“You will use him,” Madam says, pointing at the boy. Her hand trembles slightly in the air. “And you must not stop until the queen commands you to.”
“But you told me not to practice on other children,” I protest. Remi asks me all the time for demonstrations, but I have almost always obeyed Madam and refused.
“That’s right. You must never practice on other children when you are alone. But this is different. This isn’t practice. You are performing for Her Majesty.”
“Is he cold?” I ask.
“Very,” Madam whispers.
The boy starts to thrash in the guard’s hold. The idea of magic terrifies some. They’ve never been taught or exposed to it. They don’t understand that magic can help them. I remember as much from before I came to Cavalia.
But it’s midwinter, and I remember the damp walls of the city home, too, the frosty nights when we all huddled together under shared, threadbare blankets and listened to the rats chatter under the floor. I still get cold here, when I forget my cloak or when the snow falls. But at the orphanage it was another kind of cold: a chill that permeated all the way to my bones and clung to my ribs. When the palace officials came for me, after learning of my summer birthday, I hadn’t been able to bring any of my friends. Sometimes, when I sit beside my fire in the room I share with Carinda, a bowl of warm stew cradled in my lap, I still think of them.
I can help this boy. For a time, I can make him feel as safe and comfortable as Nip, who dozes against Madam’s shoulder. I can give him the memory of warmth.
I climb onto the stage and stand in the center circle, right beneath the chandelier as I have been taught. I straighten my spine and look out into the space where the queen sits, though I can’t see her beyond the glare of the lights.
As soon as I begin to hum, magic lifts my senses. I don’t need to see the boy to sing for him. I can hear his breathing and the wild hammering of his heart. I feel the pull of his life calling to Adela’s magic inside me. He doesn’t have to be scared. I clear my throat and begin my warm-up.
“Well, at least she sounds like an angel,” says the footman, as I ascend through the scales. “But is her magic strong? We don’t need a beautiful voice. We need power.”
“Give her a chance,” the queen urges, her smoky, regal voice cutting through the darkness.
I abandon the scales and begin the heat ballad. My song starts as a whisper. Madam and I have practiced this. I know that the temperature of a living boy is a delicate thing. If I sing too loudly, if I lose track of the melody, he will develop a fever or burns on his skin. I remember the bowl of milk Madam placed on her studio floor the first day she worked with me on the heat song. I bellowed out the words, and the liquid boiled to froth, spilling over the edges of the bowl like sea foam.
“Louder, dear, we can’t hear you,” the queen calls.
Madam Guillard steps onto the stage beside me and takes my hand. “You must do as your queen desires.” The corners of her mouth twitch down, and she winces as if in pain. She hums a low song and the chandelier dims, its fire quelled by her command. As a chantrix of elements, my tutor can direct the air. “Maybe Her Majesty will hear you better if she can see your lips.”
Spots of light dance in my vision. The queen and her footman flicker back into view. The guard stands beside the stage, holding the urchin with both arms. The boy does not look sleepy or comfortable. Hot tears mark tracks down his dirty cheeks. Scratches cover the guard’s burly forearms.
My chin starts to wobble.
“You will sing until Her Majesty begs you to stop. Else you will sing for your little dog instead,” the footman snaps.
I look at the boy with his tattered clothes, his skinny limbs and sorrowful eyes, then at my puppy, now awake and whimpering under the crook of Madam’s free arm. Nip’s small brown ears perk, and he wags his tail at me.
If I had been born without magic, if I had stayed at the city home, a lone orphan among many, it could have been me in this boy’s place. If I fail the queen’s test, if I am expelled, I might still share his fate.
Tears pool in my eyes, and dread curdles in my stomach, because I know what the right thing to do is, and I can’t do it.
I start to sing again. The queen sits back in her chair and smiles. I sing and sing as the boy screams and buckles to his knees, as his skin cracks and blisters, as boiling blood begins to stream from his nostrils, from his sweet, round mouth and too-large ears. I don’t look away. My voice does not waver.
After all, I have been well taught.
CHAPTER 1
CADENCE
I LIGHT THE CANDLES and hum as the prayer chimes begin. The heat from each candle propels a tiny wooden fan connected to an individual music box. The bronze bells inside the boxes each emit one note, played over and over. The ringing metal blends in a mechanical harmony. I close my eyes and lose myself in the simple, familiar tune. The incense tickles my nose with lavender.
The prayer songs are meant to be performed a cappella and in an ensemble beneath the open sky, where Adela can witness, but most of us perform them alone now. Elene doesn’t prohibit prayer to Adela, but such public displays of piety and shared song have fallen out of fashion now that our queen worships another.
The double doors to my suite fly open behind me, but I don’t turn around or open my eyes. Today is a day for chaos, for pain, and I will cherish this peace for as long as I can. I’ve been preparing for this day all year, and still, it’s come far too soon.
“It’s time to go.” Lacerde’s voice cuts through the melody. My maid leans over my shoulder and blows out the first of the candles. The propeller stops, and one of the shrill voices dies. The melody falters, incomplete.
She blows out the other candles, but I hum the rest of the song anyway. She begins styling my hair while I’m still on my knees. Her deft, wrinkled fingers sweep through my hair and braid a small section into a crown.
“Your dress is waiting for you at the Opera Hall,” she says, dabbing my cheeks with white powder. “There is a carriage waiting for us outside.”
I nod and rise slowly to my feet. My legs are numb from holding the position for so long, and despite the prayer, my soul feels heavy, too. Lacerde helps me into a black traveling cloak and ties the hood so it covers most of my face.
She bustles me down the hallway and out into the palace courtyard, where a black carriage stands. The horses are plain brown palfreys, not the showy white stallions Elene usually favors. Today I must pass through Cannis unnoticed. The sight of me, before the event, could provoke a riot.
The driver helps Lacerde into the carriage, but I ignore the hand he holds out for me. The echo of the prayer bells still chimes in my head, and I want to hold on to the song for as long as I can. As a corporeal mage, it’s hard for me to focus on the ethereal prayers. My magic yearns for life, and if I touch something alive now, after connecting with the goddess, it will well up of its own accord, eager.
Hopping back up into his seat, the driver clicks his tongue, and the palfreys set off at a canter. We pass through the rear gates of Cavalia, and the guards pause their game of Tam to salute us.
“Are you warm enough?” Lacerde asks. Without waiting for me to respond, she drapes a fur over my lap. The cold autumn air seeps through the gaps in the carriage door, making the small hairs of my arms stand up.