The second figure, a girl, surprises me. The queen has always employed the same chantrix for the Performing: a fire-haired mage named Ava who wore her advancing age like a carefully chosen accessory. This girl looks much younger, and she stands hunched, wringing her hands. She presses against the rear curtain as if looking for the first chance to run. She stares into the crowd with wide eyes that never stop moving.
“She looks ready to faint,” Baron Foutain whispers. “Do you think that if the principal were to expire onstage, they’d just forget the whole thing and send us home?”
“Maybe we can sneak out in the shuffle,” I say. “Climb the balcony, steal the mage pins off some of those stewards, and bribe our way to freedom.”
“I like it.” The baron nods, his hazel eyes twinkling. He weighs his purse in his hand. “I’ve got a few coins to throw at this endeavor.”
Lord Durand takes center stage and clears his throat. “Esteemed guests, on behalf of Her Majesty, I am humbled to present a new talent to you this evening. Our most gifted corporeal singer, and a delightful, exuberant mezzo-soprano.”
He sweeps a low bow, but when he lifts his head, he’s smirking. The theatrics of all this make me sick. I fish another lemon drop out of my pouch.
Still, the audience applauds politely. The queen will be here somewhere, watching the proceedings from behind the stage or concealed in one of the dark private viewing boxes above us. No one wants to be seen resisting.
Though we know she watches us, the queen remains out of sight. There have been too many assassination attempts. A few years ago, a knight came into the theater armed with a musket. Just last year, a group of commoners tried to break down the rear doors to free a sobbing violinist who hadn’t wanted to be part of the Performing.
The queen executed all of them.
Durand beckons the new singer forward, and she creeps to him like a timid barn cat. There’s something I recognize about the shape of her nose, the curve of her pink rosebud mouth. She’s pretty, but in a fragile way, like a pressed flower petal in the pages of a book. She’s thin and white, with ivory skin and long blond hair styled into a sort of tiara. A green gown clings to her frame, her waist cinched by a shimmering corset inlaid with emeralds.
I’m sure that I’ve seen her before, though I can’t think where. We haven’t been near the mages’ academy or the palace for years.
Durand pushes the singer into the light. “Chantrix Cadence de la Roix,” he says, and I nearly choke on the lemon drop. “The jewel of Her Majesty’s academy, ready for her first season.”
I start to cough, but the baron isn’t paying attention to me anymore. Cadence de la Roix. I know that name.
When Queen Celeste ruled, my parents often took me to court. While they met with the ministers and dined with the queen, I wandered the palace halls alone. Back then, neither of my parents ever worried about my safety. The palace swarmed with guards and mages, and at the time, no one suspected that they might turn on us.
On one of my adventures to the mages’ wing, I met a girl. We soon became best friends, inseparable. We played games in the empty studios, ran through the palace’s vast gardens, and stayed up late almost every night, whispering stories by the fireplace in the great library.
I remember sitting with her above the gallery during one of the old queen’s lavish balls. Queen Celeste was making an address to the attendees as Cadence stared down at the party, at my parents and all their friends, with a mixture of wonder and envy. Once she passed her exams, her position would be secure, but even then, her life would belong to the crown. She had nothing, and in the old queen’s days, even fully trained mages were poor civil servants. Cadence would never earn enough to dress in silks and dance beneath the starlit glass ceiling of the ballroom. We were told that this was the order, the hierarchy the goddesses demanded when they destined our births.
As we watched the party below us, I squeezed her clammy fingers and promised her that when I became a lady, we would go to balls together. I imagined us out on the floor, dancing and laughing, the envy of everyone.
I thought it would be so simple to ask a girl to dance.
Year after year, I found her when we visited the court, until one day, she simply vanished, as if swallowed up by the palace’s labyrinthine halls. I cried my eyes out, but Mama told me to be happy for her. Without a patron, Cadence would be bound by debt to the academy, forced to pay the school from her earnings over her lifetime.
We never returned to the palace after that season. Right after Cadence disappeared, the new queen dismissed her old ministers, ended the banquets, dances, and functions of the court, and the war began.
In the years since, I’ve thought about her all the time. I’ve wondered if she was safe, if someone else was sneaking her sugarplums and almond cakes from the confectioners, if she was happy.
Lord Durand leans over and whispers something in Cadence’s ear. Her face flushes. She looks ready to scream. But as Lord Durand steps back, she gulps down a breath, and her expression relaxes. She dips her head and curtsies to the audience.
The baron reaches over and pats my arm, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Cadence’s face. Is she really going to do this? She used to be a good person. I remember her kneeling in a bed of snowdrops, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink with cold. Her dog had gotten a thorn stuck in his paw as we’d chased each other through the gardens. She’d hummed a healing song for him, so soft I could hardly hear, and cradled him against her chest. Then she begged me to tell no one, lest her tutors find out she was practicing magic out of class.
She needn’t have asked. Back then, I never would have betrayed her secrets. I’d have done anything for her.
I’ve always imagined her living at a quiet country hospital somewhere, nurturing the sick—far away from the war and Cannis. And all this time, she’s been here, training to become a monster.
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
Cadence lifts her chin and begins her song. We all brace ourselves against the enchanting, beguiling sound. Dame Ava was a powerful singer, but her voice wasn’t beautiful. Not like this. The sound seems to fill the entire Opera Hall, and at first, I feel nothing but the soaring beauty of the notes and a deep, aching sadness for the girl who sings them.
Then my feet start to burn.
It’s as if the wooden floor has caught fire. Screams begin all around me. I let go of the baron’s hand, lift my feet and claw off my shoes. Clear blisters form on my soles, bursting, and still the heat intensifies. My heels crack and start to bleed. Panic seizes me. My skin is going to dissolve; it will melt clean away and leave nothing but exposed sinew and bone behind.
People in the rows around me scramble, trying to flee on their hands and knees. They climb over seats and rush toward the doors. I need to get out. The doors from the hall will be barred from the outside, but if we all push together, surely, even mageglass can’t hold.
Where is Papa? If I escape, I can’t leave him behind.
But before I can run, the song ends.
The screams do not.
Onstage, Cadence falls to her knees. From exhaustion or regret, it’s impossible to know. The pain in my feet makes my head swim. A small whimper escapes my lips.
I hate her for her terrible strength.
I hate her for her weakness.
Above the moans and sobs, Lord Durand projects his voice. “Due to the power of today’s chantrix, Her Majesty is pleased to offer you a second demonstration.”