesn’t make me worthy of a patron.” He drops his cigarette and stomps on it.
“Come on, Milo.” I want to shake him. “You’ll do better next time.”
He stares at the ground, a look of pain distorting his face. “I can’t do this anymore. That school… it’s driving me insane. I used to come here because it was the only way I could escape. Each time, part of me wanted to stay. But I had no choice—I had to go back or lose everything. Now that I know it’s going to be lost anyway, I can finally let go.”
I bite my lip. I knew he had his anxieties, but I never realized how deep they ran. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew how you’d respond. ‘Oh, just keep trying. Everything will turn out okay.’” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Isn’t that right?”
My eyes sting. Who’s this bitter young man before me, and where’s the friend I knew so well?
Milo softens his expression. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help, but there’s nothing to help anymore.”
I blink to keep the tears from spilling. “I thought you loved dancing. Forget patrons and debts and rankings… Isn’t the stage enough?”
