Elene holds up her free hand for silence. Each of her nails is painted to match her mask, with a singer’s-green base and tiny purple gemstones. She sings a line from a song I know well. Her voice is dissonant and hoarse, but there is still magic in the discord of notes.
As she sings, the ash gathers in a cyclone, the little tornado spitting petals, stems, and thorns. Lacerde gasps as a pile of fresh roses falls at her feet.
Elene steps around her creation and extends her hand to me. “Shall we dine, pet?” she asks, her voice a low, dangerous purr.
* * *
The Opera kitchens have prepared a feast for us, but my appetite withers under Elene’s stare. The table is dressed in the old court style with more forks and knives than we can possibly use, napkins folded to look like peacocks to match Elene’s gown. I wonder how long the Opera Hall staff have been planning every detail of this day. Even though they only open a few days of the year now, the theater still employs a full complement of attendants and servants.
I select the smallest spoon so my bites will look bigger, and dip it into the coriander soup. I make a show of each mouthful, nodding and forcing myself to smile, even though the soup leaves a bitter film on my tongue.
But when the steward brings out the second course, a juicy fillet of roasted duck with dark, red plum sauce, I gag. The smell of burning human flesh is seared into my memory, all too similar to the crisp skin of the duck breast.
Elene takes a few bites, then waves the steward away. She shakes her head at me. “I shouldn’t have put the Opera Hall through all this trouble. It’s wasted on you. Dame Ava loved our meals together.”
I take a half-hearted sip of wine, hoping it might console her. Then I imagine the Opera chefs scraping the plates after we have left, consigning our lavish meal to the trash. Fine kitchens like this never give the scraps to the beggars outside, since doing so would only encourage them to come back. So much waste when there are so many hungry in Cannis. I bring the spoon to my lips again, but as I open my mouth, my stomach heaves. I push the bowl aside.
“This was meant to be a treat.” Elene frowns and points to the door. “Go, then. You don’t appreciate it, and your sourness will spoil the food. I will dine alone.”
Without waiting to be told again, I leap up and bolt.
A new carriage waits for me behind the Opera Hall. Our driver from before is nowhere to be seen, and my usual coachman, Lacerde’s gangly nephew Thomas, holds the door open. He takes my hand to help me up the step.
When I sit down, I find Lacerde already inside, darning one of my stockings. She barely glances up from her needle as I enter. “You didn’t eat, did you?”
“I wasn’t hungry. And she doesn’t listen to me. There was duck for the second course.”
As a corporeal singer, my senses are attuned to things that have been alive. Even on days when I haven’t just Performed, when a meat dish is put in front of me, all I can think about is what it once was. If the animal died scared or in pain, I can sense it by the texture and smell of the meat. As a mage, Elene ought to understand.
Lacerde heaves a sigh. She sets her sewing aside and reaches over to pat my hand. “You did what you had to tonight. Refusing outright wouldn’t have helped anyone.”
She’s right, in a way. While Dame Ava has a flair for showmanship, her magic isn’t strong enough to perform two songs in succession on so many people. Had Ava sung the burning song, she wouldn’t have been able to heal the audience afterward.
I turn my face to the window, tears blurring my vision. Knowing that doesn’t make what I had to do any better.
Thomas clucks his tongue at the horses, and they spring into a lively trot.
Via the direct road, the palace is a short drive from the Opera Hall. I would prefer to walk, to bask in the night air, blissfully alone, but I’m still wearing my dressing gown, and the wind outside is bitter. Besides, too many noble folk will stay the night in Cannis before traveling home. I could feel their hatred through my songs. If they could, they would have tossed it at me like a set of throwing knives.
I don’t know how to dispel or subdue a crowd like the justicars do. Elene hasn’t made it part of my training. I need time and stillness to concentrate, and I’m so used to scripted rehearsals that if ten people were to run at me, my voice might get trapped in my throat. They could rip me apart like a doll. I may be a mage, but I’m only one person.
The horses break into a canter, and we rattle down the boulevard. Merchant carts and stalls stand outside the Opera Hall, stationed to lure the nobles leaving the Performing. I think that they probably won’t make much profit today. Folk won’t want to linger in the theater’s shadow.
Catching sight of the white horses and the queen’s insignia on the carriage door, the merchants drop to their knees in the street, caps in hand. I draw my dressing gown tighter around my shoulders. If they knew that Elene’s new principal singer rode in the carriage, instead of the queen herself, would they still show so much respect?
Whatever they think about Elene in the secret recesses of their hearts, no one dares express it for fear of her spies. But what folk say about Dame Ava, I know. They call her a torturer, a demoness. They say that Adela will turn her back on Ava because she’s made a mockery of her divine gift. Will they whisper the same things about me now?
A white woman jogs up to the carriage, a toddler balanced on her hip. A tattered red dress hangs askance on her shoulders, exposing alabaster skin pimpled with cold. She smells very faintly of orange blossoms; magic that still clings to her skin, like an old friend convinced of an impossible reunion. I’m surprised by her daring, but she must smell my magic as well and know that I am not the queen, or she wouldn’t approach this carriage. To the trained nose, the scent of our magic is a signature we cannot hide, no matter how much perfume we wear.
She says nothing but raises the child so we can get a better look. His arms are so slender.
Lacerde cranks open the window as Thomas slows the carriage. I nod to her, then shrink back, out of the beam of light cast by the streetlamps. She deposits a farthing coin—the largest amount we can give to any Expelled under the law—into the woman’s outstretched fingers. The light is dim, but I could swear that the woman slips a piece of paper into Lacerde’s fingers in return. But without missing a stitch, my maid returns to her sewing.
“There,” she breathes after a moment, and holds up my stocking. “Good as new.”
She doesn’t have to fix them. Elene pays her a handsome wage and gives her an extra allowance to buy items for me. But we’re the same: Both of us are from the streets, and neither of us sees the sense in paying good coin to replace something that can so easily be repaired.
When we reach the palace, the guards wave us through the gates with barely a glance. Thomas pulls up in the courtyard. Lacerde stuffs her sewing kit and my stockings into a leather satchel, then wrenches open the carriage door. We jump down and head inside.
“Shall I bring some porridge and tea to your room?” she asks. “I haven’t eaten yet, either.”
“No,” I say, and feel a stab of guilt at the disappointment in her eyes. I enjoy our quiet time together, too. We can spend a whole evening eating apple porridge and reading together. “Sister Elizabeta is expecting me.”