Beside me, Baron Gregor vomits into his lap. A second song? No. None of us will survive it.
But maybe this truly is the end, and at last, the queen has decided to execute us. Her force of justicars and militia grows stronger by the day. Maybe she doesn’t need us anymore to govern the provinces and smooth over trade deals. I scan the rows more urgently for Papa. If we’re to die, I have to say goodbye.
From her knees, Cadence begins another song: a soft tune, instead of belted soprano notes. I can barely hear her over the panicked voices, but the pain in my feet abruptly stops. As I stare at my soles, the blood seeps back into my pores, the blisters heal and then fade entirely. My skin turns pink and plump once more.
But the pain in my heart lingers, beyond the reach of any song.
The baron sobs into his arms. He rocks back and forth as his back shakes. “Thank you, thank you,” he repeats over and over again.
Others around us begin to chant their thanks as well. Praise be to our most gracious, merciful queen, who has healed us, who has reminded us once again of our place, who keeps our country safe. I pull my crumpled riding cloak from under my seat and wrap it around my shoulders. How can they thank her? The queen is a monster, with a menagerie of torturers at her beck and call.
I bite my lip. I won’t say those words. I will never, ever say them.
CHAPTER 3
CADENCE
WHEN I RETURN TO my dressing room, there are so many flowers piled up that I can’t see the floor. Brilliant topaz orchids, tulips of every shade, and roses red as blood create a lush, living carpet. With such a display, I can almost trick myself into believing that tonight was an ordinary concert. Almost.
I sink into the chair in front of my dresser and cradle a bouquet of fresh roses against my chest. Flowers can’t make up for the sounds I heard from the stage, the smells that filled the air. In my head, the screams and the scrambling of feet echo, so loud, even over the music the orchestra played to drown them out. I sniff the bouquet. It has a strange aroma—a little bit too sweet, a little bit too perfect—magic grown.
I thrust the flowers aside and scoop Nip up from his makeshift bed of lilies. He didn’t ride in the carriage with us, so Lacerde must have fetched him during the Performing, knowing I would need him after. He whines as I lift him, but a gentle cantabile has him fully alert with his tail wagging. Even full grown, he’s small enough to fit easily on my lap.
Sometimes I feel guilty about singing to him. Nip is the only family I have left, and I sing to him so often, it’s hard to know which of his reactions are genuine. I stroke his fur, and he licks the back of my hand.
Someone knocks on the door, and then Lacerde sweeps into the room, shoving the flowers hastily aside with her foot.
“The queen is very pleased. She says how magnificent you were tonight. Beautiful and elegant and terrible,” Lacerde says, her voice flat and tired. Her skin is ash gray and her eyes rimmed with red.
She pulls a stool from the corner of the room and sits behind me to take the pins from my hair. Now that I see myself in a mirror, I don’t think I look beautiful or elegant. Terrible is more accurate. My eyes water with barely constrained tears. My blond hair is plastered to the edges of my face with sweat. My skirt is covered with dust from when I fell to my knees onstage.
But beauty was not the purpose of tonight. I practiced the healing song endlessly, spending hours with the choirmaster in the library, mastering its rhythms so I could erase every trace of the magic burns. Every note had been faultless, the rhythm syncopated to precision, but I doubt anyone in the audience really cared about that. No one had limped back to their seats, and that was applause enough.
Lacerde takes Nip and places him back on his little bed. She half lifts me out of the chair by my hips. I stand and brace myself against the wall. The corset is so tight my entire torso feels numb. Lacerde grunts and clucks as she undoes the laces. I suck in deep, fragrant breaths as my stomach muscles relax into their new space.
I raise my arms, and she lifts my heavy dress over my head. The shock of the room’s cold air makes me shiver in my simple linen shift, but Lacerde quickly swathes me in a thick velvet dressing gown. She’ll never allow me to get too cold. If I become ill and can’t sing, Elene will blame her. We both know how that will end.
“The queen wants to visit with you tonight. She’s having a meal prepared in the Opera kitchens. She thought you might be tired after this afternoon and would like to eat something before returning to the palace. She and Dame Ava always used to feast together on Performing days,” Lacerde says.
“Shall I go over?”
“Her Majesty will fetch you.”
She begins bustling around the room, transferring the flowers into neat piles so that they will be out of the way for the queen’s arrival. I hum the coda of a heat song. The bundle of roses in Lacerde’s arms glows and then turns to ash.
A laugh rises almost like a sob in my throat. It feels good to use my magic for fun, even if I can only do it here, with only Lacerde to witness.
“Goddess’s bones!” she curses, but her eyes dance. “Take it back!”
I shrug, even though a small smile tugs at my lips. “I can’t. Not enough life matter left.”
It’s a lie. Even though Elene doesn’t allow me to devote a lot of time to practicing with plants, I can manage a simple rejuvenation spell. But despite how long we’ve been together, Lacerde has never taken an interest in the limits of my magic.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
Another soft knock at the door. Lacerde brushes past me, stepping on my toes. I yelp and fix her with a glare. She’s not even subtle about her revenge.
She opens the door and drops into a low curtsy. I stay put in my chair as Elene enters, though my legs bounce nervously under the dressing table. Elene is carrying a white kitten against her bosom. A pink satin bow circles its neck, meant to be endearing, but all I can think of is a pretty hangman’s noose. Her gaze falls on me, and her lips press together. I swallow and sink off my chair into a curtsy.
Elene thrusts the kitten into my arms. It meows plaintively and swats at a tendril of my hair with its tiny, white paw. It’s all I can do not to push it away, and I force myself to murmur thanks.
She never gives me true presents. Elene will use this creature as she did the last—as a motivator for my obedience. A few years ago, she had my calico drowned when I refused to sing a heart song outside the home of a minister who had dared to question her. In the end, he met an ugly death at the hands of a singer less skilled and more vicious as Elene made me watch. It would have been a mercy if I had obeyed and made him pass peacefully in his sleep, his heart simply frozen in his chest.
Afterward, she took me for a drive and brought me to the Expelled settlement for the first time. Elene didn’t threaten me directly—she never does—but she didn’t need to. Elene always gets what she wants. Refuse her, and she will find a way to make things worse.
I’m valuable to her, but even I will only get so many chances.
Elene scowls when she sees the pile of ash. “What happened here?”
“Just a little accident,” Lacerde murmurs, and I feel guilty for putting her in the path of Elene’s ire.
But as Elene’s frown deepens, cold fear tightens like a garrote around my throat. The ease I’d felt just a moment ago, alone with Lacerde, vanishes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ll clean it up.”