Sing Me Forgotten by Jessica S. Olson

Author:Jessica S. Olson [Olson, Jessica S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781488076237
Google: jfTbDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Inkyard Press
Published: 2021-03-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

I’m stitching the finishing touches into the mask I plan to wear to the masquerade tomorrow night when Emeric shows up. The shows are taxing on his voice, so we’ve taken to spending the evenings playing Chasseur et Chassé and laughing about the ridiculous things some of the dancers have said to him backstage instead of continuing the vocal instruction. Tonight, he enters my crypt talking animatedly about something one of the papers printed about him when he sees the white, lacy mask in my hands and stops short.

“What is that?”

I set aside my needle and thread and the crystals I was sewing into the lace. “A mask.”

“Well, yes, but what is it for?” He dodges past me to inspect it, but I shove in front of him.

“The masquerade ball.”

He laughs. “You can’t possibly be—” When his eyes meet mine, his mirth fades. “You’re going?”

“Of course I’m going,” I snap. “They may be celebrating your performance, but who taught you? I deserve to go to that party as much as any of those dolts you share the stage with.”

“It’s not about ‘deserving’ to go.”

I cross my arms. “Then, pray tell, what is it about?”

“It’s about the fact that you’re—” His voice cuts off as his gaze trails over the curves of my mask.

“Oh, so this is about my face, is it?” I know I’m being petty, but I don’t care.

“Of course not.”

“I’ll be wearing a mask just like everyone else. No one will look twice at me.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

I turn away to tidy the sheet music scattered around my room. The paper crinkles as I slam the stack against the top of my organ to straighten it. “It’s only dangerous if I’m not careful.”

Emeric doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is measured and quiet. “Why, Is? It’s only a party.”

I whirl, accidentally knocking my stack onto the floor. The sheets of paper flutter around my skirt like dead leaves. “I’ve lived my life in the shadows, Emeric. I’ve watched their parties, envied their pretty hair and their pretty dresses and their pretty faces. I’ve imagined what it would feel like to dance on the arm of a handsome man in a tuxedo.” I pause, voice quavering. “Is that my fate? To always watch and envy and imagine?”

His Adam’s apple bobs.

“When is it my turn?” I ask. “When do I get to step out of the shadows and live?”

When he still says nothing, I sigh and drop to my knees to gather the fallen pages. After a moment, he joins me on the floor, pulling the loose papers into a bundle in his arms. I reach for them, and he holds them out toward me but does not let go when I try to take them.

I glance up to his face and meet a passionate, wild-eyed stare. “You’re not a fendoir,” he says quietly.

“What?” My stomach spasms. I yank the stack from him and arrange it atop my own pile. “Of course I am.”

He continues as though I did not speak.

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