The power of that truth levels me, unbalances me. That he’s been trying to find me, just like I have him, although I never knew what I was looking for, or how much I missed him until this moment. Yet he’s missed me for so long. And now, for us to finally be here together, he has to be just as leveled and unbalanced as I am. It’s that knowledge that quiets my racing heart and calms my trembling hands, in spite of the monumental weight his words carry.
Everything he said is a fact. I believe it. Not just because of the red, winding imprint scintillating and secure on my wrist and arm, or the green electrical sparks that bridge our hearts when we touch. I believe it because looking at Etalon and seeing into his soul is like looking into my own. And I’m positive it’s the same for him.
I don’t have experience with romantic love, but this stretches beyond that. What I feel for him penetrates deeper than emotions or desire, deeper than tissue, bone, or marrow—an astounding, wondrous, and terrifying consumption of my entire being that is also somehow the summation of who I am.
Twin flames.
I settle the key atop my sweater as Diable and I reach the stairs’ end, ready to leave behind the hidden passage, along with my self-pity. I need to brainstorm how to get myself to Versailles in the morning. It’s time to end this curse that has darkened every corridor of my existence up till now, so I can make peace with who and what I truly am, and walk the halls of something new and bright—hand-in-hand with Etalon.
Cautious, I ease open the secret door. Diable and I creep into the grand foyer. In the deafening silence, the squeak of the mirror’s hinges seems to reach all the way to the spiraling ceiling, sending nervous shudders down my spine. I hold my breath. Hearing nothing in response, I shut the mirrored panel and tiptoe toward my dorm room with Diable jingling at my heels.
Moonlight traces the floor and bounces off the reflective walls—silvery-blue luminaries that paint my skin as I reach the Red Death phantom cutout standing beside the stairs. I stop there, remembering Etalon’s warning: You’re not safe up here. And his reaction at the rave club in the elevator . . . when he told me the Phantom couldn’t know I was gone, that his wrath would follow.
A chill drizzles down my spine. It’s the Phantom who’s a threat to us both. That’s what Etalon is afraid to say aloud. But why is he in danger, too, if they’re family? Maybe the same reason I’ve been in danger from mine. And somehow, it’s all tied to Dad’s violin.
The reminder of my trip to Versailles sets my nerves on edge even more.
In the recesses of my mind, the Phantom’s mesmerizing operatic performance at the club reawakens and unfurls, elemental and sylphlike. With Etalon’s guidance, I’d suppressed that bewitching song, but I didn’t kill it. Now, the heavenly notes compel me to reach toward the cutout’s deathly white, skeletal mask. At the instant of contact, an icy splash of dread begins at my fingertips and frosts my body, threatening to freeze the symphonic flames Etalon so masterfully stoked in my blood.
I jerk back. The Phantom’s voice fades, but I still feel it lingering at the back of my skull . . . cold, coiled, and waiting to strike again.
A sudden rustle alerts me to someone hidden in the shadows on the stairway behind the cutout. My heart pounds when Diable hisses at my feet. I’m afraid to budge, the hair on my neck stiffening.
An icy grip on my shoulder from behind makes me drop my tote and sends me twirling around to face a snake’s gaping mouth only inches from my nose. I yelp as Diable leaps up, claws digging into the olive scales. He knocks the serpent to the floor and a delicate clatter of metal pins follows.
“Fichu cat!” Madame Bouchard’s pinched and made-up face leans into the moonlight, ghastly as a specter. “What are you standing there for?” She snarls my direction. “Help me salvage Franco!”
I expel a relieved breath to find Diable’s victim is Bouchard’s latest dead-pet project. Serves her right for waving Franco in front of me. My guardian kitty will be getting an extra bowl of cream tomorrow.
I kneel beside the music teacher, hands shaking as I concentrate on gathering the pins she dropped.
“Oiseau chanteur,” she snips. “Imagine my surprise, to find you wandering the foyer an hour after lights-out. This should be enough to disqualify you from the role you won today.” There’s no missing the glee in her voice.
Dropping the pins into a plastic container, I debate saying something snarky to ensure I’m booted out now that Audrey has the part of understudy. But it’s possible the lead role would buoy back to Kat since auditions were less than twelve hours ago. I have to tough it out until dress rehearsals in the late spring, so Kat has no chance of reprisal.
“I—I was feeling nauseous. I just came back from the bathroom.” I drag my tote back into place on my shoulder, keeping my eyes averted, concerned they might still be aglow like Etalon’s were when I left the roof.