Girls of Dark Divine
Author: E. V. Woods
Date: 2025-08-05 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Phantom of the Opera meets Black Swan in this breathtakingly gorgeous gothic fantasy about love and control that will never let you go. A group of hauntingly beautiful girls have been bound together by a cruel curse—and one of them will go to any lengths to save them from their violent dance. In the legendary ballet theatre of New Kora, the girls onstage enchant the audience each night with their grace and divine beauty. Before Emberlyn was the star of the show, it was her dream to become one of them . . . until she learned the price of their living nightmare. A magical curse binds the girls t
Publisher: Random House Children's Books

Delacorte Press

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Text copyright © 2025 by E. V. Woods

Cover art copyright © 2025 by Tomasz Majewski

Map illustration copyright © 2025 by Jensine Eckwall

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Editor: Kelsey Horton

Cover Designer: Trisha Previte

Interior Designer: Michelle Canoni, adapted for ebook

Copy Editor: Colleen Fellingham

Managing Editor: Tamar Schwartz

Production Manager: Tim Terhune

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

Hardcover ISBN 9780593812105

Library Binding ISBN 9780593812112

Ebook ISBN 9780593812129

International Edition ISBN 9798217116805

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Contents

Dedication

Map

Act One

Chapter One: An Inconvenient Death

Chapter Two: A Midnight Burial

Chapter Three: The Dance of the Marionettes

Chapter Four: The Beautiful Doomed

Chapter Five: A Letter from Parlizia

Chapter Six: The Cursing of Grace Wheeler

Chapter Seven: A Ballroom of Broken Dreams

Act Two

Chapter Eight: Her Hateful Gaze

Chapter Nine: Violent Smile

Chapter Ten: Broken Reflection

Chapter Eleven: To Be Seen and Unseen

Chapter Twelve: Fatal Illusion

Chapter Thirteen: The Boy in the Shadows

Chapter Fourteen: The First Fall of Faust

Chapter Fifteen: A New Doll to Play With

Chapter Sixteen: The Watching Shadows Be Damned

Chapter Seventeen: A Girl in the Dark

Chapter Eighteen: The Touch of a Phantom

Chapter Nineteen: The Unfurling of Secrets

Chapter Twenty: A Dance with Darkness

Chapter Twenty-One: Shadows upon Shadows

Chapter Twenty-Two: Star to Star

Chapter Twenty-Three: Run

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Malice of Gathered Girls

Chapter Twenty-Five: To Dance Again

Chapter Twenty-Six: One Perfect Moment

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Puppet Master

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Untangling

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Taste of Freedom

Act Three

Chapter Thirty: The Beginning of the Close

Chapter Thirty-One: Follow Me into the Fire

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Final Sacrifice

Chapter Thirty-Three: Home

Chapter Thirty-Four: Fools That Will Laugh on Earth Must Weep in Hell

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Curtain Falls

Epilogue: The Opening Act

Acknowledgments

About the Author

_152578891_

To Mum

Act One

One

An Inconvenient Death

A strange, held-breath hush had fallen through the dusty corridors beneath the theater. Thick as the shadows that haunted this place, the silence had swollen until the solemn, watching walls could no longer contain it.

Until the screams began.

Emberlyn whipped her head up as the shrieks pierced the air, cutting apart the silence of the dormitory. She grabbed the pile of maps spread open on her bed and stuffed them beneath her mattress, leaping to her feet to tear open the door and peer out into the yawning corridor beyond. The low light emanating from the sconces shuddered as if disturbed by the noise, pirouetting through the dark. Emberlyn’s blood thundered in her ears as the screams turned into echoing howls of agony.

Suddenly, there came the pounding of footsteps. Emberlyn stared as a pale figure in white appeared at the end of the corridor.

Jia. The youngest of the Marionettes raced toward her with tears shining on her cheeks.

“Emberlyn!” Jia cried.

“What’s wrong? Why are they screaming?”

“It’s Heather.”

The breath caught in Emberlyn’s throat. Instantly, every semblance of frustration evaporated. Her vision spun as she stepped into the corridor and allowed Jia to grab her hand.

“Take me to her,” Emberlyn urged.

The scent of dust and melting wax felt thick in her throat as the pair ran through the darkness. When they neared the common room, she picked out the sounds of her sisters. The shrieks had faded to a scattered, bitter sobbing, punctuated with a low moan.

She could feel the absence of Heather’s honeyed voice like a weight in her stomach.

Five pairs of eyes turned to blink at Emberlyn as she and Jia burst into the room. A group of her sisters, the Marionettes, stood in the common room around a figure curled into a fetal position at their feet. Heather’s pale blue nightgown was splayed out around her, coated in a fine layer of silver dust from the floorboards. The fire in the hearth raged, but Emberlyn felt no warmth as she took in the other Marionettes’ faces, twisted into grimaces of grief.

Rosalyn and Miriam stared at the floor, eyes averted from their dead sister. Anushka had her arms wrapped around Ida, who had buried herself inside Anushka’s thick mane of dark hair, her shoulders heaving with unrestrained sobs.

Then the smell hit Emberlyn, and she staggered back.

The smell of a Marionette’s curse—the rot that had destroyed the girl on the floor from the inside out, escaping her body. Acidic. Sour. Like old vegetables soaked in vinegar, with an undertone of something so much worse. A cold cemetery at night. A coffin opening after a hundred years nailed shut.

Emberlyn covered her mouth, her throat tightening and protesting. Her mind spun as she fought the writhing in her stomach and steadied herself.

“She just dropped.” Anushka’s voice trembled, coming out husky and strangled. “She said she felt strange, stood up a-a-and just…dropped.” She shook her head as Ida let out another muffled cry into her neck.

Grief made a grab for Emberlyn’s heart, but it didn’t get far before it slammed into a wall of ice that doused the embers before they could take hold. She had to embody unwavering fortitude as her sisters fractured around her. As the longest-suffering Marionette, she had to be strong for them. But as she looked down at the crumpled, motionless body before her, Emberlyn couldn’t help herself.

She thought of Esme. The very first of the Marionettes, and the only one of them to die from their curse. Until now.

She remembered how Esme had also suddenly dropped, disintegrating before her eyes as the darkness stole the final breaths from a chest that silently stilled. She remembered the cavernous, gaping feeling of her fragile world splitting in two as she’d clutched the dying hand of the one who had guided her through this cruel existence. It had slowly grown colder in her own burning grasp.

The before and after. The girl who loved her and the first body she buried. She had so dearly hoped it would be the last.

Emberlyn scanned the room. She found Aleida curled up in the armchair beside the fireplace, arms wrapped around her knees, leaning away from the heap on the floor as the shimmer of flames gently kissed along her brown skin. Her thick, dark hair was thrown over one shoulder in a disheveled braid that looked as if she had frantically run her hands through it. Her dark eyes flicked up to meet Emberlyn’s.

They were haunted with the same memories as history repeated itself in front of them.

Emberlyn broke her gaze from Aleida’s and stepped forward, dropping to her knees beside Heather. She braced herself against the smell, gritting her teeth against the images it dredged up from the back of her mind. The ones she’d spent every moment since pushing away, hopelessly and desperately trying to forget. She reached out and ran her fingers through the honey-gold hair that twisted across the floor like dead snakes. She pushed the locks away from Heather’s face.

Miriam let out a scream and tore from the room, her howls echoing down the corridor. Emberlyn cringed but focused her attention on the body of her sister.

Heather looked as if she had been dead for a year rather than a minute. Her lips had peeled away, revealing bared teeth and a blackened, swollen tongue that lolled grotesquely out of the corner of her mouth. Crusted eyes stared up at nothing, all traces of their usual light gone. Her skin had stretched and was straining over protruding cheekbones, her veins a crisscross of black inside her paper-thin, almost translucently white skin. Emberlyn picked up Heather’s hand and squeezed the cold palm against her own.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. Emberlyn leaped to her feet as the Marionettes scrambled into the spaces farthest away from the door, forming a strange mourning line behind the body of their sister. They brushed down their skirts, scrubbed the tears from their faces, and clasped their hands behind their backs, gazes cast to the floor. Emberlyn tipped up her chin and trained her glare on the shadowed doorway, listening with a thundering heart as the footsteps grew louder. Closer.

The Marionettes held their breath as the Puppet Master entered their common room.

“What’s all—? Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

Malcolm Manrow wrinkled his nose as he paused on the threshold, his commanding frame filling the space. His hand went to his breast pocket, from which he pulled a gold-embroidered handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, brows furrowing in frustration. When his eyes flicked to the lifeless figure on the floor, his mouth pursed under his neat mustache.

Some might think of Malcolm Manrow as handsome. Some desired to be on the receiving end of the disarming smile that often lit up his eyes, to bask in the gleam of his perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. It was true, he could be endlessly charming when he wanted to be. When he wanted people to believe things about him that were simply not true. But to Emberlyn—to the rest of the Marionettes—he was hideous. He was a monstrous Puppet Master who controlled their invisible strings.

Malcolm rested his thumb inside his ornately patterned cummerbund and sighed.

“Another one? This is incredibly inconvenient.” His voice was like ice: slippery, hard. Cold. Malcolm looked at Heather a moment longer, shaking his head in irritation before his eyes flicked up to the rest of the Marionettes. He regarded them steadily for a moment. Their shoulders drooped and breaths stilted as if they didn’t dare make a noise without his permission. He shook his head again, exasperated. “I’ll have to waste time looking for someone to take her place now.”

Emberlyn sucked in a breath at his words. Malcolm’s gaze fell to her at the sound. She froze but met his eyes with an ugly glare of her own.

He turned away, nonplussed, and strode toward the Marionettes as he replaced his handkerchief in his breast pocket, sniffing the air cautiously. They shrank away as he neared, including Emberlyn, despite the rage dancing in her heart. Malcolm stopped next to Heather, his frown deepening as his hands twitched over her, as if testing his connection to her. He cocked his head as if in consideration before he leaned down and grabbed her chin, aiming her slowly crumbling face toward himself.

“Don’t touch her!” Emberlyn cried in horror, stepping forward before she knew what she was doing. Several of her sisters’ arms flung out to stop her. But when Malcolm looked up at her, fear shot through her heart and she stopped. As his gaze hardened, she bowed her head to stare at the floor, heat rushing to her face.

She could feel Malcolm’s unfaltering gaze still fixed on her. The dormitory filled with a stifled, silent kind of panic as the Marionettes stared between her and Malcolm. As they steeled themselves for what was to come.

Suddenly, he straightened and strode toward Emberlyn, stepping over Heather’s body as he approached. A sharp coldness flooded her veins as she whipped her head up to meet narrowing, bloodshot eyes that spoke of countless nights wrapped in a haze of alcohol fumes. She stumbled away as the Marionettes clustered tightly to her, though they all knew that truly, they would be helpless to defend her.

Malcolm didn’t stop until his clothes grazed Emberlyn’s fingertips, her hands stretched out in defense, eyes darting as she sought an escape. Against her will, Emberlyn’s head snapped to face Malcolm. The thing that killed Heather—the curse that raced through the Marionettes’ veins and forced them to obey their Puppet Master—flared to life. She hissed but glued her eyes to the ground, heart pounding as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her face.

“Look at me,” he commanded. Emberlyn’s eyes instantly snapped up to meet his. “You know what to do, don’t you?” he asked, his voice calm.

Emberlyn swallowed, and the curse loosened just enough to allow her to nod, her body shaking in his grip. Malcolm considered her for a moment longer, watching the tears of fear budding in the corners of her eyes with a sick kind of pleasure. Finally, he smiled. That same smile he used to get his way in the world. The one that made ladies swoon and Emberlyn’s throat fill with bile.

She hated him. Hated the ugly beast beneath his surface. She wished the world could see him now. She wished they all knew who he really was.

“Good. I trust you to take care of this.”

He released Emberlyn’s chin, but before she could breathe a sigh of relief, he reached up and traced his thumb over the bump of her cheekbone, wiping away her tears.

“I’m glad it wasn’t my lead Marionette. My fiery Emberlyn.”

Emberlyn was sure he could feel the erratic thudding of her heart as he regarded her. She knew he could hear it and was reveling in the sound. Basking in her fear. The power of his control.

Suddenly, he turned, dropping his hand so quickly that Emberlyn flinched and let out a small whimper. Aleida instantly pressed against her side, grabbing her arm as Malcolm began to stride toward the doorway.

“I need time to work out the logistics of tomorrow’s performance,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s going to be a travesty with one Marionette down. Not to mention I have to start thinking about making audition arrangements now. You girls will be the death of me, I swear. Oh.” Malcolm paused on the threshold, half his body bathed in the shadows of the corridor and half ablaze with the flickering light of the common room. He turned to shoot them all one last charming smile. “And, girls? Make sure you don’t get caught.”

The girls stood in silence in the wake of his exit with nothing but the hush of their breaths to break the quiet. Emberlyn screwed her hands into fists to stop the shaking.

She wondered if she would ever make it out of here alive, or if she, too, would one day be the girl lying in the dust at her sisters’ feet.

Two

A Midnight Burial

“It’s time to go,” Emberlyn announced to the aching dormitory after hours pretending Heather’s body wasn’t lying only steps from her feet.

She had waited for darkness to swallow the city before commanding the Marionettes to dress in their travel cloaks, hoods up so their faces became no more than mere suggestions within shadows. They were silent. The time for tears had passed as they settled into a numb shock. As they prepared for what they were about to do.

With a lantern clutched in her hand, Emberlyn led the Marionettes up the stone steps to the back door of Manrow Theater, coaxing open the bolts so it swung silently inward. She stepped into the night first, eyes darting up and down the alleyway for figures concealed in the shadows.

Even at midnight, New Kora wasn’t asleep. The faint growl of motorcar engines and the trundle of wheels against damp pavement rumbled through the city, tangling with the shouts and laughter of drunken voices. The electric glow of the Theatre District bled into the sky before giving way to a thick, starry night, where the shine of the moon took over. There was a bite in the air as the summer warmth shrank back from the bared teeth of autumn.

Emberlyn gestured, and the Marionettes tiptoed out after her. Rosalyn and Miriam clutched their dead sister between them, supporting her so she appeared to be standing. They stared ahead, refusing to look at Heather, or each other, as if that might make the task easier.

Emberlyn took in the parts of her sisters’ nervous expressions that weren’t concealed in shadows—the glint of a watering eye, the tremble of a bottom lip. Her eyes went to Aleida, and she looked at her for a beat longer than the others, drawing strength from her steady gaze. The tension in Emberlyn’s stomach uncoiled ever so slightly when Aleida gave her a slight nod.

“We’re going to head for Chord Park,” Emberlyn said firmly, looking at each of her six sisters in turn, refusing to allow her eyes to fall onto the limp seventh. They stood stoic and silent as they listened. “As soon as we leave this alley, we’ll be on the Theatre District’s main street, and we will be seen. So walk quickly, but don’t run, and don’t let them get a clear look at your face. Keep your hoods up and the spades concealed. Miriam, Rosalyn.” They shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Heather’s body. “Let me know if you need a break. She needs to remain upright.”

Their hooded heads twitched as they nodded.

Emberlyn turned, gazing down the alleyway, out into the light of the Theatre District at its mouth. The soft crease where her neck met her collarbone shivered with her fluttering heartbeat. The cool night breeze mingling with the stale air of the alleyway tightened her throat. She swallowed, nodded, and glanced again at the Marionettes.

“Let’s go,” Emberlyn said, and the Marionettes hurried off into the night.

Three Marionettes dug as the others stood over Heather’s body, keeping a strange vigil with the glow of a kerosene lamp flickering between them. The trees were cast into gnarled shadows with reaching claws where the light didn’t reach.

Emberlyn didn’t know what they would do if they were discovered, but she kept a silent watch while her sisters worked, because it was better to watch doom approaching than let it sneak up behind them. Jia cried silently, pearlescent tears on her cheeks.

Chord Park was a green belt nestled several streets over from the Theatre District like a moldy wound slashed into the city. They had reached it without attracting problematic attention. Raised eyebrows had been shot in their direction, and one or two people had stopped to stare at the curious group of hooded figures walking with enough speed to make their cloaks billow out behind them, but nobody approached. If anybody thought the hunched figure was unusual, its feet dragging along the pavement and clutched in the arms of two cloaked forms, they didn’t call out to say so.

But away from prying eyes, in the depths of Chord Park, it felt like the trees, too, were watching the Marionettes. Miriam, Ida, and Anushka huffed and puffed as they attacked the soil. The hairs on the back of Emberlyn’s neck began to stand. The whistle of the wind through the trees sounded like conspiratorial whispers, the leaves seeming to shake with fury, as if forced against their will to stand witness to the midnight burial.

Emberlyn turned to glance back at Heather’s body, half expecting to find Esme lying there in her place. The similarities between the nights were uncanny, and each memory attacked her chest, coaxing it open. She forced the memories away, shoving them into the recesses of her mind as she stared at the next sister stolen from her.

They’d left Heather uncovered, and even in the thick of night with nothing but the flicker of Emberlyn’s weak lantern and the sliver of moonlight through the canopy of branches above, she could see how much the curse had claimed her. Could see how it had already shaped the girl with the honeyed voice.

Her eyes had sunk into two dark caverns, her eyelids shriveled away. The blackness that had swollen her tongue had seeped out as they made their way to Chord Park, etching itself into the cracks of her lips and spilling down her chin as if she had swallowed ink. Her body had begun to crumble, a thin sheen of dust coating her skin, shimmering in the moonlight. It would get worse, Emberlyn knew. The decay would consume Heather until her skin disintegrated altogether and left exposed muscle and bone. They needed to get her buried so they didn’t have to see that—if they did, her sisters would never shake the memory. She turned away, nausea roiling in her stomach. Something else, something dark and familiar, stirred inside her too. But she pushed it down.

As always, she ignored the presence of her curse inside her, the disease that wrapped her organs in a vise grip—that danced through her blood and oozed into every pore. When Malcolm was not calling to it, it lay dormant, something she could ignore if she tried. But when he called for his dolls to dance, it took over until her limbs became phantoms she had no control over. No way of choosing how she moved, no way to refuse what he demanded of them.

“Emberlyn?” Miriam called, her voice weak with exhaustion.

Emberlyn turned her gaze from the tree line, allowing it to drift over to the hollow grave. The gaping hole they had dug for their sister.

“More,” she told Miriam. Rosalyn’s expression tightened, but she and Miriam continued their silent dig under Emberlyn’s watchful guidance, until she held up her hand and nodded.

Emberlyn pulled Heather’s hood back up to cover her face, bidding her a silent farewell as the material enveloped her. Then, as one, the Marionettes lowered her into the earth by the edges of her cloak, straining as they guided her into her last resting place. They couldn’t close her eyes so she could sleep, for there was so little of her eyelids left.

With the smell of the damp soil and curling leaves biting at the stench of the curse stealing Heather’s life away, Emberlyn took the spade from Anushka and began to return the earth to the grave herself. Aleida took a spade from Rosalyn, who slumped to the ground. The rest of the Marionettes collapsed, too, while Aleida and Emberlyn, together, buried another of their sisters.

Once Heather was gone, the earth tapped flat and the undergrowth pulled over to cover the churned ground, the Marionettes stared at each other with heaving chests. The wisps of their breath mingled as they clasped hands, closing their eyes and whispering a prayer above Heather’s grave together.

Let her find peace in the afterlife, find freedom from the curse, somewhere better than here. Let her find her way back to the home she had always longed to return to, free of the strings that tied her to the Puppet Master and his endless, violent dance.

Then, silently, the Marionettes departed. They followed their own path through the trees back to the Theatre District, where Malcolm Manrow’s Marvelous Marionettes would be stamped on a sign in thick black letters.

As the Marionettes drifted away, only Emberlyn and Aleida were left standing over the grave, looking at each other from the depths of their shadowed hoods.

They read the expressions on each other’s faces.

They weren’t ready to go back.

“Heather didn’t deserve this,” Aleida said, staring out over Hulliver River, the main artery through New Kora. She and Emberlyn sat on the edge of the walkway, legs dangling above the depths of the water. It lapped gently against the bank, the sound surrounding the girls as they shivered, cloaks pulled tightly around themselves and their hoods up to conceal their faces. “I had hoped that what happened to Esme was…was just that. That it wouldn’t happen to anyone else.”

“It was worth hoping, but we know the truth now. Exactly what we suspected—that this damned curse will kill us all in the end,” Emberlyn replied bitterly.

Aleida nodded forlornly as the reality of what they had discovered wrapped around them—their guess that the curse was destroying them one by one etched itself as truth into the stone of their hearts. But Emberlyn remained stoic and straight-faced. If she thought about it for too long, thought about the fact that whatever traces of hope she’d had that she might survive this, that Aleida might survive this, had been strangled, it would break her.

It was cold to the point where Emberlyn was sure ice crystals could cling to the hairs on her arm, but she didn’t want to go. She wasn’t ready to go back to the theater, where the absence of Heather would be crushing. Where the absence of Esme would feel new and heavy once more. The shock of losing another—the agony of watching a sister crumble—was more than anyone could bear.

Out here, in the open air side by side with her best friend, she could almost forget her pain. Out here, she could almost forget that the gaping hole carved out in her chest, where Esme had once lived, was stretching open once more.

Emberlyn stared at the water. The faint spots of light on the other side of the river seemed to dance on the surface in shimmering ribbons of silk, at odds with the endless darkness beneath.

“I miss her. So much. I spend half my time refusing to think about her, but losing Heather has brought it all back.”

“I know. Without her, I…I don’t know if…” Aleida trailed off.

Esme’s firm yet gentle guidance had helped them both acclimate to their fates of becoming Marionettes. To accept it. She held them while the memories of their lives before they were Malcolm’s slowly disintegrated, and helped stave off their nightmares, holding them tighter when she couldn’t chase them away completely. Emberlyn had managed to retain some of her memories—even if they were hazy—but the others hadn’t been so lucky.

Even as the other girls arrived over the years, it was the three of them—the triangle at the center of the chaos, holding the incredible weight that was teaching others how to adapt to a life they despised. No matter how heavy it got, they held fast. They stood strong, because they had each other.

Esme was the very first of Malcolm’s Marionettes. And the first of them to die, leaving the triangle without one of its sharp corners.

Those first few days without Esme, as the reality of their loss sank in, felt like a dream. A nightmare Emberlyn wished she could wake up screaming from. But at least Aleida had been right there with her. Always there to pull her focus away from the darkest parts of her own mind. No matter how much the grief consumed Aleida, her focus had always been Emberlyn, her own despair pushed down as she tried to lessen her sister’s.

Emberlyn felt a rush of gratitude for Aleida, for those desperate moments made easier by her best friend’s love, before it was swallowed once more by her sadness.

“I didn’t want to believe it was happening again. I recognized the signs. The slowly stooping posture, the exhaustion in her eyes…I hoped it wasn’t what I feared. Heather’s symptoms were like Esme’s, but she didn’t deteriorate in the same way. After a while I thought perhaps she had beaten it, or it was something else entirely. Some kind of illness that she would recover from.” Emberlyn shook her head, her breath stolen with the wind as the grief she tried to keep at bay prickled along her throat. “I guess that was naive of me to hope. The curse must work differently through each of us. Kill us all in its own time.”

“Why?” Aleida asked mournfully. “Why does it kill us?”

Emberlyn had wondered the same. Malcolm told them so little about the curse, only that they were his to perform as he pleased, to make him rich with their talents and skill. He had wanted to be a troupe manager when he was younger, he told them one night when the alcohol loosened his tongue. Had found a way to ensure his success and wealth, to ensure his dreams would come true, and if only he was careful, coy about how far he went, how famed and renowned he allowed himself to be, he knew he would get away with what he was doing. Had been getting away with it for years now.

Emberlyn didn’t know how exactly he had come to control this curse, but she knew that his power was one he improved upon. He had managed to push its boundaries to ensure that the Marionettes were not able to talk about their curse, Malcolm, or what was happening to anyone who didn’t already know about it. He had also insisted that to run would be a fool’s errand. That he’d made their curse so strong, he would know if they attempted to run and would pull them straight back. That he would feel it through the invisible strings that bound them to him. That there would be punishment. She wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or if it was simply a tactic to keep them here. She could only hope his influence couldn’t extend as far as he claimed, that, like with her sisters’ deaths, it was something he didn’t truly have control over.

However, it appeared he didn’t yet know how to prevent this power from running away from him. Didn’t know how to stop it from burning up his precious Marionettes, from consuming them with its sheer violence.

Before Emberlyn could answer Aleida’s earlier question, the two Marionettes tensed as the sound of wheels shuddered through the ground beneath them, the unwelcome growl of an engine twisting through the air. They looked at each other, shrinking as far back into their hoods as possible, until the motorcar rolled past and the noise faded away again.

“We shouldn’t be out here so late,” Aleida said, glancing over her shoulder and blowing out a breath when the motorcar disappeared from sight. “I don’t want to risk Malcolm’s anger if we’re gone for too long.”

“When else are we going to get the chance to be away from the theater? Besides, he’s bound to be passed out drunk by now. It’s good just to…breathe. To not be a Marionette for a few moments.” As if to hammer her point home, Emberlyn took in a lungful of the crisp air. It tasted fuller here by Hulliver River. Shot through with salt rather than dust.

Aleida turned away from the road. After a few moments with nothing but the river lapping at the concrete wall to fill the quiet, she spoke.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she whispered, her dark eyes wide and urgent as they turned to Emberlyn.

Pain stretched her mouth into a morbid smile.

“The curse kills us, and it’s not doing it in the order we joined. Any of us could be next.” She swallowed the fear that rose up in her throat. “But that could mean we still have years left, you and I. We simply don’t know.”

For a moment, the girls lapsed into silence. Until Aleida said her next words so quietly, Emberlyn almost didn’t catch them. “Maybe it will take me next.”

“Please don’t say that.” Emberlyn’s voice broke. Aleida let out a strangled noise and jumped to her feet. Emberlyn stood, too, as Aleida began to pace.

“I’m so, so tired of this, Ember.” Aleida’s voice trembled. “I’m tired of dancing for Malcolm, of not being able to eat what I want, of only ever going where he allows me to go and nowhere else. I’m tired of feeling like my body doesn’t belong to me, of this…this…rot inside me. Tired of being scared, tired of the theater, of being able to do nothing but put on a brave face for our sisters. I want something to change. I can’t bear it here any longer.”

Emberlyn rushed to wrap her arms around Aleida as she dissolved into tears. She sobbed into the heavy material of Emberlyn’s cloak, her form shuddering as grief overwhelmed her. Aleida had held her up enough times—it was Emberlyn’s turn to keep her friend from shattering.

“I know, I know,” Emberlyn murmured over the sound of Aleida breaking.

“I can’t bear it,” Aleida repeated. Her voice was tight and withdrawn. Heavy, like she’d given up.

Emberlyn nudged her away so she could look at her, but Aleida bowed her head, her sobs fading to sniffs. Emberlyn placed her hand on Aleida’s chin and forced her to meet her gaze. Her stomach twisted at the sight of Aleida’s bloodshot eyes.

“We can try to escape this,” Emberlyn murmured. “We can try to reclaim our lives.”

Aleida stared at her for a moment before she let out a sharp bark of laughter that made Emberlyn jump. She pulled away, shaking her head.

“Oh, Ember.” She took a step back. “I love you like a true sister, but I can’t help but laugh at your naivety sometimes.”

“No, listen, I’ve been looking at the maps to find the best route out—”

“Come on,” Aleida interrupted. “Let’s go back. There’s no point mourning in the cold.”

Emberlyn bit her tongue but allowed herself to be led away from the edge of the river. Together, they began their slow amble back to Manrow Theater, through empty streets swollen with darkness.

They were silent for a few minutes, eyes fixed on the scintillating starlight beyond the towering reaches of the surrounding buildings, before Emberlyn tried again.

“We don’t know the depths of this curse; I accept that.” Aleida shook her head again but stayed silent. “Maybe Malcolm is telling the truth and is somehow able to trace us, wherever we go, and pull us back if we get too far from him.” Emberlyn’s hands curled into fists in her pockets. “I’ve accepted that we have no idea what will happen if we run because no one has, too afraid of Malcolm’s threats to try. No one has ever got far enough out of Malcolm’s clutches to know if they can break his strings.”

Aleida stared at her feet, jaw tensed. Emberlyn took her silence as encouragement and continued.

“But I refuse to believe there isn’t a way out of this. If we get far enough away before Malcolm realizes we’re gone, he might not have any control over us. The curse might fail. And maybe one day, it will just fade into nothing.” It was the theory she rested every single one of her tentative hopes on. She reached out to grip Aleida’s elbow as they walked. “We might have our lives back, Aleida. Isn’t that worth the risk of Malcolm’s wrath?”

“Do you honestly think Malcolm would allow us to walk through New Kora as we are now, if we could all simply…walk away?” She shook Emberlyn’s arm off as she spoke.

Emberlyn let out a huff of breath, leaping ahead and turning to halt Aleida in her tracks. “He controls us through fear just as much he does his curse. Look at us right now. Look at where we are. What’s to stop us going now?”

Aleida shook her head sadly. “Nothing has happened to us, Emberlyn, because we aren’t going to run,” she said in a voice thick with mourning. Her eyes went past Emberlyn, gazing into the distance at nothing. “There’s a reason he allows us to leave the theater to bury our sisters. I think he’s telling the truth, that he will be able to claim us back, that he’ll know the moment we try and will punish us for it. God knows what he might do to us then. I for one don’t want to find out.”

Emberlyn felt her shoulders sag. She understood that fear. She really did—that unknown terror that lay just inches beyond an escape attempt. She had danced with that fear night after night. In some moments she felt sure she could run, but then in the next, the fear of what Malcolm might do had pinned its claws through muscle and flesh and held her where she lay curled in her bed, frozen. Helpless to save herself.

The Marionettes’ curse kept them in one piece at all times. It kept them conscious through any pain, healed every bruise or cut only moments after it manifested itself on the surface, so the Marionettes never looked less than perfect. So their bodies never revealed the mark of the rotten core hidden beneath Malcolm’s charming surface. It sickened Emberlyn to think about what Malcolm could do to them if he caught them trying to escape. How he could torture them without the promise of the release of death.

That terror had wound its way through her bones already, to the point where she felt almost numb to it. To the point where she was ready to face it. Because what if they did manage to escape? What if Emberlyn was right and it was the fear of what could be, not of what actually was, that was standing between them and their lives?

“Is it not worth risking? I mean, think about it. We could get out of New Kora, find the help we need, and bring it back to save the rest of our sisters. Then we could go to Itzak, find your family—”

Aleida held up her hand, her eyes pleading with Emberlyn to stop.

“Please, don’t. You know I don’t remember my family. I have nothing left, not a single memory. The curse stole them a long time ago.”

Emberlyn swallowed and shuffled on the spot, falling silent.

“Besides,” Aleida continued, “they have no idea anything is wrong, thanks to those letters Malcolm makes us write. Do you really think if we found them and showed up with all these wild claims, they wouldn’t think we’re out of our minds?”

“Perhaps not! Anything is possible,” Emberlyn burst out, gesturing passionately with her hands. “I’m prepared to go, but I’m waiting for you, Aleida. I won’t leave unless it’s together. We just have to be brave.”

Aleida stared at her, pain rolling through her features. Emberlyn grinned back, excitement and possibility pounding against her chest, tearing through her like fire.

Hope. Escape.

A life without Malcolm.

“Let’s do it,” Emberlyn whispered. “Let’s run. Just you and me.”

But Aleida’s brow furrowed. “How could you even think about leaving our sisters?”

Emberlyn’s chest tightened.

She didn’t want to leave them. She’d protected each of them as they were yanked into this life. Wrapped her arms around them every night they woke screaming for their families, their lost lives. Esme had done the same—held them until the faces had faded from their minds and the Marionettes could barely remember who they were crying for. She’d loved them all dearly.

Emberlyn looked down at her wrist. A thin bronze bracelet was pressed against her veins, letters engraved into the metal spelling out a name she didn’t know. Florisa. A belonging of someone she was sure she had once loved but could no longer remember. Someone she perhaps could find, if only she was brave enough to go. She rubbed her thumb over it, feeling the indents of the name. Strength flooded through her.

“If we all tried to leave together, I can guarantee you we’d be back in his clutches being tortured into oblivion within six hours. If it’s just us, if it’s just you and me, we stand a better chance. One day when we know we’re safe, we will come back for them. We will raise the alarm and send someone to save them. But to make that happen, abandoning them now is something I can live with.”

Aleida blinked at her, before a sad smile crept onto her face. She stepped around Emberlyn.

“Well, I can’t. I won’t leave them with him for even a moment,” she breathed. “It’s not worth how Malcolm might punish them for our escape.”

Emberlyn spun on her heel to watch as Aleida moved away from her, the gaping wound in her chest left behind by Esme pulsing. Aleida walked into the darkness like a specter, the shadows of the night swallowing her as she followed the streets back to the theater. Back to Malcolm and the endless dancing—the life they had no choice but to belong to. Emberlyn took a deep breath.

Eventually, she followed, one reluctant step after the next.

It wasn’t the end of this. It couldn’t be, not when they now knew they were slowly being pushed into the endless night of death. She needed to persuade Aleida to leave with her before the curse devoured them both whole. Before it destroyed their minds, their bodies, their souls—everything Malcolm was taking from them. Put enough space between themselves and him, where his curse could no longer control them.

If they didn’t run, there was little more to do but wait to see who would be the next sister to fall.

Little to do but wait for death to claim them.

Three

The Dance of the Marionettes

Emberlyn’s memory of her life before becoming a Marionette existed in fractured moments. While the others had everything stolen from them, Emberlyn had kept little pieces, their edges jagged like parts of a cracked mirror. Unrecognizable, yet still familiar. From late-night conversations, she knew she was the only one who had managed to keep a grip on something from her past, however tentative. She didn’t know what that meant, why only her, but she intended to ensure she never let the pieces go. In quiet moments, she played what she could remember in her mind like the repeating chorus of her favorite song.

A town house nestled on a sleepy street. The squeak of an iron gate closing, a key jangling in the lock at the front door. A small theater on the edge of a bustling town, against a background of burnt-orange trees. Fractured, but familiar.

She knew she hadn’t had much, but she knew she’d been happy, with a head full of dreams and ambition. No fear plagued her heart when she tried to recall thoughts of her life before, even if the faces of her family were like a smeared painting. She thought of that bracelet she carried with her only when she knew Malcolm wouldn’t see it. The one with the unknown name. Her fingers went to her wrist, stroking the bare skin where she normally wore it.

She remembered dancing.

She remembered the feeling of elation as she extended her arms to the ceiling, the silence in the rows of velvet chairs, back arched and toes en pointe. The satisfying stretch in her limbs, eyes closed as music she couldn’t piece back together anymore crested mountaintops. The unity of stepping in time with dancers with jumbled features—though some must have been her friends—moving together as if they were a flowing river. The blur of the world as she spun, spun, the audience melting into the backdrop, the backdrop then melting into the darkness of the thundering audience. Twirling and twirling and…

And Malcolm’s eyes on her. Hungry eyes.

Devouring eyes.

She had wanted to become renowned. It was a fire of desire impossible to forget, its burn cutting through the fog that now hovered. A deep and desperate want for so many things. Her name gracing theaters far and wide and playing on strangers’ lips. An audience’s rapt silence, their disbelief in the magic her body created as she danced alone onstage. Emberlyn had wanted the world to offer itself up to her.

Most of that had come true. But she hadn’t wanted it like this. Never like this.

“Do you want fame, girl?” Malcolm had whispered to her from the shadows. “I can see the potential in you. I could make you the greatest dancer this world has ever known.”

By the way he’d watched her from the darkness, the promise of all she wanted rolling off his tongue, there had been only one answer she could give. And her words had sealed her fate.

“More than anything,” she’d whispered back to the shadowed man.

Malcolm’s predatory smirk had grown. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

She hadn’t known what she was accepting. She hadn’t known she was welcoming in a monster.

Emberlyn stared at herself in the dressing-room mirror, her damning words ringing in her ears. Her eyes were bloodshot from a night of tossing and turning, fighting with the broken pieces of memories that gnawed their way through her heart, and her pale skin had taken on a sickly sheen.

Esme was gone.

Heather was gone too.

Emberlyn was still here.

“Ten minutes until showtime.” The stagehand’s voice sailed through the door, and Emberlyn shook herself out of her trance.

She sat at a dressing table in a room lined with mirrors, light overwhelming her senses. The Marionettes were busy adding the final touches to their elegant outfits, sweeping dark eye shadow across their lids and dabbing their lips red. There was no atmosphere of excitement among these beautiful dancers. No high-pitched laughter or jokes flying back and forth like Emberlyn could remember from her old life in vague snapshots of sound. Here, there were only the murmured tones of hushed conversation. Acceptance of what was about to happen. A suffocating, heavy grief when they forgot to avoid looking at Heather’s empty chair, the sight of it muting everything.

Emberlyn dipped her finger into a pot of crushed rose petals and dabbed the paste to her lips one final time before she cast her eyes over her appearance. She frowned, tugging furiously at the flame-red curls that cascaded to her waist. Her hair still wasn’t good enough, still too wild.

“Here. Let me.” Aleida appeared at her side, batting Emberlyn’s hand away. The bodice of Aleida’s off-white dress sparkled in the dressing-room light, making her warm skin seem to glow, and the smell of her rose-scented perfume grazed Emberlyn’s nose. “You need to run your fingers through it gently, like this. I show you every night,” she said with a small, scolding smile. Emberlyn met Aleida’s warm eyes in the mirror and sank back into her chair.

“My hair doesn’t listen to me,” she sighed.

“It would if you were kinder and didn’t rake it like you would a pile of leaves.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her, before they fell back into silence. She watched Aleida work, separating her curls until they sat softly over her shoulders.

“Are we okay?” Emberlyn whispered. She hadn’t stopped thinking about their exchange last night. Aleida’s bitter refusal to leave with her, her expression as she’d walked away. Aleida’s eyes flicked up from Emberlyn’s hair, wide with surprise.

“Of course we are, you silly goose. We’re always okay. Always.”

Emberlyn nodded, though she couldn’t bring herself to smile again. Not when this felt like it was forever. Not when she was stuck, helpless to leave until Aleida agreed to run with her. Now she wasn’t sure she ever would, and soon they would have to bear witness to yet another cursing for whoever Malcolm chose to become his new Marionette. She didn’t know how she was meant to stand it. Instead, she simply swallowed and nodded again to show she had heard.

Aleida leaned forward, curling her arms around Emberlyn’s shoulders in a squeeze gentle enough not to disturb her curls. Then she reached out and picked up the opal tiara that sat on the dresser, delicately fixing it to the top of Emberlyn’s head. It shimmered in shades of pink and blue and green, depending how the light caught it.

She hated that thing. It marked her as Malcolm’s lead. The star of his show. When she was onstage, she dressed as a royal of some faraway land, a role poignant enough to have earned her the nickname “Princess of New Kora.”

“There. Ready,” Aleida said softly, stepping back to allow Emberlyn to stand and look at herself in the mirror.

An ice-white dress that seemed to emit its own light twinkled where it hugged Emberlyn’s body. It ended in an explosion of tulle skirts that reached as far as her extended arms. Her pointe shoes, silk with hard-top toes and ribbons that tied around her calves, were barren of a single speck of dust. Emberlyn tested her stance in them, stretching her muscles until they ached sweetly, and pushed her weight into the hard-tipped toes.

There was another knock on the door, and the stagehand’s voice called out again. “You’re on, ladies!”

In a rustle of skirts and a plume of vanilla powder, the rest of the Marionettes stood, transformed from the bare faces and plain clothes they usually wore, hands habitually brushing the length of their costumes though none of them were less than perfect. Unlike Emberlyn, they wore their long locks twisted into perfumed crowns, their skin powdered until a single touch would have you believing you were running your fingertips over a rose petal.

Emberlyn and Aleida brought up the rear, following their sisters through the narrow corridors of their theater. Like Aleida’s, the rest of the Marionettes’ outfits were less radiant, less extravagant than Emberlyn’s. Where Emberlyn was dressed as a princess, the others were mere nobility, fawning ladies desperate for Emberlyn’s attention onstage. Malcolm wanted his leading Marionette, his princess, to stand out. If her hair didn’t do that for her, the blinding sparkle in her dress certainly did.

But the others didn’t begrudge Emberlyn her position. Malcolm’s favoritism.

They pitied her for it.

When the Marionettes entered the wings of the stage, the bustle paused. Stagehands who had worked there for years still tripped as they walked, pausing to drink in the divine sight of them. Emberlyn looked straight ahead, the attention rolling off her back. She was certain the curse that coursed through their blood made the Marionettes more alluring. That the dark magic that shimmered through their bodies cursed others to sink into their desire for them. Sink into their envy.

As the Marionettes formed a huddle, waiting for the performance to start, Emberlyn moved away. She couldn’t bear to stand with her sisters yet. Not when there was an empty space where Heather should have been standing. Instead, she pulled back the edge of the curtain that shielded the stage from the audience and peered out into the darkness.

A mass of bodies writhed there. Faceless humans whose features were obscured in the shadows and shuddering light, flickering in and out. Grinning teeth, the whites of shining eyes, skirts and suits and laughter that sounded like the chattering of nightmares in the dark, all set against the smell of a hundred perfumes and expensive wines. Emberlyn let go of the curtain, her stomach turning.

“Marionettes.” A booming voice pulled Emberlyn’s attention away from the apprehension that had started to build inside her. Her curse wriggled under her skin at the sound of the voice, anxious to obey.

Malcolm walked into the wings, his eyes glinting as the Marionettes pulled their shoulders back to attention before he could do it for them. He wore a suit as black as night with a white shirt and a blood-red cummerbund, cane in one hand and a top hat tilted upon his head. His mustache was teased into perfect lines.

He greeted the theater staff as he went, shaking hands, bestowing his brilliant smile as he fondly touched the shoulders of those he paused to speak to. He nodded in the direction of those who shot him their most alluring smiles, who whispered eagerly to each other as he continued his way through.

“Ah!” Malcolm paused before a man who was hurrying past with a sandbag clutched in his arms. “Do remember, the stage needs to be prepared for auditions in between Saturday’s matinee and evening show. We want to make a good impression on the hopefuls, don’t we?” The man nodded and rushed on as Malcolm patted his upper arm and strode the final distance toward the Marionettes.

His eyes traveled up and down their bodies, looking for inconsistencies, anything less than perfect, and he mumbled his approval when he found none. He stopped before Emberlyn, sending her heart into a pounding rage when he turned his head toward her. Her skin prickled in revulsion wherever his eyes touched her.

“How is my princess?” he asked, his hand, as always, reaching out to run through her hair. Emberlyn didn’t flinch, though her muscles tightened. She stared back unwaveringly and nodded curtly.

“There has been a slight change to the performance.” Malcolm spun on his heel to pace. “Given that one of our Marionettes quit and left us so unexpectedly.”

He didn’t bat an eye at his lie. Nothing in his expression, his tone, the way he moved, gave away the secret he kept. That all the Marionettes had to keep. Lips tightened and jaws tensed, but nobody attempted to utter a word in contradiction—nobody could in the presence of others. Emberlyn’s eyes darted toward the theater workers who had stopped to listen in, eyes tracing the figures of the Marionettes as they counted and came up one short.

“But follow Emberlyn’s lead,” Malcolm continued. “And spread out to cover the space. The performance won’t be affected.”

Emberlyn bit back a sharp laugh. Malcolm cast one last eye over them. “Good luck, all.” He turned to focus on Emberlyn. She stiffened as he leaned toward her, her stomach clenching as his sour breath found her ear.

“And don’t worry, Emberlyn. I’m sure the crowd will barely notice Heather is missing.”

Rage flared brightly in Emberlyn’s chest at his callousness. Before she could douse it, before she could rein in her fire, she leaned in toward him too.

“Hang yourself,” she whispered sweetly. Her stomach swooped the moment the words were out of her mouth, focusing on his expression as she held her breath, waiting to see if she had pushed the boundary too far.

But Malcolm pulled away, his chest shaking as he roared with laughter that echoed around the wings. Emberlyn’s expression darkened, her hands twitching as if to wrap around his throat even as relief flooded through her when he turned his attention away and climbed to his spot high above the stage. To his box in full view of the audience, to take the position of Puppet Master.

The laughter followed Emberlyn as Aleida moved to her side and gave her hand a last comforting squeeze—as was their showtime tradition—before Emberlyn strode away to claim first position alone on the stage. She trembled with angry adrenaline as she waited for the curtain to rise.

Waited for the curse lying dormant inside her to rise to the surface and take over.

The curtain came up to the sound of applause and whistles. Emberlyn stood center stage, body bowed and ready to bend like a plucked string. Her face tilted toward the floor as the applause died down and a silence thick with anticipation took its place, the audience hushed as they wondered at the sight of the girl before them—even those who had already come to watch the dance of the Marionettes a thousand times before.

Behind Emberlyn hung an intricate background—a serene pool of water nestled in a snowscape of rising hills. Icicles glinted from branches and snow melted from the leaves, the details so fine you could pick out every snowflake. The setting sun smeared the horizon in a rich red, matching the blaze of Emberlyn’s hair.

Pale strings as fine as a spider’s web appeared out of thin air. They wrapped knots around Emberlyn’s wrists, around every finger, her ankles, until every limb was threaded as if she were a puppet. A living Marionette.

Malcolm could veil them when he needed to manipulate his Marionettes in daylight—make the curse’s strings so fine that nobody ever noticed them. But when it came to performing, he let them glow. He said they were part of the experience. That the patrons wouldn’t understand the troupe’s name if he didn’t make them part of the performance.

Malcolm Manrow’s Marvelous Marionettes.

Above, in a box of shadows and darkness, stood the man with a red cummerbund and tilted top hat. The Puppet Master reached out, his fingers twitching as he manipulated the strings so it seemed every moment was orchestrated by him. As the music began with little more than a kiss of the bow on the strings, which soon grew as heavy as the embrace of a tsunami against the shore, the dance began.

The Marionette rose, pulled up by her strings.

When Malcolm called to his curse, Emberlyn felt it respond inside her. It gnawed into every cell, a torrent of fire that burned through her from the inside out. It was a familiar pain. Emberlyn let herself sink into it. She didn’t try to fight it.

There was no point.

Her limbs extended at Malcolm’s will. In time to the swelling and bursting chords, Emberlyn danced. The curse directed her every movement. It sent her leaping into the air and drinking in the impact that shuddered through her calves when she landed.

The crowd applauded and watched in awe as the girl before them performed every move as if she were an otherworldly being. Her arms lifted to the sky like a swan’s extended wings, preparing to take flight. And she looked as if she truly could.

More Marionettes appeared onstage, moving in perfect unison like a flowing river. They spun toward Emberlyn, encircling her. Every leap and twirl, every pirouette, was elegant. Perfect. The Puppet Master moved his hands above them, fingers on their strings, keeping them in sync.

The curse burned, but Emberlyn hid within herself. She watched her body move without permission and let herself go numb to lessen the shame that came with the complete lack of control.

When the music reached a crescendo with a crash of cymbals like growling thunder, the patrons neared the edges of their seats.

They never could work out how the shadow appeared, only that it always did. Emberlyn had heard their whispers rippling through the many balls they held to appease New Kora’s richest, wondering how the enigmatic Malcolm Manrow created such an incredible trick of the light. How his lead Marionette could dance so artfully with something that wasn’t really there. There must be real strings in there somewhere, they muttered behind their hands, pretending they weren’t trying to worm their way into trade secrets. She must be wearing a harness to dance like that with the shadow.

A wisp of smoke in a boy’s form materialized from nothing to the sound of appreciative cheers. The shadow took Emberlyn in arms of pure darkness, and together, the pair danced once more, as they did every night upon the stage. It came apart and fell back together without ever losing its shape. Without missing a single step.

It was a boy. A ghost. A shadow. Come to dance with the Marionette with hair like fire. Whenever she touched him, his body felt endlessly delicate. Like dust that would be blown away with a breath that would blow out a candle, yet somehow firm against Emberlyn’s body. Where the shadow touched her back, held her, she warmed as if the hot skin of a human were pressed against hers. It felt like a lover’s embrace, though she didn’t know who it was—what it was that held her.

They swayed and spun, arms extending as one, fingers lacing together, bodies entwining, separating. They danced like they were the only two beings in the world, even as the other Marionettes carved their spinning, twirling paths around them.

Emberlyn reveled in this brief connection, this wordless kinship. In every dance, she craved his appearance and the feel of his touch, for it grounded her back in a body she’d been slowly losing connection with from the moment the curse had taken over. The sensation of him against her reminded Emberlyn that, though she felt like a stranger within her own muscle and bone, she was still in there somewhere.

She was still Emberlyn.

The music spilled into the seats. Breath hung heavy and held in the air. The Puppet Master orchestrated it all, arms lifting, strings twisting, meeting, but never tangling, never snapping.

The Marionette and her partner made of shadow danced on.

four

The Beautiful Doomed

Heather began to feel like a dream the more the days slipped past, like a fleeting thought lost upon the moment of waking. Malcolm acted as if she hadn’t even existed. It had been the same when Esme died—the same silence bookending the abrupt closure of her life, her name whispered like a prayer in the dead of night as the Marionettes desperately tried to keep her memory alive. They talked in hushed tones of dread of the moment Malcolm would select the next dancer to replace her. Saturday came far quicker.

The lights in the auditorium were low. The seats were empty and silent, not a whisper of life among them. That was until four of the Marionettes slipped in through the grand double doors, moving as stealthily as alley cats at midnight, and tucked themselves away into the very back row. Emberlyn, Aleida, Rosalyn, and Miriam slumped down until they were barely in their seats. Until they could see the stage, but those upon it would not be able to see them in the darkness of the theater.

A group of girls Emberlyn didn’t recognize were waiting there, huddled together in whispering circles under the hot glow of the spotlights.

“Where is Malcolm?” Rosalyn whispered, earning several hard glares shot in her direction. Aleida pressed her fingers to her lips and raised her eyebrows. Rosalyn rolled her eyes. “Like he can hear me from here.”

“We can’t get caught,” Emberlyn hissed back. “He’ll beat all of us if he realizes we’ve sneaked in to watch.”

“I don’t even know why we’re here,” Miriam whispered miserably, her eyes darting around the theater as if Malcolm might drop from the ceiling in front of them.

Aleida reached out and placed a hand on Miriam’s forearm, twisting so she stayed hidden from view. “To see who might be the next Marionette. So we know who to expect. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, Miriam. We won’t mind if you leave. We can tell you about it later.”

“But why are we risking our necks just to catch a glimpse?” Miriam’s voice shook, and her eyes shot back to fix on the doors they had just come through, though she didn’t move. Her hand lifted to her mouth, where she began to gnaw at her nails.

Emberlyn shrugged. “Morbid curiosity, I suppose,” she murmured. “And because there’s not much else to do, is there?”

When they were not performing, the Marionettes had little to do but wait. Each second dragging like fingernails down a spine, the boredom so complete that Emberlyn had thought more than once to hit her head against the table simply for something new to do. Malcolm provided them with books, but the range was limited. Only what he deemed appropriate fell into their hands, and Emberlyn always refused to scrap with the others for the new ones he gave them. Card games, board games, yarn to knit with—the hours in the common room were numbing. Emberlyn had found some respite from the mundane in recent months, turning her attention instead to poring over maps she had found pressed to the back of a bookcase, unbeknownst to Malcolm. She spent her hours imagining those faraway places. Plotting her route out of New Kora for when she was finally brave enough to try.

The Marionettes fell silent as a familiar voice rattled through the theater, cutting through Emberlyn’s thoughts.

“Welcome, ladies!” Emberlyn gripped the arm of her chair as Malcolm appeared, suddenly visible as he stood up in the row at the very front of the auditorium. His arms spread out in greeting as the huddle of young women on the stage turned their attention toward him, heads tilting and eyes crinkling as wide smiles lit up their faces. Emberlyn leaned forward as his voice became muffled and impossible to pick out. She could only guess at what was being said as some of the girls nodded or laughed. She shot a look at Aleida, who shook her head to show she couldn’t hear either.

“Told you there was no way he could hear us,” Rosalyn said sharply.

Emberlyn didn’t reply. She didn’t bother trying to hear what Malcolm was saying anymore and instead turned her attention to the girls themselves. Her stomach dropped with a hot, tight feeling she was more than familiar with: pity. She felt it often enough for herself, let alone for her sisters. The same feeling choked her with every new Marionette cursed into this troupe.

But it wasn’t just pity she felt for these girls, clad in their dancing outfits, their legs outstretched into perfect, elegant stances to display the power in their bodies to the man standing before them. It was helplessness too. Squirming, restless helplessness, because they didn’t know what they were dancing themselves into, and Emberlyn could do nothing to warn them. They thought they were auditioning for one of the most renowned ballet companies in New Kora, to gain the fame of their wildest dreams. Instead, they were auditioning to have their lives undone.

They were nothing more than girls dancing their souls away. Emberlyn knew it. All the other Marionettes knew it. And they could only watch.

By appearance alone, it was hard to tell who Malcolm might favor. One prospective Marionette had the same bright blond hair and rosy skin as Rosalyn. Another had a deeper shade of red, though Emberlyn knew Malcolm would want only one with hair like fire in his troupe. The redheaded girl was probably safe. Emberlyn felt a small twinge of relief at that thought, though she squashed it as quickly as it came when she continued to scan the row of smiling faces. She paused on the face of the person standing at the end.

A girl with dark skin, her hair in neat braids she wore like a crown and a face of sharp angles. Wide, intent eyes watched Malcolm with an unshakable gaze. Like she had her sights set on her prey and she would do whatever it took to have his eyes meet hers and never break away again.

Emberlyn recognized that hunger. She knew she had once worn it the same way.

Her throat tightened, an awful, cavernous feeling growing in her chest. She dropped her head into her hands. She knew. She knew already who Malcolm would choose. Emberlyn had seen the face of the beautiful doomed, and the thought made her numb.

Suddenly, a hand gripped hers. She jumped and opened her eyes to see Aleida, concern written across her features, lip trembling as she watched the procession of sacrifices far below on the stage.

Emberlyn stared back at her for a moment, every cursing she’d ever witnessed suddenly racing through her mind, every girl she’d helped welcome into the Marionettes writhing in her arms. Aleida’s own cursing flashed through too. Snapshots of her mouth contorted in a scream, her body rigid and twisted as the darkness ripped through her veins and tore open her arteries, Esme’s tearstained cheeks shining over the convulsing girl between them.

“Are you all right?” Aleida whispered.

She shook her head as if that could rid the memories from her mind. “Yes, I—I…Yes, I’m fine.” Aleida dipped her chin and shot Emberlyn a look that told her she wasn’t convinced. She kept her hand firmly wrapped around Emberlyn’s, squeezing it.

With a final muffled murmur, Malcolm pointed at one of the girls and then sat himself in the front row. The girl he pointed at, the redheaded girl, stepped forward, stretching her calf muscles one final time as the other girls parted. They drifted away until the stage was left open to the dancer about to showcase her talents.

No music began as she started up her routine. The silence was swollen, broken by nothing but the shallow breaths of Emberlyn’s sisters and the pattering footsteps on the stage. She leaped and twirled, clearly giving it her all as she danced to her own melody.

But, as Emberlyn had suspected, Malcolm was not interested. He called out and waved his hand in dismissal. The girl stopped immediately, wobbling as she finished her leap and landed awkwardly, her face the picture of dejection. She wandered off to the wings with her shoulders hunched as another girl walked on to take her place.

The girl with the hungry eyes. She fixed them on Malcolm as she glided onto the stage, barely noticing the despair of the girl she replaced. She had a smile on her face like she had already been chosen. Emberlyn sat with her gaze glued to the dancer as she bent into her starting position. The urge to look away was overwhelming, but the need to keep watching was even greater.

She twisted and turned, leaped and landed, her graceful athlete’s body never wavering, not even for a moment. She executed each pirouette to perfection, dominated each pas de chat, and performed a fouetté as if it were no more difficult than breathing. Emberlyn’s eyes flicked down to Malcolm.

He was leaning forward intently. Undoubtedly watching this girl with a ravenous gaze.

Nausea pounded at Emberlyn’s stomach, writhing up her throat before she could even acknowledge the feeling. She took a deep, shuddering breath, sinking even lower into her seat in the hope that it would pass. It didn’t. Moments later, she shot Aleida an apologetic look, untangled the hand she was firmly grasping, and slid out of her seat, little more than crawling up the stairs and out of the auditorium before any of her sisters could utter a word of concern.

Her stomach hammered and rolled, and Emberlyn wrestled to keep herself in one piece as she staggered through the foyer. It was closed to patrons for the afternoon, but still, she couldn’t be seen stumbling through as if she were drunk. She pushed through a door adorned with a Private placard, ran down the stairs, trying to slow her breathing as she did, and raced through the corridors in the underbelly of the theater.

She heard the indistinct murmur of her other sisters in the common room, those not brave enough, or stupid enough, to try to watch the auditions happening over their heads. But Emberlyn turned down a different corridor and followed it until she pulled open the back door into the alleyway.

The same one they had dragged Heather out of not a few days before.

At that thought, Emberlyn retched, though her stomach was empty. She gripped the doorframe, trembling. As her body calmed, she took deep breaths of the cooler outside air. The smell of the alleyway was raw in her throat, but the nausea didn’t return.

She shook her head, thinking of the girl inside Malcolm’s theater, twirling herself into his strings.

Emberlyn would have to witness her undoing, just as she had the others’. Just as she had Aleida—the first cursing she had seen after the excruciating pain of her own. The memory broke her—sweet, kind-souled Aleida never deserved to go through something like that. None of them did. Emberlyn wrapped her arms around herself as she stared toward the mouth of the alleyway and the Theatre District beyond.

Could she really keep waiting for Aleida to be ready? Waiting for her to be brave enough to risk the unknown, risk Malcolm’s torture if they failed? Could she keep being an accomplice to the ending of these girls’ lives when she could instead be the one to escape Malcolm’s clutches and find someone who could help? But…did she have any other choice but to wait for her best friend, to keep trying to persuade her to run?

So many nights Aleida had held her, stroking her hair and whispering comforting words that tamed her viciously beating heart. Too often, Aleida’s hand squeeze before a show was the only thing that allowed Emberlyn’s legs to move, her comforting smiles her source of strength. And Emberlyn had returned the favor when it was Aleida’s turn to feel weak. Emberlyn had watched her friend give the other Marionettes the best of her warm heart. Without Aleida’s endless goodness, the others wouldn’t have made it through—body or mind, they would have broken. Emberlyn was certain.

To abandon Aleida now, after they had held each other up, helped each other to survive this, would feel like the cruelest betrayal.

But how could she be expected to stay?

She watched as a motorcar drove past the opening of the alleyway and a group of women, arm in arm, walked past, their heads tipped back with laughter.

She could just leave. Whether the curse would refuse to release its grip on her no matter how far she got, or if Malcolm hunted her to the corners of the earth, she could still try.

Emberlyn looked down at her wrist, where her bracelet rested once more while she was not dancing. She ran her fingers over the bumps of the etched name as she often did for comfort. Florisa.

Who was Florisa? Her sister? Her mother? Whoever they were, she knew they must have been someone who had loved her, and someone she wanted to love back, if only she could remember them. She could find out who Florisa was. What this person meant to her, rediscover what she had lost, if only she could take that first step.

Before the urge could recede, she stepped forward, balancing on the threshold, and stood upon the very last inch of Manrow Theater before it gave way to the outside world. She pulled the bracelet into her palm, squeezing it until she could feel its edges branding her skin. But still, she stopped. She went no farther.

No. Aleida. She had to wait for Aleida to be ready. How could she bear facing the world alone? Without her best friend? How could she abandon Aleida, when she loved Emberlyn back just as fiercely? Emberlyn was no longer afraid of that lurking what-if like she knew the others were, that dangerous unknown of what could happen if she tried to leave. The malice that would take over Malcolm’s expression as he exacted his unending punishment. She was ready to be struck down, if that was what might happen, ready to endure unimaginable torture if that was what it took.

But she simply couldn’t leave Aleida. Her best friend. Her true sister in all but blood.

Emberlyn’s face crumpled. She took a step back and dropped into a crouch. She hugged her knees to her chest, leaning her cheek on them, and closed her eyes. The cold breeze of the inaccessible outside world called her forward.

But she refused to answer.

Five

A Letter from Parlizia

On braver days, when Malcolm was in a good mood brought on by the perfect amount of wine, the Marionettes tried to press him for answers about the shadow that danced with Emberlyn, that held her so fiercely. Was it the curse that made the figure built of smoke and dust? Was it a being from another world entirely? The patrons might think it nothing more than a clever trick of the light, a closely guarded troupe secret, but the Marionettes knew better.

But Malcolm only ever laughed and dismissed them, as he did so often. Sometimes he gave answers that only led to more questions. Nobody knew how the shadow was made or how it could hold Emberlyn in its arms. Malcolm refused to give his secrets away, no matter how much she, or the others, asked.

It was just another card he held so tight to his chest. Another sensational mystery that kept patrons returning to Malcolm Manrow’s Marvelous Marionettes time and time again, that kept the coins rolling into his coffers. No matter the story they performed, the shadow was always there somewhere. There to pull Emberlyn into the warmth of his smoky embrace.

Emberlyn scrubbed at her face over a bowl of warm water, glad to be rid of the potions and pastes that weighed down her skin after yet another night of dancing under hot spotlights, with a thousand gazes glued to her helpless body. The comfort—relief even—that she’d felt when the shadow appeared to offer his arm to her had come as it always did. For a brief moment, she felt like he could stand between her and that endless, writhing crowd.

She looked at her reflection, locked eyes with herself. They were bloodshot and ringed with darkness. Haunted by the life she should have lived. The dancing career she should have loved, rather than loathed. She ran her fingers over the surface of the water to distort the image, her thoughts floating away with the ripples.

Over time, the shadow had become familiar. It used to dance with Esme, back when she was Malcolm’s star. But when she died, Emberlyn was the longest-serving Marionette and had to step into shoes that felt too big, too cold. Thus the shadow became hers. She’d danced with it for so long, for so many endless nights, that he had become an old friend. Her comfort on a stage of fear. He came to wrap his arms around her and shield her from the horrors of losing control. Though she tried to hide herself in the back of her mind when she was forced to dance, her body no more than a vessel for the curse to tear through, the shadow’s dark, desired appearance always seemed to bring her back to herself.

To reignite a piece of her dying soul.

She couldn’t explain it to the other Marionettes, not even Aleida, because she already knew what they would say: The shadow was an illusion. Another of Malcolm’s tricks with no more personality than her own shadow cast by flickering candles, every move dictated by Malcolm, every appearance of comfort, of care, no more than performance.

But when the shadow’s strange, malleable yet firm hand grazed her skin—like he understood her pain, like he felt it, too—he felt like something more.

In a way, Emberlyn didn’t want to know. As curious as she was to discover what exactly it was she performed with every night, she knew her imagination was much better than what was likely the truth. As long as Malcolm didn’t admit the boy was a mere trick, to Emberlyn, he could be so much more. A guardian soul conjured to lure her out of the pits of her own mind when her body was subject to the whim of another. The shadow of someone living, who could somehow feel their connection.

She knew no real boy would ever touch her as the shadow did, that Malcolm would never allow it. Which made their partnership feel all the more divine.

Emberlyn sighed and slammed her hand into the water until the face looking back at her shattered. She couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t entertain such nonsense. How she felt, the certainty that this shadow was not just a shadow, was not something she’d ever be able to fully understand.

Emberlyn scrubbed her face dry and stood from her chair, making her way toward the common room to curl up beside the fire and listen to the quiet chatter of the other Marionettes for the rest of the evening.

She sensed the tension in the air before she entered the room. Before she heard Malcolm’s drunken voice singing something incomprehensible, the notes bouncing and colliding around the room in a cacophony of sound. Emberlyn paused in the corridor, her head cocked as she took it in.

He often left them to their own devices in the evenings, so the fact that he was in their common room was not good news. Malcolm was dangerous when he had been drinking. His power was erratic, somehow even more violent, to the point where he might drive any one of them to their knees with a force that would crack their kneecaps for little more than glaring at him a little longer than he liked.

Should she turn around and head back to her room? Was it better to try to avoid him, or should she plant herself directly in front of him, invisible in plain sight when she blended in with the rest of his dolls?

But the Marionettes were already in there, Aleida likely among them. She didn’t have a choice, really, but to always put herself between Aleida and danger. After a deep breath pulled into the pit of her stomach, she pushed the door open. The noise spilled toward her, like she had emerged from a pool of water to hear everything too sharply.

The Marionettes were still, their bodies coiled like springs and eyes wide, glued to Malcolm, who was spinning in circles before the hearth with the costume he had not yet changed out of in disarray. Emberlyn watched for a moment, her every muscle tense as she took in the strange performance.

At least he was happy. The alcohol was causing him to dance, rather than bare his teeth. She preferred him like this—even more so when the alcohol loosened his tongue and he’d carelessly give them rare details about his life before he was their Puppet Master. Details Emberlyn cataloged carefully away in her mind, hoping he would one day reveal something she could use against him. Like how he had come from a poor home, and how his father used to beat him unconscious. How he knew he was something special despite where he was born and ran from home to seek his fortune. Things worth remembering, but nothing she could hold over him. Yet.

She crept inside and found her way to Aleida’s side. Wine sloshed out of the bottle Malcolm held as he occasionally tipped the contents into his mouth with a sharp chuckle.

“What’s going on?” she breathed as Malcolm gave a particularly violent twirl and stumbled over a footrest. His coattails billowed as he landed in an ungraceful heap. An envelope, its seal broken, fluttered out of his hand and landed dangerously close to the fire blazing in the hearth.

“I’m not sure,” Aleida murmured back. “He keeps saying ‘Parlizia’ over and over and singing in…” She trailed off, captivated by Malcolm’s crumpled body as he rolled like a turtle stuck on its back, before shaking her head. Emberlyn cocked her head.

She’d heard of Parlizia—she’d seen it in her maps. A capital city in a land far away from New Kora, it was unfathomably ancient, its streets spreading and growing over the centuries like roots of a tree to become something unshakable. It was the kind of city that could withstand anything because it simply could never cease to be, those roots far too deeply buried to be carved out of the earth. Parlizia made New Kora seem almost youthful when held in comparison to its elder across the Aurus Ocean.

It was the same city Esme had once revealed she came from, offering a tiny seed of who she once was that Emberlyn had never been able to forget. She had been torn from Parlizia by Malcolm and sailed to New Kora to start up the Marionettes, though she never gave any more information about her time there.

“He hasn’t noticed you yet, Ember,” Aleida continued. “Get out of here before he gets back up.”

Aleida gave Emberlyn a little push back toward the door, her desire to keep her from harm warming Emberlyn for a moment. But she didn’t listen. Instead, Emberlyn’s eyes narrowed on the letter beside Malcolm, who was still attempting to stand without sacrificing his unrelenting song. A red wax seal with a stamp she couldn’t make out had been broken. Whatever was in that letter was what had Malcolm spinning in circles; she was sure of it. And she wanted to know what.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward, ignoring Aleida’s protests. “Let me help you,” she said, offering her hand to Malcolm. He tilted his chin to look up at her, his mouth twisted in what she supposed others found to be a charming smile.

He grabbed her hand, pulling so hard that Emberlyn almost crumpled on top of him. She let out a hiss of pain as Jia and Anushka rushed to either side of Malcolm, attempting to gather him up by his elbows to take the weight off Emberlyn. They guided him into the armchair by the fire, where he sank into the cushions, his cheeks red and bulging with excitement. Emberlyn gingerly retrieved the letter. She stood before Malcolm, hand pulsing where he had grabbed it, and dangled the letter before him.

“May I?”

Malcolm glanced between her and the letter, before he broke into a barking laugh.

“Bring me more wine and then you may, Princess!”

Emberlyn tensed at the nickname in his slimy voice, her eyes traveling to Ida, who grabbed another half-empty wine bottle on the sideboard and handed it to Malcolm. He snatched it from her and tipped the liquid down his throat. He beamed up at Emberlyn when he was done, jerking his head in a gesture that said she could go ahead. The other Marionettes leaned in, waiting, desperate to hear what had Malcolm dancing in their common room. Emberlyn glanced at Aleida out of the corner of her eye, before she slid the letter from the envelope and began to read aloud.

Dear Monsieur Malcolm Manrow and his Marvelous Marionettes,

Word of your breathtaking performance has reached us here at Le Théâtre de Feu in Parlizia. We have heard nothing but the most complimentary of reviews.

We are writing to invite you to perform in our theater. We would love to have you return, Monsieur Manrow, to the very same place your career began. Please do us the incredible honor of returning with your talented dance troupe to put on a showcase to run through the Noeltide season. I look forward to receiving your response as soon as possible, so we can begin to make arrangements.

Yours faithfully,

Mademoiselle Fournier

Le Théâtre de Feu

Emberlyn’s eyes traced over the return address before she turned to stare at the Marionettes. Their jaws had all but dropped to their chests.

“Parlizia,” she breathed. Nobody responded. All eyes drifted to Malcolm as he drank deeply. He gulped audibly, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and grinned back at her.

“My beloved city! The theater my career began in has invited me back—is begging me to put on a show!”

Emberlyn glanced over to Aleida and saw the same strange mix of interest and horror she herself felt reflected in her friend’s eyes. What would it mean to visit another city? Would it simply be a different prison, a different stage to parade themselves upon, or an opportunity for something more? For change? Perhaps…even a new chance of escape?

“I guess I had better let my new chosen Marionette know I will be in need of her services, eh?” He laughed as Emberlyn’s interest instantly evaporated at the thought of the next poor girl he was to ensnare. When his laugh was left unechoed by the silent, tense girls around him, he angled his feral snarl toward Miriam. “Oh, smile, won’t you? It won’t kill you. And you’re so much prettier when you smile.” He flicked his hand, and Miriam’s cheeks lifted, her lips grotesquely twisting upward into a showstopping grin while her eyes folded into a frown.

“Come on, everyone! Smile! We’re going to Parlizia!” He stood and threw his arms to the ceiling. Emberlyn squeezed her eyes shut, trying to fight the heat as the curse ricocheted to the surface to sing back to Malcolm, pale threads of string snapping into existence and tying around her in a vise grip that sent shock waves of pain along her skin. But her body didn’t listen to her. It barely remembered her. Malcolm gestured again, and the Marionettes began to spin where they stood, like dancers inside a jewelry box.

Emberlyn’s curse forced her to grin at the Puppet Master as she twirled, as Malcolm weaved in and out of his Marionettes, singing at the top of his lungs. His drunken, inescapable power tore through her every nerve, and she couldn’t even cry out.

Emberlyn didn’t let herself go numb this time. She didn’t close her soul to what was happening.

She stared at Malcolm through the curse’s smile as she spun and let rage burn in her heart.

Malcolm finally fell into a drunken sleep, splayed in an armchair with the last drops of the wine bottle in his hand dripping to the floor. It stained the threadbare rug a blood-red.

With her cheeks aching from the forced smile, Emberlyn gestured toward the common-room door. Aleida caught the movement and nodded, and the two Marionettes stood, stepping in between the girls hunched on the floor in various stages of exhaustion. They left the common room together.

Treading silently and avoiding the creaky floorboards, Emberlyn led Aleida toward the dormitory, the air becoming thin and cold without the warmth of the hearth to fill it. Aleida eyed Emberlyn as she closed the door behind them.

“No,” Aleida said, adding a gentle tone to her sharp word. Emberlyn spun on her heel to face her, her lips curving into a frown.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” she protested.

“You don’t need to. I already know by the look on your face.”

“Just hear me out—”

“No, Ember.”

The two girls stared at each other for a moment—Emberlyn’s gaze full of frustration while Aleida’s communicated something a little more desperate. A little sadder. She stepped forward, her voice low. “I have heard you out, Ember. I understand your desire to leave; I really do.”

“It’s everything I want,” Emberlyn rasped. “And this could be the best chance we get. How easy it could be to simply slip away among all the movement at the port’s train station, in the bustling crowds.”

Aleida crossed the room and threw herself onto her bed with a sigh.

“Every night I imagine having my body back. Having the power to do and say as I please. To go somewhere where Malcolm can’t force me to smile.” Aleida’s fingers played idly across her cheek as she spoke. Emberlyn’s hand lifted to her own face, tenderly prodding cheeks that ached with the strain of smiling until Malcolm grew bored with them. From the smile that took over when her soul wanted to cry. To scream. Her eyes watered as Aleida’s lifted to meet hers. They filled with a knowing pity as she continued.

“What I’m trying to say is that I understand. But we can’t leave our sisters when there’s no certainty we would be able to come back to save them. That we would even survive to do so. That we wouldn’t simply be signing ourselves up to endure Malcolm’s wrath when we fail.”

Emberlyn crossed the room and sat beside her.

“He’s taking us to Parlizia,” she said slowly, as if Aleida didn’t quite understand what was happening. “Soon we’ll be in a country so far away and unfamiliar, I don’t think he’d ever be able to find us if we ran. It’s perfect.”

Aleida’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Being somewhere new might simply be enough. We might be happy there.”

Emberlyn leaped to her feet, an explosion of fire spilling through her chest as she glared at Aleida. Aleida flinched away.

“Happy?” Emberlyn snapped. “Is that what you think we’re going to be? Happy?”

“We could at least try to be. It’s better than feeling sorry for ourselves. Maybe this will change things. Maybe being somewhere new could make this bearable for a little bit longer,” Aleida whispered, her shoulders bowing underneath Emberlyn’s sudden rage. Emberlyn shook her head and let out a laugh that was almost manic.

“How could we feel anything other than sorry for ourselves? We will never be happy with Malcolm. Not in New Kora, not in Parlizia. We won’t be happy anywhere else that bastard chooses to parade us. He stole our lives, Aleida. He stole everything—memories of the people we love, the things we were meant to experience. I cannot take another moment of the endless dancing and waiting for the next show, doing little else but counting down the days until the tatters of the life we do have left are ripped away completely.”

“I want this to end, but I won’t leave my sisters,” Aleida said, tipping up her chin. Emberlyn stopped pacing, her hands suddenly aching where she’d screwed them into fists too tightly. “Think of the poor girl Malcolm is going to curse. Think about how lost she will be, Ember. We’ll need to look after her the same as we have everyone else. The same way you and Esme did for me. We would have broken long ago if not for her.” Aleida stood and closed the distance between them, gently placing her hands on Emberlyn’s arms as if that could calm her fury. “These are your own sisters. They’re more important than any life we could claim for ourselves.”

“I don’t care about this new Marionette, Aleida,” Emberlyn hissed, though her words rang false in her own ears. “I never asked to be lead Marionette. I never asked to be the one everybody else looks to, to fix everything.”

“They look up to you,” Aleida carried on urgently. “Without you, the Marionettes would be lost. We need to stay together. We need to be there for the poor souls doomed to the same fate as ours.”

Emberlyn shook Aleida’s hands away, her stomach writhing, and over the sound of her blood beating drums in her ears hissed her next words out through gritted teeth. “I’ll leave anyone if it means freedom.”

She snapped her mouth closed, her words surprising even her as she watched Aleida’s desperate expression fold into sorrow. They looked at each other for a moment as Emberlyn’s words burrowed through the quiet. Her throat tightened at the sudden intense sadness in Aleida’s eyes. Her next words were softer. Pleading.

“Please, choose it. I don’t want to leave you behind, but I will.”

Silence built between them as Aleida simply looked at her, hurt swimming in her gaze.

They had been stolen into the Marionettes only weeks apart. Torn from lives they slowly forgot, they faced their new half lives with Esme to guide them. When the curse, the loneliness, the shame of what was happening overwhelmed them, they could always hide away together, rely on each other to be the lifeboat that kept the other from drowning. They suffered together, and their pain had built bonds that couldn’t be broken.

Aleida stood, a tear rolling down her cheek. Emberlyn’s throat stung with the bitterness of her words. Her threat of abandonment. She knew she should fix it—take her words back and swallow them down, tell Aleida they weren’t true.

But…weren’t they? She wasn’t sure. In that moment, in many moments, nothing seemed as important as getting out.

She wanted to escape Malcolm’s clutches. Their time was slipping away, a fact that Aleida seemed unable to face. So why not spend their last few days, months, years—however long they had—chasing the light instead of existing in darkness?

She bit her tongue and remained quiet as Aleida’s gaze hunted out the words she wanted to hear. But when they didn’t come, Aleida’s shoulders sagged.

“I won’t stop you. I’ll tell them why you chose to leave.” Aleida moved to go, but then paused. “I hope you’re right. I hope you get away. And I’ll miss you more than I could ever explain.”

She brushed past Emberlyn’s shoulder as she walked toward the door. Emberlyn didn’t turn to watch her leave.

She stood tall as the door creaked closed behind her, holding herself rigid when all she wanted was to shatter.

Six

The Cursing of Grace Wheeler

Silence as heavy as dirt on a grave buried the Marionettes as they gathered in the common room. They listened to the seconds slip by, the obnoxious clock drumming out every heartbeat. Emberlyn couldn’t help but dart looks at Aleida as she watched the fire with a glazed-over expression.

Jia looked around solemnly. As the newest Marionette, it was clear she wasn’t completely aware of what was about to happen. How a new Marionette was created. She likely remembered her own experience only in snapshots of agony and fear.

Aleida had been cursed after Emberlyn. She had cried and cried, begged Emberlyn to help her contact her family until she had forgotten their faces completely and simply curled into herself. Heather, on the other hand, had always been slipping out of the common room unnoticed, but she never got farther than the locked front door before Malcolm caught her.

Rosalyn came after. She had attacked them all at least once—clawing at Emberlyn’s face, wrapping her hands around Aleida’s throat, and holding a knife up to Esme, who had simply watched, unbothered. Almost like she would have welcomed the blade. Ida and Anushka arrived before Esme died, their first task to help Emberlyn carry the disintegrating body to Chord Park. Miriam, like Aleida, had cried for days. It had grated on the grieving Emberlyn’s nerves like a hacksaw, earning not pity for her, but contempt.

Jia was the most recent. She had curled into a corner and refused to speak to anyone until Malcolm threatened her with unimaginable pain if she didn’t stop being such a dramatic little girl.

Emberlyn wondered how the new Marionette would react. Would it be in anger? Sorrow? Would it be unbridled despair when she realized her dreams were little more than snowflakes—beautiful in passing, but melting upon her touch into nothing?

Ida, Rosalyn, and Anushka listlessly played a card game in the corner, though if they’d been asked, not one of them would have been able to say what they were playing. Miriam gnawed on her nails as Emberlyn’s gaze flicked to her, watching with an odd sort of detachment. A thousand emotions clawed at her mind, demanding to be felt and hissing when Emberlyn forced them back.

So Emberlyn swapped between darting looks at Aleida and watching Miriam tear at her nails with a blank face, a war raging in her mind to keep her conscious thoughts a gray, empty space.

It was a war not always won. In her effort not to think about the girl currently being led around the theater above their heads, she was all Emberlyn could think about. She imagined the girl’s heart fluttering as the Puppet Master reeled her in with promises of Parlizia on his lips, bags clutched in her hand and eyes alight with thoughts of the shining future.

Emberlyn sat up as a familiar voice rumbled in the corridor, followed by a demure chuckle. The Marionettes traded forlorn glances—despite Emberlyn’s simmering anger toward Aleida, she couldn’t help seeking out her comforting, familiar expression—before they all turned to the door. Emberlyn took a deep breath as her heart jumped in her chest. She supposed it wouldn’t be much longer until she found out how their new sister would react to the darkness that would soon swim in her veins.

As the door brushed open, the Marionettes all stood in a sweep of rustling day dresses, shoulders back and arms clasped behind them as Malcolm and his new Marionette entered the room. Malcolm’s shadow reared up the walls in the flickering firelight. He swept his arm out toward the Marionettes as he turned to the small, slight figure beside him.

“The Marionettes. Your new troupe,” he said.

Emberlyn forced a tight smile onto her face to avoid sparking Malcolm’s anger. The girl who had that hungry look in her eyes stood before them, appraising them all in a way that made Emberlyn’s heart sink. She wore an elegant dusky-pink day dress that hinted at wealth, red on her lips, and her hair was pulled into neat braids that hung loose down her back. She nodded, clutching her bags in front of her as if she were putting a barrier between her and them. Shy. Powerful.

About to lose everything.

Emberlyn bobbed her own head in response when the girl’s eyes found hers and lit up. No doubt she recognized Malcolm’s lead above everyone else. The Princess of New Kora.

“Everyone, this is Miss Grace Wheeler. She is to join as our newest Marionette to replace our most recent departure.” Emberlyn kept her face still, impassive. So distant from her own mind and feeling that it took her a moment to realize that Malcolm was looking at her, her name on his lips. He snapped his fingers, causing Emberlyn to blink and her attention to come surging back.

“Emberlyn? Would you please show Grace to the dormitory and relieve her of her luggage?”

She hesitated, before she stepped forward, tipping her head in what she hoped looked like an apology. “Of course, Malcolm.” She raised her eyes to Grace, her heart thumping hard in her chest when she offered a fresh smile. “Would you like to come with me?”

Emberlyn slipped between Malcolm and Grace without waiting for an answer, keen to be out of the common room’s stifling atmosphere of held secrets and melancholy. She walked down the low-lit corridor at such a speed that Grace had to trot to catch up. Emberlyn kept several steps ahead of her so she didn’t have a chance to ask questions. She couldn’t bear to lie to her. Instead, she simply pushed open the door to the Marionettes’ dormitory and stood aside.

“That’s your bed.” She pointed toward where Heather used to lie. “You can just put your bags down for now. I’m sure Malcolm will want you back in the common room.” She wanted to bite her tongue at her words until she bled, but Malcolm’s instructions had been clear.

Before Grace had arrived, he’d lined the Marionettes up in the common room, his storm-cloud face bearing no hint of his usual charisma. He would give her a tour of the theater first, as was normal. Then he would bring her to the common room. Emberlyn would show her to the dormitory to relieve her of her luggage and lead her straight back. There, only Emberlyn, Aleida, and Rosalyn would stay. The others must leave, and then…then the ceremony could begin.

Ceremony. He called his torture, his cursing, a ceremony.

Emberlyn gave a weak smile when she realized Grace was frowning at her. Emberlyn must have been glaring, her expression hateful as she recounted her instructions.

“Just here?” Grace said, her voice soft and small, so at odds with the girl Emberlyn had witnessed on the stage. Her boldness must extend only so far as the light shone on her. Now she was so clearly out of her element that she was trying to shrink herself to be as little noticed as possible. Odd for a dancer, but understandable. If dancers spent too much time in the limelight, reveled in the glory of a perfect performance, sometimes they sought solitude and silence in the world beyond the stage.

Grace placed her bags onto the freshly made sheets.

“Better be getting back, then?” she asked after a swift inspection of her new home.

No questions. No interview. Nothing. Emberlyn had wanted Grace to ask nothing of her, because she couldn’t bear to play the part of the exalted, enthusiastic lead dancer of the Marionettes. But she didn’t want to take her back. She didn’t want to lead this ill-fated young girl into the jaws of a monster.

Emberlyn was yet again to be part of another girl’s undoing.

“Yes,” Emberlyn whispered, and drifted back out into the corridor. The candles in their sconces were burning low tonight. Like they were cowering, trying to extinguish themselves before they had to see what was about to happen. Emberlyn’s eyes stung as she walked, listening to the pattering of Grace’s unassuming feet trailing behind her. Expecting to walk into glory as Emberlyn led her into damnation.

Emberlyn pushed open the door to the common room and stepped aside to allow Grace to walk in after her. She kept her head stooped, her gaze fastened to the floor as Grace paused. The new girl tensed as she took in everyone’s expressions. But still, she said nothing. She took it all on the chin in her quest for her dreams and walked in farther.

“Now, Grace.” Malcolm rose from where he reclined beside the fire. “We have something of a little…ceremony—an initiation, as it were, for those who accept a position among the famed Marionettes. It’s just a small thing all the girls must go through if they want to truly be considered a part of our little family. I trust you are keen to participate?”

Grace smiled at the monster.

“Of course, I’d be happy to. What is it?”

“Excellent!” Malcolm sang, ignoring her question. “Rosalyn, Aleida, Emberlyn, stay to help, won’t you? The rest of you young ladies, it’s off to bed. I want you bright and fresh for tomorrow’s matinee.”

The Marionettes rose and filtered out, their eyes averted from Grace, their goodbyes mumbled and strained. Grace watched them leave with an expression that grew tighter. Anxiety bled across her features as her eyes flitted to each girl’s face. As Jia, the last to leave the room, turned and shot Grace one last, wide-eyed look, Grace turned to Malcolm.

“What is the ceremony?” she asked again quietly, her voice uncertain. Her eyes darted to Emberlyn, Aleida, and Rosalyn, who were standing stiffly, like they wanted to be anywhere but there. Malcolm didn’t look at her but instead turned his beaming smile to Emberlyn.

“Emberlyn, shut the door.”

Emberlyn tipped her head and walked to the door, her heart thrumming with every step she took. How could she be part of this again?

If she refused, what would she achieve? A beating. That’s all. A Marionette’s skin could break, but it healed within moments. They felt the explosions of pain inside their bones all the same, even if there was nothing to show for it on the surface in the moments following the trauma. She would feel every ounce of pain as dearly as if it were killing her.

She closed the door and turned back to Malcolm.

“And lock it too, Emberlyn?” His smile didn’t drop, though his gaze hardened. Emberlyn turned, everything narrowing until it was just her and the key protruding from the lock.

A small voice spoke at her back. “What’s going on? Please?”

The sound of it pierced her heart.

This girl was doomed to the same fate as her. But…locking the door made it final. Like fixing an envelope with a wax seal, never to be broken open. Emberlyn’s hands stayed screwed into fists at her side.

“Dearest Emberlyn?” The undertone of threat in his voice made Emberlyn lift her hand. She hesitated, hovering over the lock, her frantic heart rocking her body.

She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. She needed to open the door. She needed to let Grace—

Strings wrapped around her wrist, her curse surging to her surface with a burn that made Emberlyn hiss. Her hand, desperate to obey, reached up and snapped the lock shut with a clunk that reverberated around the common room. The curse faded almost instantly as Malcolm called the strings away, the task done. Emberlyn spun on her heel, her face flaming as her eyes latched on to Malcolm, seeking out the promise of punishment she feared to find there. But his focus was on something bigger than his lead’s resistance. He clapped his hands together, rubbed them, his grin as wide as a beast’s before it closed its jaws around its prey as he appraised the new Marionette.

“Excellent.” His voice dripped with excitement. “Let’s begin.”

Grace had started to back away from his stare, her arms stiff at her side as if she didn’t know whether she needed to swing a punch. Aleida stood near her side, watching her with an endlessly despairing gaze. Rosalyn had turned to the fire, not wanting to look at Grace any longer than she had to.

Malcolm approached Grace with the air of a stalking predator. Grace immediately held her hands out in front of her, her head shaking as she uttered out pleading words and promises. Emberlyn’s stomach rolled and her body tremored as Malcolm closed the distance between them.

Grace made to dash around him, knocking Rosalyn aside. Rosalyn didn’t even react. Just shifted her position, keeping her face turned to the hearth as Malcolm grabbed the helpless girl beside her.

“No! Let go of me!” Grace screamed as Malcolm grappled with her, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward him.

Her wild eyes met Emberlyn’s.

“Help me! Stop him!” she cried, before she gagged. Malcolm’s hands wrapped around her throat, his weight pulling her to the dusty floorboards, where he pinned her with his knees. The pressure around her neck not enough to snap bone, but enough to silence her completely.

Emberlyn closed her eyes as Malcolm squeezed the life out of the girl on the floor of the Marionettes’ common room. She tried to ignore the choking, the writhing as the girl kicked and struggled. She opened her eyes only when the sounds had stopped.

Once Grace was on the brink of death.

Malcolm watched her face for a moment longer, holding the back of his hand to her mouth to feel for the last straggling breaths. Finally, he knelt back and inspected his work. Emberlyn didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the tickle of a tear on her skin.

“Hold her,” Malcolm commanded the Marionettes. Emberlyn didn’t hesitate, not wanting to incur his wrath. She, Aleida, and Rosalyn each grabbed one of the dying girl’s limbs, leaving the right arm open for Malcolm and braced for what was to come.

Malcolm, his cheeks red with exertion and his hair in disarray in front of his face, reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small switchblade, flicking it open with a familiar motion. Emberlyn watched, despite the roiling in her stomach, as Malcolm cut across his own palm, baring his teeth as the knife opened his flesh. He let out a grunt of pain before he reached over, picked up Grace’s limp hand, and split open hers too.

With blood dripping from both of their hands, Malcolm held his wound to Grace’s silent lips, before pressing Grace’s bleeding palm to his mouth. Emberlyn fought a gag as he began to drink deeply. Malcolm’s blood stained Grace’s chin as he watched her with burning eyes.

He performed his cursing. His teeth left dents in her soft skin, threatening to pierce it as he drank and drank. Emberlyn couldn’t look away, frozen in horror though she had seen it before. The noises were repulsive, full of relish and delight as he feasted with a sickening smile. Too often when he smiled at her, Emberlyn thought of this. The blood coating his lips. The predatory burn in his gaze as he sealed Grace’s fate as a Marionette and waited for the curse to take hold in a fresh body.

Suddenly, Grace’s eyes snapped open and Malcolm yanked his hand away, her own hand falling limply to the floor. Her chest heaved as an inky substance seeped through her like the smoke of a thousand dead fires. Ready to reignite and burn her up from the inside. It painted her veins pitch black as it wound through them, invading every bone and muscle, every heartbeat.

Malcolm climbed to his feet and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his breast pocket before wrapping it around his hand. His blood instantly seeped through it, turning the handkerchief patchwork. He made to leave but looked back at his Marionettes as they surrounded their new sister on the floor.

“Clean up the blood when it’s done,” he drawled. He unlocked the door and swept into the corridor, slamming it closed behind him.

Emberlyn stayed on her knees, ignoring the hot blood that stickily hugged her skin. She pushed down on Grace’s shoulder, fighting against the strength of the girl beneath her as she began to buck and convulse, blood pooling in her mouth as she chewed on the inside of her cheeks. Emberlyn bared her teeth as the first choking groans pummeled her eardrums. Grace began to lash out, to thrash as the three Marionettes held her down. They strained to keep her from harming herself on the surrounding furniture as the bone-splintering agony worked its way through her.

Emberlyn looked up and caught Aleida looking back at her forlornly as the girl writhed between them. She looked away and leaned down, running her thumb over Grace’s cheek to remove the glimmering tears that had begun to collect there like pearls, tears of her own spilling over.

Emberlyn screwed her eyes tightly shut and found her fingers seeking Grace’s. She threaded them through hers and squeezed, wishing upon wish that she could take just an ounce of this girl’s pain away from her. She kept her eyes closed, imagining herself far, far away as an animalistic wail tore through the room, shivering in every crevice and corner of the shadowed common room.

I’m sorry, Emberlyn repeated like a song in her mind. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

That was when the screams began.

Seven

A Ballroom of Broken Dreams

If Emberlyn owned anything, had any possession to boast of, it was her defiance. Her resilience. In her heart of hearts, she knew she wouldn’t yield it easily.

Though, listening to Grace’s screams as the curse wound through her veins, sandpapering against her skin from the inside out, Emberlyn felt that resilience come close to extinguishing. Despair replaced her hope as Grace’s howls continued long into the night and every night after that, despite the comfort her new sisters tried to bring her. No matter how often Aleida whispered comforting words into her ear and dabbed her burning forehead with a cool compress. Emberlyn covered her ears with her pillow as she turned her back on the Marionettes, trying to shut out the sound of Grace begging for her mother.

Until one night, the cries stopped. The shivers, the sweating, the screaming all stopped as her memories faded and the pain receded. Grace became an empty shell, reduced to nothing more than throat-clenching moans of sorrow.

Emberlyn distracted herself from the sound of Grace mourning her lost life by imagining the feel of that shadow’s hands on hers long into the night. Her eyes closed, she’d remember the pressure of his fingers at her hips as he lifted her in the heat of the spotlights, the firmness of his grip when he held her hands to spin her. She’d silently, slowly, trace her own skin where he’d held her in their last performance, pretending she could feel his touch still. Trying to pull the comfort she so desperately wanted from the sensation, a distraction from the grief that filled the dormitory like a bubble straining to burst.

There was something so human, so pure, in the way the shadow touched her. As if he was creating art with her body and Emberlyn was his willing muse.

She thought, too, in the endless hours of those nights, about Aleida’s refusal to run. Although they hadn’t much spoken since, and though Emberlyn had ignored the mournful looks shot her way since they’d pinned Grace down during her cursing, she thought of nothing but taking Aleida’s hand and escaping into the night as they instead orbited each other in mutual silence.

Emberlyn understood that Aleida was not going with her. When two weeks had passed since Grace’s cursing, and she found herself standing on the edge of the farewell ball Malcolm had thrown ahead of their departure for Parlizia, Emberlyn realized if she was going to run, it was going to have to be without her.

The ballroom Malcolm had hired for the celebration was brilliantly lit, sparkling and heaving—a testament to the breathtaking funds he had squirreled away. Theater owners, dancers, and members of New Kora’s elite flitted through the grand ballroom on clouds of sickly sweet perfume. Their high-pitched laughter frayed Emberlyn’s nerves. The sparkle in the ladies’ dresses competed for prominence with the chandeliers, where dewdrop crystals rebounded the light so it pierced every corner of the ballroom. It soared through the arched windows and stained the night beyond.

It was Malcolm’s way of saying farewell to New Kora. Behind the front of generosity and excitement, he demonstrated just how superior he and his wonderful Marionettes were compared with New Kora’s other troupes. The extravagance they could afford, the attention they received. Emberlyn didn’t fail to notice the envious glares shot in her direction, quickly covered with smiles when she met the guests’ eyes. They didn’t want to be caught glaring at the revered Princess of New Kora.

She stood to the side as far away from the crowd as she could get, a crystal flute of champagne clutched in her gloved hands and an emerald-green evening dress hugging her every curve. Aleida had brought the drink over for her, eyes wide with hope that this small gesture would at least earn her some kind of relief from Emberlyn’s burning frustration, but Emberlyn had only taken it from her hand and turned on her heel, ignoring the sad eyes boring into her back.

The Marionettes were not usually allowed to drink, but the pale gold liquid held no interest for her. She’d taken it without a word of thanks from Aleida only because she knew it would upset her, and despite her love for her best friend, something inside her wanted to punish someone, place the blame elsewhere, for what she had just been through with Grace.

Emberlyn’s eyes kept darting to Malcolm, her thumb rubbing along the rim of her champagne flute. She counted up the glasses of wine and champagne he had poured down his throat as women leaned in, laughing, their fingers trailing along Malcolm’s shoulders in a way that made Emberlyn’s teeth grind.

But she didn’t look away. She wanted to know exactly how much he’d had so she could guess what to expect later. Whether he would seek out one of her sisters in a drunken stupor to beat them for no other reason than for sport. He was more unpredictable when he was drunk, more likely to cause the kind of agony that set off flashbulbs behind eyelids. She hadn’t bothered herself with Grace, but she wasn’t heartless. She didn’t want the new Marionette to know what Malcolm was truly capable of. She didn’t want her to ever experience that, though that was an empty wish that couldn’t possibly come true.

“You look like you’re trying to murder someone with your eyes.”

Emberlyn jumped, almost sloshing her champagne as Jia silently appeared at her side. A whole head shorter and a couple of years younger, she had to tilt her head up to give Emberlyn an apologetic smile.

Emberlyn smiled back wryly when her heart had recovered. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Jia paused, turning to follow her gaze. She made a small noise at the back of her throat when she found Malcolm at the end of it. “He’s already announced Grace as his new Marionette. The New Kora Times ran an article about her.”

Emberlyn’s stomach rolled.

“How is she?” she asked quietly.

“Coping. Of course, Malcolm thought she wasn’t ready to attend. I don’t know what excuse he has given for her absence.”

The two girls watched Malcolm. His face was ruddy with pleasure as those surrounding him broke into demure giggles. Emberlyn thought of Grace alone in the dormitory back at the theater. No doubt feeling hollower than she could have ever thought possible with nothing but the darkness for company.

Suddenly, an introductory note of a bow pulled across strings sang through the ballroom, instantly hushing the murmur of chatter. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked eagerly to the orchestra, finely dressed in satin and silk. The conductor bowed, then flicked his wrist. The music began.

Emberlyn’s gaze followed the smiling faces that rushed to fill the empty space of the dance floor, her heart twisting with bitterness. Skirts swirled in a kaleidoscope of color. She watched the joy of dancing that sat squarely on each of their faces with a detached kind of familiarity.

Dancing had been her life. Her everything. But now she could barely look at others reveling in the unbridled pleasure of movement, of expression, without her stomach feeling sour.

Her gaze snagged on someone. She recognized some of those who twirled on the dance floor.

“What the hell are they doing?” Emberlyn demanded. She pushed away from the wall, forcing herself to stop after a couple of agitated steps forward. Rosalyn, Miriam, and Anushka were in the crowd, twirling as their partners entwined their hands with theirs. “They’re dancing?”

Jia tried to hide her wistful expression. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Dancing?” Emberlyn spluttered again. “Aren’t we forced into that enough? Is Malcolm even allowing them to take dance partners?”

A smile played on Jia’s lips as she watched Rosalyn tip her head back and laugh, her partner staring down at her with an expression of curious wonder. They dipped and dived in among the other couples, the light of Rosalyn’s smile enough to challenge the chandelier above. Ida had joined the crowd and was being twirled completely out of time to the beat by a woman in a rich violet gown, but by the giddy expressions on their faces, neither seemed to care much about the dance itself.

“Yes.” Jia shrugged, running her hands down her skirts. “Looks good for the investors and such, and those poor fools are already head over heels in love with them. You just know they’ll empty their pockets to Malcolm. And…well, we are dancers. When are we ever allowed to dance for the love of it? Allowed to find these small snippets of uncontrolled joy?” Jia turned and looked expectantly at Emberlyn. “When was the last time you danced?”

Emberlyn’s chest tightened. She swallowed as a longing ache filled her body, but she gritted her teeth and moved to lean against the wall again, tilting her head away from the man across the room who eagerly tried to catch her eyes.

“I…I don’t know,” she answered. In truth, it was a blaze she hadn’t felt in a long time. It disappeared as if it had barely been there the day she was cursed—almost three years ago, she guessed, by the changing of the seasons. She must be seventeen by now, though she couldn’t know for sure. Malcolm didn’t care to remember their birthdays for them.

She felt the embers of that lost joy when the shadow came to wrap his arms around her. In those moments when she seemed to wake from a nightmare and dance with a dream. But she knew he wasn’t real. He was only an illusion, as was that longing burn she felt when she danced with him.

Emberlyn and Jia watched the swirl of the dancers responding to the crescendo of the music for a few moments more, before Jia spoke again.

“I miss it,” she said, her voice low.

“I don’t,” Emberlyn spat, though they both knew she was lying. The words tasted bitter on her tongue. But Emberlyn wouldn’t entertain thoughts of such a thing. It would feel like accepting Malcolm’s design for them. Like curtsying to her forced fate and extending her hand out in an invitation. She watched the Marionettes for a moment longer, before she tilted her head toward Jia. She was transfixed by those on the dance floor, the wistful wonder that had been on her face only moments ago now replaced with sorrow.

She turned to Malcolm, leading a woman in pale pink to the dance floor. Fury unlike any she’d felt before raged through her when she took in his beaming grin.

She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to take from him like he had from every one of them. Hope. Life. Freedom. Choice. Something. He took these girls away from everything they knew and danced them until they crumpled.

Instead, Emberlyn wrapped her arm around Jia and pulled her in, gently kissing the top of her head.

“I am so sorry, Jia,” she murmured into her hair. “For this. For this life.”

Jia chuckled and struggled out of Emberlyn’s grasp, softly pushing her away. “Don’t be silly.” She grinned through eyes brimming with tears. “It’s not your fault. You suffer the exact same.”

Emberlyn’s chest wrenched with shame. She did, but she was also willing to leave her behind. Leave all of them behind to endure until she could make it back to save them. She didn’t trust anyone but Aleida to attempt escape with her, not when one wrong step could spell a lifetime of torture at Malcolm’s hand. She forced her trembling lips into a smile.

Jia smiled back at her, then turned to look at Malcolm. “Try not to throw too many more murderous glances at Malcolm tonight, okay?” She wandered away, disappearing into the heaving, twirling crowd.

Emberlyn pushed away from the wall again, her mind racing and spinning like the dancers she glided toward. Skirts spun and snapped, smiles flicking in and out in flashes as heads twisted and turned. Emberlyn circled the edge, hunting out her sisters as her stomach clenched at the scent of a hundred warring sweet perfumes.

She spotted Rosalyn. Her blond hair was elegantly piled, two twisted locks framing her cheekbones and accentuating her swanlike neck. She gazed up at her partner with a longing Emberlyn had seen on Rosalyn’s face before, when she tucked herself away in novels about young women who built their dreams alongside those of someone they loved. Malcolm may have allowed a partner to place their hands on her tonight, to hold her, but when he put his fence up around her once more, Rosalyn’s heart would be broken again.

Emberlyn kept walking, picking out Ida as she twirled on the dance floor, still sweeping around haphazardly with her hands tangled with the woman in violet’s fingers. Stolen from right here in New Kora, Ida had been snatched out of her prestigious ballet school and forced to live in a shadow of her own dreams. She spotted Miriam as she returned from the buffet table with biscuits cupped in her hands, staring at them longingly with the look of someone rarely allowed such treats with a flush rising to her alabaster skin. Malcolm kept a close eye on what food he allowed into the theater, wanting to make sure his Marionettes didn’t overindulge.

Anushka stood at the edge of the dance floor, easily moving between groups of huddled patrons, her charm and wit oozing from her easy smile as everybody she talked to fell in love with her. From the shine in her eye, Emberlyn knew she was reveling in her brief freedom.

Aleida was inside the twirling mass of bodies alone, her arms raised, her eyes closed and head tipped back as if feeling the music running through her. Emberlyn halted her pacing to watch her.

A look of bittersweet pain sat squarely in Aleida’s features—imperceptible to all but those who knew her inside out. The slight furrow of her brow, the crease that appeared between them when she wrinkled her nose. Her brown skin was dusted with a pink-and-purple powder that made her glitter in the light as she swayed. Every movement precise. Every movement her choice.

Emberlyn’s chest wrenched at the sight of Aleida sinking into the music, the world around her melting away to become something inconsequential. Emberlyn turned away as if it were something private she shouldn’t be witness to. A small part of her, though, was glad Aleida had stopped trying to bring Emberlyn drinks and was enjoying this moment of elation. She deserved this little heartbeat of contentment.

Despite what had happened, their differences, she wished she could give Aleida the power to dance freely whenever she chose to. Every single one of the Marionettes had been torn away from a life, a future, that could no longer exist. Miriam’s desire to travel the world and sample the food of every nation, Rosalyn’s dream to marry for love and bear three perfect children. Jia’s wish to open a rescue home for dogs, Anushka to return to her theater in her home country, Ida’s to open her own dance school and teach the next generation. Emberlyn knew all their most hopeless desires, breathed into slim, temporary existences when the Marionettes spent evenings around the common-room fire, dreaming of the lives they should have had.

Emberlyn’s body started to crumple under the weight of her sisters’ shattered dreams, raising her hand to her face to scrub away the angry tears that forced their way out. She turned from the crowd, unable to look at her sisters anymore, her mind made up.

She would make her escape on the way to Parlizia, find help, and save them all from this curse that was slowly killing them. Because it would kill them all. She was certain.

And because she, with her courage, her bravery, her recklessness, was the best hope any of them had.

Act Two

Eight

Her Hateful Gaze

As the days swiftly marched onward, the dusky corridors of the theater bustling with preparations for their crossing to Parlizia, thoughts of escaping Malcolm consumed Emberlyn.

She knew the trip to Parlizia was the best opportunity she was ever going to get. In the chaos of transporting all the girls to a city so very far away, Malcolm would not be able to keep an eye on every single one of them at all times. She didn’t know exactly when she was to do it, but she’d traced the journey she was to make through her maps and selected two key opportunities. New Kora Port, where she could slip away among the chaos of the seafront, either before boarding or when they pulled into the port’s train station, and make the hunt for her forgotten family easier by not needing to make her way back from foreign lands—although she knew that could make it easier for Malcolm to track her down, and make whatever life she had left a tortured misery.

Or once their ship had docked on the other side. She could either hide somewhere deep within the bowels of the ship that had borne them across the Aurus Ocean or slip away among the crowds of disembarking passengers. That, though, could make getting back to New Kora tricky. More likely, she would have to somehow seek help in that unfamiliar land, trusting in strangers she might not be able to communicate with easily. Although Malcolm had assured them it was standard for those within the theater industry to learn the common language from a young age to ensure they could travel easily, that they’d be able to talk as normal when they arrived, the public might not speak it.

Though these thoughts were bookended with the burning misery of knowing she was going to have to do it alone, she tried to keep her thoughts from straying to Aleida, internally berating herself whenever her mind wandered away from the intricacies of her plan. The focus on details was all that was stopping her from dissolving into anxiety at the fear of being caught, and under the weight of responsibility, if she were to succeed, when it came to returning to rescue the others.

She just had to hope Malcolm had been wrong when he’d insisted they would not physically be able to escape. That it was just his threat that had been his way of keeping them in place, ensuring nobody dared to try again.

So lost in thought was Emberlyn that the activity of the Marionettes packing for Parlizia was nothing but a hum. She kept her attention on the bag open on her bed before her, methodically folding her few day dresses as her sisters breezed past, sharing clothes, packing belongings, discussing what Parlizia might be like. Her bracelet was hidden away in the folds of her packed dresses. She slipped it out, allowing herself a moment to run her thumb over the name.

Grace had regained alertness since the cursing. She had spent days as nothing but a trembling, sweating wreck in her bed, muttering with a feverish quality while some of the Marionettes pressed cold compresses to her forehead. But recently, she had begun to sit up, had even taken a bath, though she had ventured no farther and spent as much time as she could curled inside her bedsheets. She still refused to interact with the other girls. She had not yet unpacked from her arrival. Her full suitcase sat on the bed beside her.

A foul mood surrounded Grace, her head bowed and her braids loose and unkempt as she did nothing but pick at her fingernails and ignore the kind smiles sent in her direction. Much to Emberlyn’s relief. She kept her own face angled away, unwilling to look at Grace for too long and risk catching her hateful gaze, for fear of the guilt she would feel by looking at the pain that awaited her there.

The first indication that Malcolm was making his way to their dormitory was the sudden silence that washed over the room. Emberlyn looked up from her folding, registering the grim look that had passed over her sisters’ faces, before she heard the sound of his expensive shoes clicking toward them in the hallway. Hands instantly went to nervously smooth wayward hair, straighten creases. Emberlyn thrust her bracelet back into its hiding place.

The Marionettes had all stood and turned to face the door, hands clasped behind their backs, when Malcolm entered. His expression was pure joviality. He had barely been able to stop smiling since receiving the invitation to Parlizia. Emberlyn knew she should be grateful—he had been easier on them lately, less demanding. But the sight of that slimy smile was almost worse than his constant scrutiny. He was dressed smartly, as usual, one hand tugging at his lapel as he held his chin high, gaze sweeping around the room.

“Good morning, my darlings,” he said. “How are we today? Nearly all packed?”

He stood still, his sharp gaze falling on each Marionette in turn as they all mumbled their affirmations. Emberlyn watched as his eyebrows suddenly furrowed, focusing on something at the back of their dormitory. Emberlyn allowed herself to turn her head ever so slightly to see what had snagged Malcolm’s interest.

While every other Marionette had stood, Grace was still sitting on her bed. Her sheets were crumpled in her tight fists, her chin lifted to return Malcolm’s gaze with a venomous one of her own.

Emberlyn could understand where Grace’s defiance came from, but it never ended well. She had learned that the hard way. She gritted her teeth and braced herself.

“Grace, darling,” Malcolm said with a lilting drawl. “Perhaps the others have failed in their duties to correctly inform you, but when I enter a room to greet you, I do expect you to be on your feet. Straight back, neat and tidy, nothing less than the vision you are.”

The Marionettes barely breathed, their eyes flickering toward Grace. Emberlyn caught Aleida gesturing with her head, coaxing her to stand. Emberlyn had to fight back a snort when instead, Grace flipped him a rude gesture with her hand and settled back farther in her bed. She would have looked the picture of ease if it weren’t for the tension in her jaw that told Emberlyn she was preparing for a fight.

But it would be a fight quickly lost. Without dropping his smile, Malcolm flicked his wrist. Emberlyn cringed as Grace’s yelp of surprise pierced the room. She lurched to her feet, her back as straight as a rod. The resistance shining in her eyes was quickly replaced with fear as her hands began to shake. Emberlyn couldn’t help but pity her, as she had all the others the first time Malcolm used the curse on them. That first time she felt the heat of it racing through her veins, the feeling of true understanding of what had been done to her, was indescribable.

That moment when they realized they no longer held any claim to their own bodies. It was a vile thing impossible to come to terms with—Emberlyn never had.

“Much better!” Malcolm beamed. “Don’t worry, sweetheart; it doesn’t take long to learn. Although it would be easier if the process were expedited a little. Emberlyn?”

Emberlyn’s shoulders slumped, dread for what he was about to say next settling in her stomach. And it was exactly what she feared.

“Please show Grace around the theater and explain to her how things work around here. She will know then what is expected of her when we arrive in Parlizia.”

“But I need to pack,” Emberlyn blurted without thinking. As she stepped forward, she didn’t look over at Grace, who was now standing with her head hung in burning shame. Malcolm raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Emberlyn’s full bag.

“Just the common room, kitchens, and stage should do,” he said, and he left after shooting them all one last beaming grin.

Emberlyn sighed as the dormitory began to kick back to life again. Some of the Marionettes headed straight for Grace, murmuring comforts to her as she nodded halfheartedly; others went back to their packing. Emberlyn threw a furious gaze at her own case when she felt a hand slip into hers and squeeze.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For choosing to come with us. I was half expecting to wake up and find your bed empty one of these days.”

Emberlyn swallowed down the tightness in her throat, her chest contracting as Aleida pressed her hand again.

If she were to do this alone, if Aleida truly was not going to leave with her, it would be crueler to be kind. Better to push her away and leave as quietly as possible. Better to push all of them away and simply…disappear.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Aleida frowned. “I…I followed you. The night of the auditions. You looked like you were going to try to run there and then.” Aleida shifted uncomfortably on the spot, like she didn’t want to bring the topic up. “Why didn’t you, if not for me?”

Emberlyn didn’t look up, unable to meet Aleida’s soft brown eyes for fear of cracking.

“I decided you were right. That escape is probably hopeless. If Malcolm isn’t lying, then the curse will destroy me before I’ve gotten two steps away. What would be the point?”

Aleida’s hand loosened inside Emberlyn’s.

“Oh…I…well.” Aleida hesitated. Emberlyn watched her feet shuffle. “Look, either way I’m still glad you’re coming. I’m sorry I said no all those weeks ago, Ember. I know that’s what you’re mad about. But you know why, don’t you? You must understand why.”

Emberlyn forced a glare. “You must be tired after so many nights tossing and turning in excitement. You are, aren’t you? Excited? Because you think you can be happy there, in Parlizia.” She spat the words with as much venom as she could muster, though her own heart wilted at them. She lifted her gaze in time to watch Aleida’s expression darken, like passing through thunderclouds. “I don’t want to go to Parlizia. I don’t want to board a damned boat plunging away full steam ahead from everything I’ve ever known without even a clue of what waits for us on the other side.”

Aleida removed her hand from Emberlyn’s, recoiling as if Emberlyn had moved to strike her. Emberlyn pushed past, stomping toward Grace, who stood in the middle of a group of fawning Marionettes.

“Grace,” she said sharply, all too aware of Aleida’s forlorn expression burning a hole in her back. “Let’s go.”

Emberlyn turned and strode away without checking to see if Grace followed her. She would now, she knew. After Malcolm’s demonstration, the fear roiling inside that girl would command her movements. Sure enough, as Emberlyn entered the corridor and turned left, heading straight to the kitchens, she heard Grace’s slow footsteps follow her.

Emberlyn paused only once she had descended the steps and pushed open the doors to the kitchen, the faint smell of their breakfast still clinging to the surfaces. She waited in the threshold for Grace to enter. Grace kept her chin tilted away, eyes pointedly lowered as she shambled past Emberlyn into the room. Emberlyn could see a flicker in her jaw as if she were forcing herself to keep something in, her shoulders tensed almost to her ears.

“Kitchen,” said Emberlyn bluntly, leading Grace down through the space between the worktops. “He has chefs in to prepare our breakfasts and dinners, so he can monitor what we eat. We have our meals at the table in the common room together, and Malcolm eats elsewhere. We can’t eat lunch or snack, but you can come down here to grab a drink whenever you like, though you’re to talk to the staff as little as possible. They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them. I imagine it will be the same in Parlizia. Glasses are here.” Emberlyn pulled open a cupboard and took out two glasses. “Thirsty?”

Grace nodded, her jaw working as her teeth ground against each other while Emberlyn filled the glasses and passed one over. It slipped through Grace’s fingers, landing on the hard worktop and splintering when she tried to catch it. She hissed through her teeth as the water spilled to the floor, glass shards embedding into her hand and drawing beads of blood to her skin’s surface.

Emberlyn sighed.

“You’ll need to clean that up. You don’t want to give Malcolm a reason to berate you. Come here.” Emberlyn reached out for Grace’s hand, but she wrenched it out of the way.

“Stay away from me,” Grace hissed, her voice suddenly venomous. Emberlyn jerked away, frowning.

“I need to pick the glass out before it heals over.”

But still, Grace recoiled, her bleeding hand curling into a fist.

“You. You led me into that room. You knew what was coming, and you led me in. You locked the door. You held me down. You let him change me into this…this…” Her words stuttered before they died completely, until nothing was left but a burning, despairing gaze. Emberlyn’s lip curled.

“Please believe me when I say I didn’t have a choice,” she said firmly, though her voice cracked in the middle. She wasn’t surprised when Grace tipped back her head and laughed bitterly, her hands falling to her sides as blood ran down her wrist.

“Didn’t you? You’re no princess. You’re pure evil.”

“Please, stop.” Emberlyn held out her hand, hoping Grace didn’t notice how it shook. How much those words had stung. “You saw for yourself what Malcolm can do. You felt it. And if you resist him, you’ll feel it again. I had no more choice in the matter than you did standing up just now.” She kept her hand extended, waiting patiently for Grace to place her own in it. “Let me help you.”

Grace glared at her, but still, after a beat, she unfurled her hand and placed it in Emberlyn’s. Emberlyn sucked in a relieved breath and studied Grace’s cut palm. The skin was already healing. Emberlyn bent down and did her best to work the shards out before her skin closed over them completely. When she was done, Grace stared at the suddenly unbroken skin in bewilderment.

“The power of his gift,” Emberlyn drawled sarcastically. “Your body heals itself from anything. Keeps us perfect.”

Emberlyn grabbed another glass, filled it, and passed it to Grace, who gulped it down in one go as she processed Emberlyn’s words.

When they had cleaned up the mess left by the broken glass, Emberlyn led Grace, who was still turning her hand to inspect it from every angle, to the common room. When Emberlyn opened the door, she watched Grace’s expression turn slack.

“I don’t want to go in there,” she whimpered, the heat that fueled her fury instantly doused as she recognized the room she’d nearly died in. Had died in, in some sense. She stood on the threshold, her eyes wide as she took in the threadbare rug she had fallen upon. Emberlyn forced away the lump in her throat and nodded. Grace was just a traumatized girl trying to cope with what had happened to her, and Emberlyn couldn’t blame her for her accusations. Her anger.

She had been an inferno herself when she had regained enough awareness after her own cursing to understand what happened. What had been lost, stolen. Esme had been there to grit her teeth against Emberlyn’s venom, to hold her hand when Malcolm, determined to break her like an unruly, wild horse, showed Emberlyn what he was capable of. Demonstrated, again and again, how he owned her.

“That’s okay,” Emberlyn said, the softness of her words surprising even her. “Hopefully before we leave you won’t need to. But when we come back, you might need to find a way to cope with being in here, as it’s where we spend a lot of our time together. We aren’t allowed out in the world, really, so this is where we come to kill time and get away from Malcolm when we aren’t dancing. Just…be ready for that. We’re to help you settle as much as you possibly can, though.”

Grace’s neck fluttered with the intensity of her pulse when she nodded. Emberlyn pretended not to notice the tears forming in the corners of Grace’s eyes when she closed the door to shut away the common room and began to lead her away again.

Emberlyn led Grace through the underbelly of the theater until they climbed the stairs that led them to the wings of their stage. Grace gazed out as they walked across it, pausing at the very center and staring into the auditorium, complete with its violet upholstery and walnut trimmings. A frown settled on her face.

“I…I auditioned here, didn’t I? I’m not imagining that?”

Emberlyn joined her at the center of the stage. She nodded.

“That’s right. The more time you spend here as a Marionette, the more your memories will fade. The more some of them will seem like mere dreams, or something you made up, until they go completely.” She heaved a sigh and said quietly, “It’s one of the most heartbreaking things you’ll experience here.” Even she, who had retained so much more than her sisters, couldn’t bear how flimsy, how fickle, the memories she had managed to hold on to felt.

A tear ran down Grace’s cheek. Emberlyn watched her sadly, remembering the first moment she saw Grace on this stage, back when she was free from Malcolm’s curse. The ferocity, the hunger she had carried, no longer matched this girl with bowed shoulders and tears dropping from her chin like the last gasps of a dying icicle. The curse had made Grace’s angles sharper, her eyes brighter, her muscles leaner. But the sadness seemed to roll off her body in waves, and no increase in beauty could ever dampen the power of her sorrow.

“What happens?” Grace whispered. Emberlyn stepped closer to hear her better. “What happens when we have to dance?”

Emberlyn tried to keep her voice strong, ignore the misery that seeped through the cracks of her stone heart. “Malcolm will call forth the curse, and it will take over you. It will contort your body without your say into the steps Malcolm desires, using your natural strength and flexibility as a dancer to perform to perfection.”

Grace swallowed but nodded, her expression blank despite the tears.

“Will it hurt?”

“To begin with. As when he made you stand, you will feel this sharp kind of heat as it ignites. In time, you’ll learn not to fight it. To let it take over while your mind drifts elsewhere.”

Emberlyn left out the feeling of mortification that would come every time he made her dance. The horror of existing within a body that performed at the whim of another. The constant fear of stepping too far out of line and being subject to Malcolm’s wrath—the agony when he took it further for sport, knowing they would heal from it regardless of what he did.

The fact that Emberlyn had learned with Heather’s death that Esme was not simply unlucky. That eventually, the curse would destroy her. Destroy all of them.

Grace spun on the spot to face Emberlyn, suddenly snarling. “And what if I fight against it? What then?”

Emberlyn felt her lips draw down. “Impossible,” she whispered. “No one can fight it. No matter what you try, while Malcolm is using the curse, your body will ignore you. Malcolm is too powerful, his curse too all-consuming. You can only learn to live with it.”

“Well, what if I tell someone?”

Emberlyn wanted to cry. “The curse closes your throat. You can’t say a word about it to anyone who isn’t already aware of the truth. Malcolm has made sure of that.”

Grace shook her head, stepping back. “That can’t be right. None of this can be real.”

Emberlyn stepped forward to close the gap Grace had forced between them and slowly reached out. To her surprise, Grace let her take her hand.

“I assure you, it is. But you have the others. We are like sisters. In them, you will find some relief. I promise.” Her words tasted bitter, laced with guilt at the thought of leaving, even if she did intend to come back and save them. But they needed to be said. Grace needed to hear them.

Slowly, Grace drew in long, deep breaths. Until she nodded. Until she accepted what Emberlyn had to say.

“Let’s go back. I’ll show you the foyer as we head toward the dormitory.”

Emberlyn and Grace descended the steps from the stage and walked the aisle through the empty seats—ambling with little desire to go anywhere at all. As they pushed through the doors at the far end and into the foyer, Emberlyn heard raised voices. She and Grace exchanged glances, but their steps didn’t falter.

As they rounded the corner and entered the main space of the foyer, three figures stood facing each other with shoes sunk into the deep pile of the violet carpet. Malcolm had his hands raised in a placating gesture, aimed at a finely dressed man and woman Emberlyn felt were vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were regulars at their performances, except…that wouldn’t explain why they looked so agitated.

Emberlyn held out her hand to slow Grace down, lingering behind Malcolm to hear what was going on.

“…respect her wishes not to visit—we never have. But the letters have stopped coming, and you tell us what? That she simply left? Without saying anything to you? Without any kind of contact to the parents she loves?”

Emberlyn’s heart stuttered. Heather’s parents. She could recognize her dead sister’s features in the set of her parents’ mouths, the shape of her father’s nose. She all but stopped walking, unable to stop staring at the man with the sharp gaze, the woman whose red eyes revealed nights of tears and exhaustion.

They were looking for their daughter.

Emberlyn’s hand came up of its own accord, holding her throat as if it could prevent the ache that had begun there.

“That is what I’m telling you, yes.” Malcolm drew up to his full height, unable to be swayed. “And quite honestly, that’s all you’re going to want to know.”

“What does that mean?” Heather’s mother cried, her composure quickly failing.

Malcolm heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Look, it was my preference to save you both from the abject shame of your daughter’s behavior, but if you really insist, then fine. Heather may have left without a word to you or me, but that was because she was too embarrassed to say otherwise. I mean, you would be, too, if you put yourself in such a delicate position and then ran off with the boy, unmarried.”

The mother’s hands flew to her mouth with a shriek of dismay, the father’s jaw hanging slack, his cheeks instantly burning a furious red. Emberlyn sucked in a breath, though she noted, dully, she wasn’t surprised. Was not shocked that Malcolm was capable of saying such things to get his own way.

“Are you…are you suggesting—” Heather’s father spluttered.

“You know exactly what I’m suggesting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my other dancers. The ones who have a little more self-control and composure.”

Heather’s parents stared with open mouths and horror-filled eyes as Malcolm left them standing in the center of the foyer. He knew, just like Emberlyn did, that they would never breathe a word of this. Would not seek to find her. Not for fear of the shame it would bring them if their high-society friends and families were to find out the truth.

Emberlyn wondered if, when her time came, her parents would come looking for her. If, after the years and years of handwritten stories of happiness that Malcolm made her write, of letters refusing their offers to meet, citing an overwhelming schedule, they would still want to look for her. If they, like Heather’s parents, would be so mortified by whatever tale Malcolm spun of her disappearance that she, like all the others, would become nothing more than a desperate family secret locked away—a shame her parents couldn’t bear the world to know. Perhaps Emberlyn would become little more than a girl they occasionally dreamed of.

It was a terrible thing to think about. And so, like so many other thoughts, Emberlyn pushed it to the back of her mind. With a nod to Grace, they walked away from Heather’s parents, her wailing mother, and made their way back to the last of their packing before they set off for Parlizia.

Emberlyn did not need more fuel to add to the rage in her heart, more reason to seek her escape and rescue the others, but she tucked away the expressions of Heather’s parents, the loss that radiated out of them, to carry with her all the same.

Nine

Violent Smile

A thrill ran through the Marionettes as the train shuddered, brakes grating against the wheels as it chugged into Parlizia.

The thrill didn’t reach Emberlyn. What passed through her sisters was nothing compared with the ferocity of Emberlyn’s disappointment. Her sisters, distracted by the view outside the window as the signs of city life began to grow, remained ignorant to her turmoil. She didn’t blame them. She wished she could find it within herself to appreciate her first glimpses of Parlizia, the slow unraveling of a history detailed in the ancient brick buildings, the press of unrecognizable flora gathered at the train tracks like spectators.

Twice she had attempted escape. Twice, her plans had been scuppered. First, at New Kora Port, her heart hammering and her stomach clenching, she realized the perfect opportunity had arisen among the churning crowds. That the moment to leave was now as bodies pressed and jostled against her, obscuring her from view for a brief, sweet moment. But Malcolm had turned around as if he had sensed her thoughts. Before she could make a single determined step in a different direction, he had picked her out from the crowd. He’d glared and snapped his fingers, demanding she move to his heel. Emberlyn obeyed.

She’d spent the rest of the trip over the restless waves silently fuming and recentering herself, refusing to let the lost chance get to her. There was another way. There was another possibility. She set herself to preparing for an escape upon docking, to face the fear of wandering alone in a strange land and throw herself snarling toward it.

But then, as the ship arrived at its destination, Emberlyn was set upon by an overeager porter who had taken it upon themselves to ensure the famed dancer needn’t lift a finger from her cabin to the motorcar that awaited to take them to the train station. No matter how many ruses she concocted to send them away, to snatch just a moment where she could slip away, either to hide inside the ship itself or to lose herself among the bustling port, the language barrier between them meant the porter didn’t understand her demands and leave for even a moment. Emberlyn had a feeling Malcolm had selected a porter who could not understand her on purpose. They delivered a seething Emberlyn straight to the dock’s train station.

The shapes of the buildings loomed out of the heavy fog that had descended over the rooftops. They had finally made it to Parlizia.

Emberlyn stared out at the city with anxiety racing through her. She didn’t let it touch the blank expression on her face as the world outside began to slow. She ignored the forlorn gazes Aleida shot her from the other side of the trembling train carriage.

She hadn’t planned on boarding the train at the docks. But the thought that there was still one more chance to run kept her from tearing her hair out. Still one last moment when they arrived at Parlizia West Train Station, where she could make a break for it. When the heaving crowd she hoped the station would hold would mean, finally, she could slip away without her sisters and most importantly, Malcolm, realizing. Hopefully not until Emberlyn had got far enough away for it not to matter.

“We’re arriving, girls.” The doors to the carriage snapped open, and Malcolm strode in. “Get your belongings. Motorcars will be waiting, so I want you off the train right away.”

The Marionettes jumped to their feet, a whisper of “Parlizia” kicking up among them like the start of a tornado. Emberlyn watched them bitterly. It was like they had all forgotten Heather already, with everything that had happened. Moved beyond the heavy grief that had filled them mere weeks ago.

She turned back to the window, staying firmly in her seat as the other Marionettes gathered their things, her fingers tapping nervously against her thighs.

“Emberlyn,” Malcolm barked. “Up.”

She knew Malcolm would make her stand if she didn’t. Could tell in his expression the traveling had made him fraught and ready to snatch what he wanted, and the thought made her weary to her very bones.

So, slowly, she got to her feet and moved past Malcolm to collect her luggage without meeting his hard gaze, for fear he would read her intentions. She joined her sisters at the end of the carriage as it juddered, ensuring she was standing at the back as a whistle pierced through the gray of the world outside and left an echo ringing in her ears. She clutched the bag containing her few meager belongings, her Florisa bracelet tucked carefully among the folds of one of her dresses. She wished she could squeeze it, draw strength from it, but didn’t dare remove it when Malcolm could see.

The train screeched to a halt. The groaning and grumbling of the carriage faded into silence as the Marionettes collectively held their breaths.

Then the doors opened, revealing a stretch of platform muted with a heavy fog. It was crushed with bodies, filled with bright, swaying skirts and plumes of feathers that danced out of the murkiness that had descended over Parlizia West Train Station. Lively chatter in a foreign tongue melded into a hum as the wintery sun joined the fog to form a bright yet dreary glow. Emberlyn’s stomach squirmed with a mix of anxiety, excitement, and fear. It was as busy as she dared to hope for. She inhaled the crisp air deeply in an attempt to settle it.

Not long now, she thought.

“Let’s go. Off the train,” Malcolm bellowed. He moved through the Marionettes to step onto the platform first, as Emberlyn had hoped, and then marched away as Ida stepped gracefully into Parlizia.

When it was Emberlyn’s turn, when her sisters were already on the platform and Emberlyn’s breath was loud in her ears, her eyes already darting into the crowd and planning her escape route, she paused for a moment, readying herself to sprint. Her hand tightened around the handle of her luggage.

With one last prayer sent into the fog that she was right—that Malcolm’s insistence they wouldn’t be able to run was an idle threat, that she would make it to the safety she desperately craved—she launched herself out of the train with her eyes set on the exit and…

She screamed the moment her foot made contact with the floor.

Her chest crunched. Her lungs punctured. A torrent of fire ripped through her body, sparking along every nerve, gripping every sense as fireworks exploded in her temples. Emberlyn dropped to the floor as her vision spun, as her curse sank into her every corner and writhed. Her world became fractured, like looking through a colorless kaleidoscope, as an intense dizziness took over.

Pain ripped through her. Attacked. Sank sharp teeth all over Emberlyn’s body.

It burned.

Within the spiraling chaos of her own mind, she heard voices. Emberlyn knew vaguely she was being moved but couldn’t place any of it. Only once the pain began to slink away from her surface did she slowly come to. She blinked, her mind beginning to ground itself once more. Malcolm’s harsh voice cut through her confusion, bringing her back to the Parlizian train station drowning in morning fog.

“No! No hospitals. She’s just exhausted, the poor thing. We’ve been traveling for days. She’ll be on her feet in a moment. Aleida, shake her again.”

Emberlyn’s heavy disorientation cleared, the multiple versions of her vision colliding into one. A uniformed man, a station porter, was gesturing wildly, and seven familiar faces surrounded her, peering down with furrowed brows and tight lips. Even Grace, who had made her feelings for Emberlyn well-known, had her mouth hanging open in horror.

The uniformed man gestured furiously, repeating a word Emberlyn didn’t recognize. Malcolm threw his hands in the air and demanded the porter leave them alone as a new train pulled into the station behind him, emerging out of the fog and shrieking like a banshee. The sound pierced through Emberlyn’s skull, the rapid movement of her surroundings casting her vision into a new tailspin. She felt something warm against her palm and lowered her eyes to focus on it. A hand was tucked into hers, thumb rubbing against her knuckles. She felt someone touch her shoulder and shake her.

“Ember.” The voice ran through her like warm toffee. A familiar voice. Safe. She turned her head and stared at Aleida, sitting beside her. Relief bloomed through Emberlyn’s chest, all thoughts of what had passed between them in the weeks before suddenly forgotten.

“Hello,” Emberlyn murmured, her voice coming out sticky. As her senses slowly sharpened, a phantom of the pain that had gripped her earlier pulsed through her body. She still felt it like bruises on the inside of her skin. “What happened?”

“I was going to ask you that,” Aleida said softly, her eyes wide and a forced smile failing to conceal the panic that shone behind the facade. “You screamed and just…dropped.”

Emberlyn took a deep breath of the sharp, cold air and sat upright. The Marionettes stepped away, but Aleida remained, gripping her hand.

“This—this awful pain just erupted. It was like my heart was trying to explode. It…”

It…It was…

She remembered. What she had tried to do. How her curse had torn into her, its jaws clamping itself around every inch of her body as if the strings that bound her had attempted to anchor her. Horror settled deep inside her stomach as realization dawned. The moment she had fully resolved to run, the split second her foot had touched the ground and prepared to make a break for it…

Dear God. His threats were true.

The curse had stopped her from leaving.

She looked back up at the Marionettes, panic rising in her chest as she took in their expressions. Movement beyond Aleida’s concerned expression caught her eye. Malcolm turned around, and, upon seeing Emberlyn staring at him, he stilled. He stood like a rock unbothered by water rushing around it as the station’s crowds parted about him, his hard expression darkening inside the choking smog that haloed him. With a sickening slowness that made Emberlyn go cold, he smiled at her.

He knew what she had attempted.

“I don’t understand,” Aleida said, blinking back tears. “We thought for a moment you were…you were dying.”

Emberlyn somehow forced a smile, tearing her gaze away from the man who watched her with a dark delight. “I’m fine.”

“Look, see? She’s back to her senses. She’s absolutely fine.” Malcolm’s voice cut through the hum of the station platform. Emberlyn flinched as he stalked out from the fog like a monster toward her, cutting a path through the passersby. The porter followed at his heels until they were both standing over her. “No hospital needed. She has a penchant for the dramatic—she is my lead, after all. What did you expect? Now, girls, we really must be going. Mademoiselle Fournier is waiting.”

The Marionettes parted at his voice, and Emberlyn began to push herself to her feet, leaning on Aleida for support as her legs quivered with fear.

“Come along now, Emberlyn dearest,” Malcolm said with false charm as her curse suddenly flared to life and pulled her upright, the string invisible in the smoky light.

She stumbled for a moment but quickly steadied herself, gritting her teeth against the grinding and churning fear in her body. She stared ahead, trying not to let her expression give anything away, breaking only to give the uniformed man a shake of her head and a watery smile when he trotted beside her, whispering that same unfamiliar word Emberlyn guessed meant “hospital.”

Emberlyn marched onward and looked at no one, though she allowed Aleida to keep her arm entwined with hers as they exited the station and walked out to the frost-scorched Parlizian street. The fog had begun to lift, welcoming in the barest of the sun’s winter rays.

The chill clashed against the white-hot panic rising inside her.

Frost sparkled like a thousand diamonds on the cobbled streets of Parlizia, casting delicate silk arrangements across windowpanes and dusting rooftops like powdered sugar. The houses seemed to lean in, to watch Emberlyn as her motorcar passed by. The wheels ground against the bumpy roads, the low winter sun beginning to rise above the houses. Finally, the fog truly lifted, replaced with bulbous clouds as the city of Parlizia was revealed to its visitors.

The Marionettes’ gazes were glued to the view beyond the window of their motorcar as they lurched through rows upon rows of quaint streets in an elegant motorcade, breaths stolen from their throats as they stared at an unfamiliar city alight with the crisp glow. When the Fiera Tower passed into view, a golden monstrosity of a tower that seemed etched out of hurriedly scrawled lines and culminated in a peak as sharp as a needle that pierced through the clouds above, they murmured and whispered. The motorcar filled with electricity as they took in the sight of the iconic structure, synonymous with the glitz of Parlizia.

Emberlyn didn’t see any of it. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, allowing herself to sway with the motion of the car and focusing on keeping her expression composed, though it felt as if a herd of horses had been unleashed and were racing, galloping, pounding through her body in time to her restless heart. There was no space in her mind for anything other than fear. A sickening kind of anticipation. What was to happen to her now? How would Malcolm react when nobody was watching, knowing full well that she had tried to run? Her palms sweated profusely as she trembled, ignoring the concerned looks Aleida kept shooting her as their hands stayed firmly entwined.

Finally, the car jerked to a halt. Aleida squeezed her palm.

“Looks like we’re here, Ember. Are you okay?” she said. Emberlyn only nodded. Miriam and Ida, with whom they shared their motorcar, craned their necks to take in the street they were to call their home. When their door swung open and the driver reached in to take Emberlyn’s hand, she swallowed. It was time to face her fate.

She released the driver’s hand once she had stepped out, moving to the side to allow the other Marionettes to climb out after her. She turned to the building they’d stopped in front of as the other Marionettes climbed out of their own cars, and despite herself, despite the terror raging inside her at what was to come, her breath caught in her throat.

Le Théâtre de Feu.

A wide courtyard preceded the grand building—several stories high with white pillars and cathedral windows bursting with color. Foliage planted in elegant curves lay in intricate patterns through the courtyard, guiding the paths toward a fountain that sprayed a delicate mist of icy water into the air. Beyond that, a marble staircase sloped up toward the grand double doors of etched glass and gold. Tall lamps lined the surrounding streets with silk banners fluttering in the wind—a black background with a dancing girl held up by red string. The title exclaimed Malcolm Manrow’s Merveilleux Marionettes. Le Théâtre de Feu was simply, objectively beautiful. The Manrow Theater wouldn’t dare hold a candle to it, for fear of being snuffed out.

“Line up, Marionettes,” Malcolm’s voice boomed. Emberlyn twisted away from the theater, flinching at the sound. He had climbed out of his private car and was striding toward them with one hand adjusting his suit jacket. Passersby eyed the Marionettes curiously as they lined up at the edge of the street, straightening their dresses, tucking locks of hair behind their ears as the cold air kissed their cheeks. Emberlyn joined the end of the line, forcing herself to look at Malcolm as he began to speak.

“Mademoiselle Fournier will be waiting inside to meet us. We’re already late, thanks to someone.” His gaze narrowed on Emberlyn as he passed, his air of frustration revealing a layer of sick humor just for her to understand. She dropped her eyes, shoulders hunching in an image of submission. “So I’m expecting your absolute best behavior from now on. I’m expecting you to show the utmost of respect to our gracious hosts and to look absolutely impeccable.” He stopped in front of Aleida, brushing invisible dust from the lapel of her navy coat as she tensed.

Malcolm stepped away to appraise them and then spread his palms.

“And don’t forget to smile,” he said.

Emberlyn’s lips immediately stretched as the curse’s strings, completely imperceptible to the naked eye in daylight, latched on to her. She could do nothing but grind her teeth in silent protest.

Malcolm led the smiling Marionettes across the grand courtyard, leaving the drivers to collect the luggage from the motorcars. Their shoes tapped as they ascended the sloping marble staircase, culminating in a pillared canopy before the grand double doors. The Marionettes whispered in icy, awe-filled breaths as they climbed.

The doors pulled open at their approach, and together, skirts swaying as they hurried to keep pace with Malcolm, the Marionettes entered Le Théâtre de Feu as a blast of perfumed warmth greeted them.

Even Emberlyn lifted her gaze to take in the grandeur, awe momentarily chasing away the cold panic that had been sitting squarely in her chest since the train station.

The walls above their heads collided at their apex in perfect curves, adorned with carved, dark gold designs in an entrance hall so vast, the sheer size was crushing. The walls were embellished with sconces, alive with flickering flames, with new electric uplighters dotting the perimeter of the upper levels. It seemed in Parlizia they were tentatively welcoming in electricity but still relying mostly on flame, just like back in New Kora.

The white marble floors veined with black echoed the Marionettes’ footsteps as they walked with wide eyes and mouths twisted into grins. For a moment, they forgot the alien expressions forced onto their own faces, overwhelmed by the beauty of the foyer.

A grand staircase wrapped in gold stretched before them, splitting into two and twisting to either side. Emberlyn’s eyes traveled upward, following each level supported by carved marble pillars and elegant barriers. Pale, centuries-old art adorned the ceiling, wrapping around chandeliers that glimmered in a multitude of sparkles. Candles flickered in antique candelabras held aloft by women’s forms carved into perpetual stillness, their heads sliced from their shoulders. Emberlyn wished she could drag every candelabra out of their hard hands, stamp out the flames under her pretty shoes. She swallowed and lowered her eyes back to the ground, tracing the veined marble as a shiver that started in her spine trembled into her fingertips.

She had failed and now she was trapped here, in yet another glittering prison.

“Ah, Monsieur Manrow!” A new voice filled the foyer in an accent that for a moment sounded so much like Esme’s, it made Emberlyn’s chest wrench. It momentarily pulled her attention away from her rising panic, from the ice crystallizing along her heart, hardening into impenetrable diamonds and squeezing so hard she felt as if the beating might stop altogether. She turned her head to find the owner of the voice, the remnants of Malcolm’s name dancing in the echoes that rang through the vast ceiling.

“Mademoiselle Fournier!” Malcolm stepped forward, climbing the stone staircase to offer his hand to the theater manager as she descended. She was made of softness and elegance, of product to stiffen her hair into a dark crown. Her olive gown shimmered, the color complimenting her richly dark skin. Her skirts were gathered in one hand as she traversed the final steps and dropped them again. She leaned in to kiss Malcolm on each cheek.

Emberlyn swallowed as she watched the exchange. Watched how the pair stared at each other with a knowing familiarity. She stood in the crowd of Marionettes, a smiling face among many, and tried to keep herself calm as her mind raced.

“You are late,” Mademoiselle Fournier scolded Malcolm fondly, a smile accompanying her words. Her hands rested on each of Malcolm’s elbows as she spoke.

“I do apologize, Mademoiselle, but unfortunately, we had a little incident at the train station. It seemed our star felt in need of a prima donna moment.”

Despite the smile forced onto her face, Emberlyn felt the hot sting of tears as Malcolm turned and beamed jovially in her direction.

“Oh?”

“A fainting fit. I personally think she was hoping a handsome Parlizian gentleman would catch her as she went down. Her senses must have escaped her for a moment.”

Emberlyn’s skin flushed as she involuntarily grinned at the chuckling pair.

“Come now, Malcolm,” Mademoiselle Fournier said when her laugh faded. “You must introduce me to your troupe. It seems you have been making waves over in New Kora—your marvelous reviews reached us even over here. You would have laughed to see our faces, Malcolm. Our Malcolm. I could scarcely believe it, but there it was, in black and white right under my nose. Tell me, do any of the Marionettes who helped you rise to such fame here at Le Théâtre de Feu still dance for you?”

Emberlyn’s chest lurched. Her eyes darted to Malcolm. His gaze tightened ever so slightly, but it didn’t touch his easy smile.

There were more Marionettes?

Emberlyn knew Malcolm had brought Esme to New Kora from Parlizia. But she would never speak of her time here. Never, no matter how often Emberlyn asked in her attempts to understand why such an evil man crossed the seas to set foot upon the same shores as Emberlyn. Why she was so unlucky as to cross paths with him when he should have been a whole continent away.

She had assumed Esme was his first cursed girl—Esme refused to talk about what had happened in Parlizia. But there had been other Marionettes before them, not just Esme? Who were they? Why had only Esme made it across the ocean with Malcolm? Had the curse destroyed them too?

“Unfortunately not, Mademoiselle. They have all moved on to higher things since my humble dance troupe.” At this, Mademoiselle Fournier laughed again, and the subtle tension in Malcolm’s face broke. “Come,” he said, quickly changing the subject. “Let’s get you on a first name basis.”

He gestured, and the pair stepped toward the Marionettes, who automatically began to line up. Emberlyn found herself tucked in the center of the line, her eyes following Mademoiselle Fournier, who had clearly missed Malcolm’s discomfort at her question, as they headed to the far end where Jia stood, smiling in a powder-blue day gown.

“This is Jia,” Malcolm said. Mademoiselle Fournier gave a laugh like wind chimes when Jia dipped into a voluntary curtsy. Emberlyn’s chest squeezed, but she didn’t feel the surge of annoyance she expected. Despite everything, Jia deserved to be excited. She deserved to want to dance for Mademoiselle Fournier, on a new stage, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

It was what they had all wanted, once upon a time.

“How precious!” Mademoiselle Fournier exclaimed. Malcolm guided her down the line, introducing each Marionette in turn.

“Ida, Miriam, Anushka, and Grace here is our newest,” Malcolm said, moving past Grace quickly before Mademoiselle Fournier could notice the stiffness in her shoulders or tears in her eyes. He paused before Emberlyn. “This is Emberlyn, our lead.” Malcolm didn’t drop his charm and reached out to readjust Emberlyn’s curls. Emberlyn stood still, refusing to even bat an eyelid at his vile touch, hoping he couldn’t feel how she shook.

“Ah, the Princess of New Kora, no? I must say, I thought only we Parlizians possessed such beauty as yours. Wondrous. Truly wondrous.”

Emberlyn tipped her head in thanks as Malcolm pulled his hand away, if only to lessen the fury she felt radiating from him. She needed to try to get back on his good side. Behave as if she didn’t know what had happened at the train station, as if she had never intended anything as reckless as trying to escape. Determination rocketed through her as sharp as honed steel—determination to win his trust again.

Trust was the only way to get somebody’s guard down.

Though her throat dried and shame boiled through her, Emberlyn spoke. “Thank you for your most kind words. And what a true honor it is to be invited here to Parlizia. I have never seen anything quite as beautiful as this foyer before.”

“Wait until you see the auditorium, my lovely,” Mademoiselle Fournier responded with a kind smile. If Emberlyn’s expression hadn’t been forced, perhaps she would have given her a real smile back. Malcolm gave Emberlyn one last look before he ushered Mademoiselle Fournier farther down the line, to meet Aleida and Rosalyn.

Emberlyn turned away, screwing her eyes tightly together as she breathed deeply, attempting to calm her wild heart.

But all she saw when she closed her eyes was that smile at the train station. His smile.

And the violence it promised.

Ten

Broken Reflection

Emberlyn lay awake the first night at the theater, flinching at every slight noise as the glow of the moon at midnight cast silky beams across the hardwood floor. As she waited for the punishment she knew was coming.

The Princess of New Kora had been given her own private room on the ground floor—her sisters were in a dormitory together one floor below. Emberlyn knew she should feel guilty, or at least miss her sisters. But there was little more she could think about except Malcolm. When he was going to come for her.

A small part of her hoped he wouldn’t dare here, wouldn’t attempt to exact his punishment when he wasn’t hidden away in the bowels of his own theater—but she knew that was likely a naive hope. Emberlyn had tried to escape. Malcolm would never let that go.

As Emberlyn waited, her hands curled into fists around her sheets, her mind eventually wandered and landed on Malcolm’s first Marionettes. She had never even heard of them before, had fully believed Esme had been Malcolm’s first cursed girl. Esme hadn’t said a word about any others. Perhaps she simply could not talk about her fallen sisters, and Malcolm had never cared enough to bring them up himself.

Emberlyn stared at the ceiling, wondering if Esme had gazed at the same one when she lived here. Or was she even the lead back then, considering there had been others? So many questions she’d never thought to ask, and now there was no one to give her the answers.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Emberlyn bolted upright, thoughts of Esme fleeing as her wide eyes latched on to the door. It was bathed in darkness, unfamiliar furniture looming in the shadows. She knew it was time.

A chill swept over her body, though her window was sealed tightly against the frost that gathered on the other side. A cool sweat formed on her hairline as the footsteps grew closer, louder.

Her doorknob rattled, and her heart pumped so furiously she thought her ribs might snap.

“Emmmberlyn.” A singsongy voice on the other side floated through the dark on ribbons of dust. Emberlyn shook her head, her jaw rattling. “Emberlyn, my princess. Unlock the door.”

No. She could pretend to be asleep. She could pretend she hadn’t heard him. She—

“Open it,” the voice spat.

Emberlyn rose to her feet.

“No, no, no,” Emberlyn pleaded with her body as the strings wrapped around her limbs. Her curse lunged to the surface and dragged her across her room, throwing her against the door. She let out a whimper as her hand reached for the key. She turned it.

The curse receded. Emberlyn stumbled back as she let go and the door swung open. The shape of a monster emerged on the threshold, the sharp stink of alcohol heavy on its heaving breath. It took a shaky step inside, and then another as Emberlyn retreated, watching as the moonlight caught the monster’s face and it melted into Malcolm’s snarling gaze. He turned and closed the door.

Without facing her, he growled. “First you disobeyed me during Grace’s ceremony. Then you made me late. I’ve always known you had a streak of defiance, dear Emberlyn, and though I do not like it, I allow it.” Emberlyn could do nothing but stare as Malcolm’s shoulders shook with a dark chuckle. “But…to attempt to run away? My lead Marionette, looking to dash the first moment she gets in Parlizia? That I cannot abide.”

“M-Malcolm,” Emberlyn stuttered. “I—I didn’t—”

Malcolm swiped a candlestick from Emberlyn’s dresser and brought it up in a sweeping arc to slam into her jaw.

Pain exploded through her bones, blood splattering from her mouth onto Malcolm’s cheek. As she readied herself to scream, to fill her lungs with terror and let it sing, the strings wrapped around her neck and her throat closed, holding her body still when she wanted to cower away. No sound came out as she clawed at her skin.

“I warned you, Emberlyn. I warned you that you cannot run from me. You didn’t listen,” Malcolm hissed as Emberlyn fought for breath, heat cascading down her neck. “Did you think I was lying? Did you really think I would give you even an inch if I couldn’t control you?”

“Malcolm,” she managed to croak. “Please.”

Emberlyn let out a gasp as she was yanked upright, the curse forcing her to stand on the top of her toes. Without her pointe shoes, slowly, her bones crunched one by one, splinters of agony wending through her as they broke beneath her weight. She tried to scream, but through the tightening at her throat she could do no more than whimper.

Malcolm held her still, the candlestick loose in his hand as he watched her shattering toes with vague interest, ignoring the tears streaming down Emberlyn’s face. Finally, he loosened his hold and Emberlyn rocked back onto her heels, sobbing with relief. But it was short-lived as he walked her toward the mirror on the wall in the corner of her room.

Emberlyn didn’t have time to process what was happening, her gaze honing in only on the terror of her reflection, before she smashed her head against it.

She pummeled her head against the glass until it cracked, the shards embedding in her forehead as fireworks of pain lit up her body, as dizziness overcame her. Only when the glass had splintered from edge to edge and Emberlyn had left a thick glaze of blood over her reflection did Malcolm finally let go.

Did he finally let her crumple to the floor.

Emberlyn let out a shuddering gasp as oxygen flowed back into her lungs, ice cold against the burning agony pounding through every inch of her as blood dripped into her eyes like tears. Malcolm sniffed deeply, scraping Emberlyn’s blood from his cheek and calmly replacing the candlestick he had been holding on the dresser. A low moan escaped Emberlyn’s lips, as loud as she dared. Her body shook. She could feel the head wound already knitting together, the bones in her toes repairing.

Malcolm stared down at her for a moment longer before he cleared his throat.

“I thought you’d have learned by now not to defy me.” His voice came out hoarse, burning with the sour remnants of the bottles of wine he had consumed. “But clearly not.”

He staggered in an attempt to pace, ignoring the weeping form of the girl curled in the corner. He collapsed into her dresser before he righted himself and jabbed at his chest.

“I am a kind man, E-Emberlyn. I am a generous man,” he slurred, tripping over her name as his voice escalated, though he still did not speak above a hiss. “I gave you everything you wanted out of life and more. Crowds of adoring fans. The star of the most popular ballet in New Kora—you’re known as a princess, for goodness’ sake. Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that everything you wanted? I gave all of that to you.” He pounded his fist against the dresser, enunciating each snarled word. “You—out of every other girl I could have chosen. You came to me demanding a place in the world, begging for renown, and I gave. It. To. You. You weren’t any better than anyone else, so you’d think you’d show me a little appreciation for all I gave to a nothing girl. All I ask in return is that you show me the respect that I’m due. That you give me everything I deserve.”

He stopped pacing and turned to stare out the window. “Hopefully you will remember how good you have it here and not attempt such a silly thing again. If you try to run, you will fail. If you try to tell anyone the truth, you will suffocate on your words. This is the last time I warn you.”

Emberlyn remained silent. Her mind drifted, then sharpened, drifted then sharpened. She couldn’t pass out, as much as she wanted to. She danced along the line, dipped her toe into the swallowing darkness and the piercing, pulsing real.

“Good night, my beautiful princess,” he said coolly. “Sweet dreams. You’d better clean up that blood and come up with a good excuse as to how you foolishly broke your mirror, hadn’t you?” Malcolm swept out of her room, closing the door behind him.

Emberlyn’s world fell into full quiet when his footsteps receded. She didn’t move from her place on the hard floor, watching the moonlight move across her room. The pain weakened, the curse repairing her with every thud of her heart, until she broke past the feeling of imminent death. Of not being able to survive another second of the agony in her skull.

Only then did she close her eyes and let a heavy, exhausted sleep take over. Only then did she give herself over to her nightmares.

Emberlyn jolted awake with the ghost of a memory. A hand against her cheek. Gentle fingers running through her hair, something damp and cool pressed against her forehead where she had been wounded. Her nightmares danced away into the darkness, and she remembered where she was. What had happened to her.

A floorboard creaked somewhere within her room.

“Hello?” she whimpered, half stuck in dreams. There was no answer. She blinked as she let her mind clear.

Her room was still cast in darkness, though the beam of moonlight had drifted to illuminate a new patch of floor. Somewhere, out there in Parlizia, a clock tower tolled three in the morning across the frosted rooftops.

She was back in bed. She frowned, racking her brain, but couldn’t recall climbing up from the floor. Though she must have. She must have dreamed the hand that had pressed so softly to her face. She imagined it was something she invented for comfort as she descended into the realm of pain and nightmares. A caring touch she wished for so hard as she sank into a haunted sleep that she really felt it. In fact, Emberlyn thought with a frown, in the mist of her terror-fueled dream, she almost could have believed it was the shadow she danced with who had come to press a comforting hand to her skin. So familiar the touch had felt, so warm and inviting the sensation of his skin on hers had seemed in her dreams, just like the moments he touched her hands when they danced. A strange feeling contorted in Emberlyn’s chest. So desperate for connection with that shadow was she that now she was dreaming about him soothing her in the night.

She pulled her feet out of bed and stared down at her body. Her toes were straight, unmarked, not even a whisper of the pain that had consumed her when they broke left inside her. When she ran her fingers along her forehead, she felt the telltale bumps of glass embedded under her reknitted skin. But aside from that, she was perfect once more.

Emberlyn swung her legs out of bed and crossed the darkened room, dipping her hands into the washbowl on her cabinet. She splashed the cold water over her face, let it chill her skin and clean away the old sweat. She paused.

A rag, damp from use, lay beside the washbowl, water pooling around it and meandering down the cabinet to form a puddle on the floor. Emberlyn reached for it and wrung it out over the bowl. She didn’t remember getting that. Casting an eye around her darkened room, she noticed the dark patches of blood that had earlier splattered the floor and trickled down the mirror had also been cleaned away.

She shook her head. She must have forgotten she cleaned it already. It wasn’t exactly surprising, considering the trauma she had just suffered. She clutched the edge of her bowl, trying to process what had happened to her.

She had expected punishment, but it had been worse than she had allowed herself to imagine. His malfeasance knew no bounds, with no fear of discovery to prevent his sick torture. How was it that an evil, beastly man was allowed to stalk the corridors at night, force his way into a Marionette’s room, and command her to beat herself senseless, with nobody to stop him?

Emberlyn gritted her teeth and began to pace her darkened room. Fire plumed in her chest, and she moved to stare at the vicious cracks in her mirror, splintering her features into a hundred pieces.

Nobody could stop him because nobody knew. Nobody knew because the Marionettes could not say anything. Worse than that, escape was impossible. Emberlyn had discovered that harsh truth in the worst possible way.

If escape was impossible, if alerting somebody to their hell was impossible, what was left? Who could help them…

Who could help them but themselves?

She watched her features straighten as a dark dawning of realization overtook her every thought. She reached up and, with one sharp nail, began to dig the shards of glass out of her skin, ignoring the fire of pain and the hot slide of blood as each shard was pulled out and dropped to the floor. She watched, her mind spinning as the skin closed once more, as smooth as ever.

Who would stop Malcolm, if not Emberlyn herself?

She was the lead Marionette. The one everyone looked to. The one who had been tortured to a point something inside her had broken. Emberlyn’s eyes seemed to gleam out from her broken reflection as she wiped away the blood, the ghost of the pain that had consumed her now dancing in her memory as her thoughts turned malicious.

The curse prevented her from telling anyone what was happening. It prevented her from escaping and forced her to heal from her injuries.

But did it heal Malcolm from his? Or would he die before he could knit himself back together? Perhaps…perhaps this was how they escaped.

Maybe the curse would die along with its master, and the Marionettes would finally, finally escape his clutches.

Without another thought, Emberlyn reached for the candlestick, refusing to look at it for too long, and replaced the candle stub from where it had fallen. She fumbled with a match, the flame hissing into life as the first beads of molten wax dripped. She glanced at the shadows left in the corner and shuddered, her imagination making Malcolm’s shape loom out at her. But she straightened her back and crossed to her bedroom door. It groaned open as she stepped out into the pitch-black corridor, her hand tightening around the candlestick.

Malcolm deserved to die, and Emberlyn deserved to have her revenge. For this night, and for every night prior. For every girl he’d ever tortured or turned to dust on the wind.

And by God, she would get it.

Even more, she wanted him to know it was her. Her voluntarily smiling face must be the last thing Malcolm Manrow ever saw before he danced through agony and met his darkness. Wanted him to watch the candlestick swinging in to cave in his skull before he faded to black.

She couldn’t allow Malcolm to live any longer. In this moment, she didn’t care about the consequences, what it truly meant to become a murderer and shatter your soul into pieces. She wanted his light to blink out, his screams to ring in her ears. Wanted to escape this damned existence.

She was propelled solely by the quiet rage that had knitted itself through her entire being this night. By the promise of a death that would free her. Free all of them.

Glancing in both directions, she closed her door behind her as silently as possible and held her breath. But nothing stirred, save a shiver of dust crawling across the floor. Mademoiselle Fournier’s team didn’t keep the dormitories and corridors as pristine and perfect as the parts of the theater the patrons saw. The lamps along the walls were cold, and only Emberlyn’s candle cast a small ring of light that wandered into the dark with her.

She paused outside each heavy oak door as she passed, ears straining over her thudding heart and the howl of the wind through a crack in a distant window. She stopped when she finally heard the foghorn snore that used to rumble through the corridors of Manrow Theater in New Kora. One that could belong only to Malcolm sinking into a drunken stupor.

Fury filled her body to the point where she began to tremble anew. But she stepped away from his door, the cold of the floor against her bare feet aching through her bones.

She could do it. She knew she could, right now. She clutched the candlestick tightly in her hand and reached for the door handle. When it was done, she would simply slip away into the night, leaving his lifeless form behind her. She would tuck herself away in bed to pass the night until morning came to reveal the body. Her hand rested on the handle, and she took a deep breath. No more waiting. No more dancing.

Something moved in the shadows.

Emberlyn flinched, bringing the candle up and letting the light flood down the corridor. It illuminated nothing but flagstone floors and walls. The heaviness of night lingered at the end where her flame didn’t reach.

“Hello?” Emberlyn whispered as loudly as she dared. “Who’s there?”

She held her breath but heard nothing. Her whole body was as tensed as a coiled spring, ready to let go. The weight of a gaze sat heavily in her chest.

“Sister?” she ventured, wishing nothing else but to hear a familiar voice sing back to her, belonging to someone she could convince of her innocence as she prowled outside Malcolm’s door. But no one called back. There was only silence.

A hot knot tightened in her chest, threatening to rise into her throat and choke her. She couldn’t allow this to go unexplained. To let anyone flit away into the shadows without her giving some plausible explanation—anything that could account for standing like a vengeful wraith outside Malcolm’s door. She couldn’t be found guilty before she had even committed the crime she so longed to complete.

She stepped forward, whispering another soft “Hello?” The calm tone was at odds with the fear pounding alongside the beat of her heart.

Something moved. A silhouette darted away.

“Hey!” Emberlyn hissed, fresh panic coursing through her veins as she broke first into a jog and then a sprint. She raced toward the shadows as they receded, bowing out of her grasp no matter how fast she ran, swallowed by the candle in her hands.

Pounding footsteps. The edge of a cloak. It whipped from the darkness just out of reach. “Hey!” Emberlyn hissed again, but they didn’t stop. They raced ahead until Emberlyn couldn’t hear them anymore over her gasping breath. She slowed, then stopped, chest rising as she held the candle out in front of her.

They were still there. She could sense them. Feel their presence near her. They had turned. Eyes she couldn’t pick out were trained on her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“I just want to talk,” she pleaded. The wax from her candle dripped to the floor, the smell of burnt dust teasing at the edge of the shadows she stared into.

There was a moment of full silence, a crackling, electric tension as the silhouette lingered, considering her words. As if whatever waited beyond the light of her candle was staring at Emberlyn, considering. Unable to look away. Until, with the sound of a released breath, a cloak sweeping along the flagstone floor, they left. They evaporated into the ink-black corridor like they were never there at all.

Emberlyn released an angry cry, clamping her lips together to stifle it as quickly as it came. Her hands trembled, the flame she held flickering. She took a step forward, and then another, but it was no use. The corridor was empty. Whoever had seen her was gone. They had simply disappeared as if they were made of dust.

In the silent shadows of the corridor, she could almost believe that what she had encountered was something supernatural. Something that wasn’t of this world. But she didn’t trust her own eyes while they were seeing red, had never been convinced by stories of ghostly wanderers. Someone must have followed her into the night. Perhaps one of her sisters or an early-rising maid, who knew there was something wrong in the way Emberlyn had stood at Malcolm’s doorway, eyes alight with bloodlust. They had been so perturbed by what they had seen in her, they had fled, dashed into the shadows rather than admit their presence.

Emberlyn swallowed as despair overtook her rage. She could not harm him now. To explain away why she was standing there was one thing—it was another entirely to be caught red-handed with splinters of his skull decorating her nightgown. With a hiss of frustration, the thought of her freedom snatched away yet again, she hurried off, re-counting the steps back to her own room.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she found it and slipped inside. But when the door closed behind her and she was greeted with silence, the brief sense of safety dissipated. She knew anything could happen come morning, that Malcolm could be told about his lead’s behavior and then the torture she had been through would be little more than an appetizer before the main course. That tomorrow, a fresh set of horrors would be waiting.

She needed to rest, though, if she was to face tomorrow at all. Emberlyn took a step toward her bed and froze. Her stomach plummeted.

There, on her pillow, sat a single white rose with the thorns plucked away, waiting for her return.

Eleven

To Be Seen and Unseen

“Are you ready, ladies?” Mademoiselle Fournier turned to cast her appraising gaze over her attentive audience. Malcolm and the Marionettes had gathered around her, the girls holding their shaking breaths to hear her better. Mademoiselle Fournier placed her hand on the elegantly carved door handle, pausing before her eyes picked out Emberlyn’s. She smiled at Mademoiselle Fournier before Malcolm forced her to.

When she had arrived in the foyer that morning, Malcolm had looked up from his newspaper and caught her eye. When he was certain he had her attention, he looked suggestively toward the open grand front doors of the theater, then back to her with a twinkle in his eye. Her body had clenched with a vague reminder of pain, what would happen to her if she attempted to run. She turned away from him in disgust and moved to stand with her sisters as they waited for Mademoiselle Fournier to collect them.

She didn’t join the conversation and brushed away Aleida’s attempts to speak to her. Instead, she watched as a group of young men fought to erect an extravagant Noeltide tree by the front doors, groaning and shouting to each other as they worked.

Now, with her weight heaved against the heavy auditorium doors, Mademoiselle Fournier swept them open together.

“Welcome,” she said, turning to walk backward into the room, hands raised to the ceiling, “to Le Théâtre de Feu. And Malcolm.” She spun away after shooting him a wink. “Welcome home.”

The Marionettes wandered in after her, breath becoming gasps as they took in the auditorium. The theater sat in a horseshoe shape, with a thousand plush red velvet seats facing a stage concealed by a heavy red-and-gold drape from ceiling to floor. Emberlyn couldn’t help but cast her gaze upward as her sisters did, to take in the golden sweep of tier upon tier, until the seats gave way to an arched ceiling of velvet purple and white pinpricks that glimmered like stars. A candled chandelier—a beast of pearls and draped crystals—dominated the ceiling, light piercing every corner and crevice with the hundreds of flickering sconces lining the walls. But Emberlyn was numbed to the theater’s beauty. It was simply another stage, another prison. Another cage of light and shine she couldn’t escape from.

Mademoiselle Fournier led them down the aisle, her head held high. Emberlyn followed the group obediently. In another life, perhaps Emberlyn would have liked Mademoiselle Fournier. She seemed a kind, steady presence, full of joy and pride in her position as the theater’s manager. But the fact remained she was friends with Malcolm—or at least respected him. Emberlyn couldn’t muster up much good feeling toward anyone who fell for his charms.

“Raise the curtain!” Mademoiselle Fournier called as they mounted the steps to the stage. Emberlyn watched the curtain lazily climb to display the darkened, gaping platform. She traversed the final few steps and gathered with her sisters on the edge of the stage as they gazed out at the theater, whispering as the rows upon rows of empty chairs stared back at them. The gilded tiers and boxes soared above their heads, so high Emberlyn felt vertigo playing at the edge of her mind. Emberlyn looked over her shoulder at her sisters.

Ida and Miriam had their heads bowed together, whispering and pointing at the nearest boxes, doubtlessly wondering who would grace them with their presence to watch them dance. Aleida laughed at something Jia whispered to her, eyes sparkling.

It really was like everything had been forgotten in the blinding shine of Le Théâtre de Feu. Esme. Heather. The curse pounding through their veins. They behaved like they had come here willingly—free-spirited dancers preparing to put on the show of their lives. But it was a lie. It was all a lie. She frowned.

Her eyes narrowed on Aleida. Could it have been her in the corridor last night? But if it had been Aleida, why had she run? What was the point of entering her room and leaving a rose on her pillow? It appeared as if the person had vanished into the thick of night like a specter, but in the harsh reality of morning, that thought seemed less and less likely to be true. It must have been a trick of the shadows.

Aleida may have been hurt by Emberlyn’s insistence in pushing her away, having barely spoken to her when Emberlyn had planned to run, but wandering at night wasn’t like her. She played by the rules, as sweet as honey. She kept her head down. If she had something to say to Emberlyn, surely she would say it and not leave something as obscure as a rose on her pillow.

Aleida glanced up as if she felt the weight of Emberlyn’s judgmental gaze on her. Her smile instantly folded into a thin line, her twinkling eyes narrowing, brows scrunching into clear confusion.

No, it couldn’t have been her. Although…if it had been one of her other sisters, surely they would have been intrigued by her behavior, not frightened. But she didn’t think gossip of her midnight wander had spread through the theater’s employees, either, otherwise Malcolm certainly would know of it, so it couldn’t have been a late-night worker. But then, who else would have bothered to follow her?

Could it have been Grace? Emberlyn shifted her gaze to her. She stood alone, taking in the theater with a blank expression, like she had been sapped of all energy and emotion. Grace hated her. She was fully aware of that fact. Hated her more than the others because she believed that Malcolm’s lead could have saved her. Could have prevented what had happened. Could she have been the one wandering the corridors last night? Emberlyn didn’t know Grace at all. What she was capable of.

“I would love to see a preview of what to expect from your new Marionettes.” Mademoiselle Fournier’s voice cut through Emberlyn’s thoughts, dragging her back to the present. “I have taken the liberty of recreating the platform you used in your performances here, Malcolm, so you can resume your position as Puppet Master.”

Several men appeared at the click of Mademoiselle Fournier’s fingers, wheeling a huge wooden contraption out of the wings just as the electric stage lights burst to life, leaving Emberlyn blinking. It squeaked and rattled before it came to rest. At the top was a box for Malcolm to stand in, painted black to blend in with the darkness beyond the spotlights.

Malcolm straightened up, pulling back his shoulders with an air of importance.

“How thoughtful indeed! What do you say, girls? Shall we give Mademoiselle Fournier a taste of your skills?”

Before any of them could utter a word, their heads bobbed. Emberlyn bit back a cringe when the curse leaped to her surface so unexpectedly, forcing her to nod her agreement, but kept a straight face. She didn’t want to give Malcolm reason to hurt her again.

“Excellent! How about the opening sequence of our current showcase? Demonstrate why we’re the names on the lips of everyone in New Kora?”

Mademoiselle Fournier clapped her hands in delight.

“Marvelous! Let me get settled first.” She dashed off the stage as fast as her skirts allowed to take up the central seat in the front row, eyes alight with excitement and expectation.

The Marionettes drifted in response, wandering to the wings of the stage and leaving it empty save for Malcolm and Emberlyn, who stood still. Malcolm’s eyes landed on her, and her jaw tightened. He didn’t say a word as he moved past her, but the threat in his eyes was clear. Behave. Emberlyn moved to center stage as Malcolm moved to join Mademoiselle Fournier in the seats.

Emberlyn remembered another occasion she had felt this small as she watched Malcolm walk away. This out of her depth. The first show after Esme died, when Emberlyn had been unwillingly thrust into the lead position. Her fear had made her body feel as heavy as stone, and her grief had made her as hollow as a cracked and emptied eggshell. Aleida had stood with her until the very moment Emberlyn was called onto the stage, her words building a fortress around Emberlyn to shield her from what was about to happen.

“It’s not your fault,” she had whispered. “We do what we need to, to survive. I love you, Ember.”

Emberlyn swallowed as she refused to let her eyes drift toward where her best friend stood in the wings, waiting for the performance to start.

“Now,” Emberlyn heard Malcolm say, bringing her back to the present. “I must beg a little patience from you, Mademoiselle. Usually, they perform with tricks of the light, elaborate costumes, and, well…some sort of musical accompaniment, as I’m sure you remember.”

Mademoiselle Fournier only nodded and waved him on. Emberlyn braced herself as she stared listlessly out at the rows of empty velvet chairs, vast in the harsh light of the auditorium. As Malcolm looked directly at her and smiled.

The curse reacted. She felt the strings, invisible in this light, wrap around her body. Normally, Malcolm would be in the box above, conducting his own performance as the Marionettes’ Puppet Master. But now, the curse bent to his will as he sat in the velvet chair and watched as Emberlyn began to dance.

It tingled and leaped as Emberlyn’s face cracked into a showstopping smile. Her arms lifted. Her muscles stretched. She spun on the empty stage in the harrowing silence, the smell of kicked-up dust heavy in the air. The weight of her sisters’ stares, of Mademoiselle Fournier’s presence, were somehow more crushing than an auditorium of patrons back in New Kora, with the silence broken by nothing but Emberlyn’s delicate footsteps. The absence of music felt like something as necessary as oxygen had been torn out of the room.

She didn’t try to sink into herself, to block out the outside world. She was too alert, her mind a flowing river of fear and what-ifs. What if it was Grace who had been watching her last night? What if Malcolm was alerted? She watched as the theater spiraled around her, as her sisters began to dance onto the stage in silence, smiles stretching ear to ear. Emberlyn picked out Grace, her eyes shining with tears as she unwillingly danced upon the stage for the first time, body twisting and turning. Emberlyn looked away, arms extending to the ceiling, her head tipped back, eyes to the rafters, and…her heart jumped as they caught on something.

Emberlyn was spun away, her head pulled to one side as she dipped, though her eyes demanded to return to the ceiling. She stared at the moving silhouette above as her body twirled. A boy’s form beyond the light of the stage, hands dangling over the rope barrier, and his gaze…the whites of his eyes were fixed on her. His head moved as he tracked her every movement, leaning forward as if he were drinking in every line and curve of her body. She could feel the weight of his stare as heavy as she had last night. Could almost sense his captivation, the reverent way he gazed at her.

It was the same boy who had hidden in the darkness, watching Emberlyn standing outside Malcolm’s door. She was certain of it, a sense of familiarity raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

The Marionettes shifted, beginning to dance a circle around Emberlyn. She turned and stretched her back in an arc, her face turned to the ceiling once more. She hunted him out. She silently begged for another fleeting glance, a snatched glimpse of the strange figure as her body was pulled and twisted, her head snapped from side to side. Her back arched, her arms outstretched, her head finally, finally tipping upward, and…there! The form of a boy hidden in darkness!

But suddenly, he moved—knew he had been seen. The moment of his mesmerization broke as he melted back into the shadows of the rafters and disappeared, the glaze of his eyes blinking out of existence. The heaviness of his gaze lifted, and Emberlyn felt weightless, light, and…empty. Like something was missing.

Suddenly, just as they approached the scene where the shadowed figure she danced with in New Kora would be summoned, her curse receded. Malcolm released her. She stood in the center of the stage with her chest heaving, her attention instantly shooting back upward, searching with the intensity of a cat seeking a mouse. But then Mademoiselle Fournier stood, hands thundering together loudly enough to rival a full theater, and Emberlyn begrudgingly turned away from the empty rafters.

“Incredible! Utterly incredible!” Mademoiselle Fournier exclaimed as she leaped from her seat and hurried onstage. She reached Emberlyn and gripped her elbows, twirling her in a half spin as she stared into her eyes. “You are the stuff of a theater manager’s dreams,” she sighed wistfully.

Emberlyn’s chest clenched. Still, she smiled. She tipped her head.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” Emberlyn uttered, her voice hoarse.

She heard Malcolm approaching and instantly stepped aside. Mademoiselle Fournier turned and opened her arms to him.

“Oh, Malcolm, what a fabulous dance troupe you have. I’m so very pleased with myself for inviting you back here. Did you know I found out about your success only because someone placed a news clipping reviewing one of your performances in New Kora on my desk? And nobody knows who! It was fate; I’m certain. My guardian angel bringing you back to me.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“But do tell me, Malcolm, what exactly are you planning to showcase? Is it ready?”

The air between Malcolm and Mademoiselle Fournier suddenly became stilted, as his eyes hardened ever so slightly, his head cocking to one side as he regarded her. It took a heartbeat for Mademoiselle Fournier to pick up on his reaction and rush to smooth him over.

“I do apologize; I didn’t mean it to sound as if I don’t trust your skill.” Mademoiselle Fournier forced a laugh. “I do trust you completely, of course. Even more so after that wonderful demonstration, but I need to update those banners outside.”

Emberlyn felt choked at the exchange. She could see what Malcolm was doing even if Mademoiselle Fournier couldn’t—tipping the power balance in his favor by behaving as if she had insulted him, when she had done nothing but ask him a simple question.

Malcolm straightened, pulled his shoulders up, and sniffed as if he were doing her a great favor by allowing the conversation to move along. He clutched the lapels of his jacket with both hands. “Mademoiselle, subject to your approval”—he emphasized the word “your,” earning a sheepish smile from Mademoiselle Fournier—“we will be showcasing our never-before-seen performance of Faust.”

Mademoiselle Fournier let out a delicate gasp of delight. Emberlyn didn’t react. It was news to her, of course. Malcolm didn’t need the Marionettes to know. He devised the steps in secret, tucked away in his room, needing to play them out on his living dolls only once or twice so he could reassure himself of his genius. Then the Marionettes would perform his steps before audiences of thousands as if they’d practiced a hundred times.

“Of course, of course! I know the story well, wonderful choice. And you?” Mademoiselle Fournier grinned at Emberlyn. “You are to play the lead, no?”

Emberlyn hesitated, meeting Malcolm’s gaze behind her back and watching his curt nod.

“Yes,” she answered, watching as Mademoiselle Fournier’s smile grew.

“Oh, it will be the show of a lifetime. Every Parlizian will fall over their friends to get tickets.” Mademoiselle Fournier sighed, reaching out and clutching at Emberlyn’s hand as she spoke. “You will come to me if you need anything, won’t you? Anything at all? I like to make sure those who perform in my theater want for absolutely nothing.”

She didn’t let go until Emberlyn nodded, forcing a smile onto her weary face when all she wanted to do was look back up to the rafters. But she kept her gaze on Mademoiselle Fournier until she turned away and launched into discussions about sets and costumes, going over the letter Malcolm had sent ahead of their arrival detailing their needs.

Emberlyn edged away but didn’t join her sisters, who stood in a huddle watching the lively discussion between the theater manager and Puppet Master. She moved away to stand on her own and looked up into the rafters, hungry for another glimpse of him. Her heart fluttered at the thought of what she might find there, her body heavy with the slow sense of dread creeping into her bones.

But she found no heavy stare. He was gone—left as soon as Emberlyn’s gaze had returned his. Emberlyn wrapped her arms around herself, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

The form, the ghost—whatever it was—that had been watching her dance was the same being who had seen her standing outside Malcolm’s bedroom. And they seemed to be very interested in her.

Emberlyn needed to find out what it was that followed her and what they wanted. Because it seemed as though this place was haunted after all, and she could not risk visiting Malcolm again with the attention of this strange figure watching her every move.

Twelve

Fatal Illusion

If Emberlyn’s sleep was filled with restless dreams, her waking hours were filled with inescapable nightmares. During the day, she danced in a body that wasn’t her own for an empty theater, save for the eyes that were there to judge and scrutinize.

She was sewn a dress of a gentle sparkling blue, overlaid with an elegant white cape of silk that swirled out behind her when she moved, like a whispered breath in the cold. Her sisters were made dresses of black-and-red tulle for those who were to become devils, striking purple-and-blue velvet brocade for those who were to be human. The sets were finished quickly, the infernal hammering and sawing rattling up through the floorboards of the theater and through the corridors. Before the Marionettes had begun their rehearsals for Malcolm to check that the choreography he had designed behind locked doors worked on his pretty dolls, he instructed them to sit in the front row of the theater and listen to him tell the story of Faust. He stood on the stage before them, palms spread, smug grin beaming, and spoke in a booming voice that shuddered through the rows of empty chairs.

Doctor Faust was a genius, Malcolm told them. A man who had conquered it all—medicine, history, politics—and gained as much satisfaction out of his pursuits as was humanly possible in the limited scope of earthly realms. Faust, aspiring for more—more purpose, more achievement, more gain—conspired with a devil. Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles agreed to serve at Faust’s beck and call, performing for him whichever delights took his fancy. Mephistopheles offered all possibility borne of hell, time, and magic, in return for Faust’s soul when the clock struck midnight at the close of twenty-four years.

Faust filled those years with simple delights and small pleasures, wasting the seconds that slipped past without notice. When his time was up, he begged for more. He begged to reclaim his soul, cursing his nature, cursing his folly. Begging for freedom.

But he didn’t receive it. He was dragged into the depths of hell. The story made Emberlyn shiver.

As the days slipped by, she felt the gaze from the rafters whenever she danced. When she walked past an empty room, something always moved too, darting out of sight when she turned to look. What she thought had been the shape of a boy in the rafters above her head seemed to shiver and evaporate whenever Emberlyn dared incline her head toward it, as if it were made of the shadows themselves. She always walked on, jaw tensed, and tried to pretend as if she’d never noticed.

She didn’t understand what it was that seemed to slither through the dark, always watching her. That seemed to be utterly fascinated by her. He hadn’t laid any more roses in her room, and as far as Emberlyn knew, he hadn’t alerted anyone of what he had seen her doing that night either. What was this strange shadow that haunted Le Théâtre de Feu—haunted Emberlyn?

Opening night was fast approaching. Malcolm needed to die. But would she be revealed as the murderer by this…this thing that watched on from the shadows? What were its intentions?

She needed answers.

She needed to catch the strange phantom that haunted her before it could take away the Marionettes’ last shot at freedom.

Emberlyn realized she had not seen a truly grand ball until this night—the ball Malcolm had thrown in honor of their journey to Parlizia paled in comparison. The ballroom inside Le Théâtre de Feu was decked to bursting with dripping diamonds and splashes of gold. Every square inch heaved with elegant Parlizian women weighed down with glimmering necklaces, friends and rivals pushed aside by skirts that reached out to their fingertips. The blinding electric light that punctured the ballroom illuminated every hidden imperfection patted down with layers of powder wherever an inch of skin was exposed.

Emberlyn stood to one side just as she had in New Kora, draped in a gown of royal blue. She didn’t need to worry about risking Malcolm’s fury at her sullen expression, as a mask of silver and stars adorned her face, leaving only her piercing green eyes visible. The other guests were almost featureless, masked with images of animals and otherworldly creatures that left the women’s blood-red mouths exposed.

Mademoiselle Fournier insisted on a masquerade to celebrate the opening of the Marionettes’ showcase, to ramp up excitement and send gossip and compliments spiraling through the streets of Parlizia about the elegant girls of divine beauty come to grace their city’s stage. Emberlyn was simply glad for the anonymity. Without the mask, she was sure the piercing light of the vast ballroom would put her darkness on display. Reveal the lust for death etched into every feature on her face.

So she stood apart, simply observing the bustle of a crowd clutching delicate crystal glasses, without feeling. On reflex, her eyes kept darting to the ceiling, half expecting to find the rafters above the stage and that shadowed being watching her.

Somebody approached her. She smelled the spicy musk of familiar cologne first. Her stomach gripped with a terror so sudden at being sought out by Malcolm, she almost doubled over. When he spoke, the fox mask he wore muffled his voice.

“Sulking in the corner are we, Emberlyn?” he asked, his voice smooth as he leaned against the wall beside her.

“Malcolm,” she acknowledged, her words steady despite her racing heart.

He gave a slight chuckle.

“This prima donna act will never cease to suit you,” he said with that soft laugh again, shuffling closer. Emberlyn tensed. “But you have my permission to freeze out every single patron who dares approach you. I just hope you don’t overdo your behavior again. I’ve not forgotten what you attempted at the train station.”

Emberlyn’s throat dried up, the memory of the bones in her toes splintering beneath her weight making her shrink away from him. How she was awake for every blistering second of it. She made a noise like a croak as Malcolm heaved a heavy sigh.

“You aren’t still upset about it, are you?” he asked. “You needed reminding of your place, sweet Emberlyn. My methods may be harsh, but are they not effective?”

Emberlyn didn’t speak. She didn’t know how to respond, her body cold as if she’d been plunged through ice into a bottomless lake with no hope of drawing breath.

“You’re so dramatic. There isn’t a scratch on you—you’re welcome for that, by the way. The gift I’ve given you is a powerful one.”

Emberlyn only just managed to hold back a bitter laugh, her shoulders shaking with the effort. The curse, a gift? He sincerely believed the life he had trapped her in was something to be desired? Coveted? She couldn’t bring herself to formulate a response.

“I know you’re unhappy with me, Emberlyn. I’d like to make it up to you. I need to go somewhere soon, and I would like you to come with me.” If Malcolm noticed Emberlyn tense at his words, he didn’t show it. “It’s my treat to you, to cheer you up a bit. I’ll let you know more closer to the time.”

An outing? That was the last thing she’d expected Malcolm to whisper in her ear this evening. She remained in a state of tension that was second nature.

“Of course, Malcolm,” she said, her voice dripping with all the sweetness of honey. “I will accompany you.”

“Well, of course you will,” Malcolm stated boldly. Emberlyn swallowed. She hadn’t noticed she was leaning away from him until now, so she straightened and continued.

“But for now, you must excuse me. I am not feeling too well and would like to retire to my room—with your permission, of course.”

Malcolm chuckled again, and Emberlyn marveled at the mask she put on to cope with his presence.

“You may, my princess. Anything to keep yourself wrapped in mystery.”

Emberlyn dipped her head and pushed away from the wall, ignoring Malcolm’s eyes glinting at her through his fox mask. She eased herself through the crush of bodies, holding her breath as the multitude of obnoxious colognes and perfumes mixed with the smell of wine and cooked lamb turned her stomach. She ignored the looks her sisters cast her from faces half concealed by glitter and clay when they spotted her striding out of the ballroom.

She had more important matters to worry about than the social etiquette of a high-society ball—bigger plans for her night than the taste of canapés served on warm silver platters and the fizz of champagne bubbles bursting on her tongue.

Tonight, while what seemed to be the entirety of Parlizia’s social elite was occupied with this fatal illusion, the sparkling facade to cover the dark truth about who the Marionettes really were, Emberlyn would wander the corridors of Le Théâtre de Feu. She was going to catch the mysterious being that haunted her footsteps.

If she uncovered what it was, unraveled the mystery of the figure—disposed of it…she would be able to carry on with the rest of her plan.

Malcolm would never wake to greet another morning.

Emberlyn would never have to dance for him again, and no more girls would perish at his hand.

Emberlyn reveled in the growing silence as she left the laughter and light and music behind her. She scurried away without a backward glance, her chest loosening. She followed the now-familiar corridors of the theater to her room, where she slipped inside as silent as the phantom she was preparing to hunt.

Emberlyn didn’t pause for breath. Didn’t relax. She wanted to get this night over with, to break through the nightmare and out onto the other side. She needed to face up to whatever it was that walked in her footsteps.

She grabbed a cloak hanging in her wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, keeping her mask of stars affixed to her face. With a kerosene lantern from her bedside table tucked inside her cloak, she left her room.

She walked through the dark with a purposeful stride. The sconces along the walls were not yet lit for the evening with the inhabitants of their theater distracted in the glittering cage of the ballroom. Emberlyn held her head high, her skirts billowing out behind her. Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder, but she saw nothing except the corridors stretching on. She hurried forward, quickening her step, turning a corner…when she felt it. When she felt him.

The intense gaze on her, enveloped in the night.

She didn’t react to the feeling save for a nervous swallow. She kept moving, steady, though she felt the eyes at her back and the hairs on her neck stood on end. When she didn’t turn to acknowledge his presence, she felt it close the gap between them, the air shifting, becoming electric with excitement. He was confident he hadn’t been noticed.

Emberlyn followed the twists and turns until she found what she was hunting. Her heart kept a pounding beat with her footsteps as a searing heat writhed in her stomach. She slowed, her chest heaving with both exertion and fear, when she was only inches from Malcolm’s door. She stood still, feigning catching her breath, when really her ears were straining, attuned to the darkness that surrounded her.

There was a rustle within it. The imperceptibly slight expulsion of breath from one who didn’t want to be heard, the sound of it sparking her every sense. She couldn’t work out if what had been following her was boy, ghost, or something else entirely, but that sound was altogether very human. She reached for Malcolm’s door handle.

The phantom stepped closer, leaning in, so close Emberlyn could feel his presence at her shoulder.

Emberlyn spun on the spot, sparking the lantern to life and shooting a dazzling ray of light into the shadows, toward the form with the hushed breath.

She barely held back a scream.

A boy threw his arms up to cover his face, and as quickly as a flash of lightning, he fled, black cloak whipping out behind him as he darted away into the shadows.

Emberlyn’s resolve returned in a rush.

“Stop!” she shouted, and set off at a sprint through the darkness after him.

The figure didn’t falter, but Emberlyn matched his footsteps as he twisted and turned, taking unexpected corners and disorienting directions. Emberlyn growled as she ran, squinting as he faded into the dark, but then a snatch of material billowed out from a corner and she knew she was still on the trail.

He ran at a blinding speed into the heavy fold of night. Emberlyn kept chase, following the specter farther and deeper into the theater than she’d ever been before, hot on his pounding feet. Her heels clacked as she ran, pinching angrily at her toes to a point where Emberlyn knew they would be filling with blood. But she didn’t care and gritted her teeth through the pain. She battled past racks of costumes in the abandoned corridors, leaping over a crate spilling with pamphlets the phantom threw to the ground to slow her down.

She flew after him through a door he attempted to slam behind him and heard his footsteps ring as he escaped down a wrought iron spiral staircase into a yawning mouth of darkness.

Emberlyn hesitated—only for a split second, but it was enough to throw her off his trail. She gathered her skirts in one hand and leaped down the staircase, skipping over the last few steps to land in a room that made the breath in her throat catch.

She stood still and lifted her lantern. A thousand pairs of eyes stared back as her body turned to ice.

Puppets. Grotesque, jumbled marionettes with twisted limbs and caved-in faces. Emberlyn let out a cry as she surged forward, knocking the marionettes to the floor as heat formed behind her eyes.

“Face me!” she yelled into the pitch black beyond the glow of her lantern. There was no response, no echo of footsteps. She swallowed to rid her throat of the damp stickiness that filled the air and concentrated. That supernatural gaze was on her. A ton of stones weighing down her mind, pressing into her skull. It made her feel wild. Feral.

He was still there. He was still watching her.

Emberlyn took slow steps deeper into the room, her eyes straining to pick up everything at once as the light of her lantern revealed more of the room to her with every movement, listening for the hint of a footstep.

She was in an abandoned prop cellar. She stared at the rows of cracked masks, layers and lengths of disused costumes of velvet and satin that draped in moth-bitten heaps from bowing rails. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a life-size clown puppet hunched on the floor, its dead eyes endless. The sight of it made Emberlyn’s heart ricochet.

Tables upon tables of forgotten things that had once brought joy, brought tears to a patron’s eyes, were lying forgotten and useless, floors below the shiny and new. The oppressive smell of mildew and old things filled the room like something tangible, like something she could run her fingers through. It made the frantic breaths she drew in seem to burn.

Emberlyn wondered if any of this had been Esme’s.

The thought hit her like a train. Her step faltered. But now was not the time to think of her lost sister. She hurried forward, her gaze searching, hunting in the dark, desperate to discover who this person was, who had been watching her, stalking her, as if it were trying to collect her secrets. Her hand trailed through a table of lost props as she scanned.

Her hand closed around something cold and metal, and Emberlyn paused as she drew out a steel pipe the length of her forearm with a jagged edge—an abandoned piece of scaffolding, she thought. She tightened her grip around it and turned her attention back to her hunt.

Emberlyn faced the room. “I have a weapon,” she announced to the thousand eyes that watched her, her hand shaking. She brandished the pipe clumsily. “I swear I will hurt you if I have to. I need answers.”

A derisive chuckle rang through the room. He…he was laughing at her.

Emberlyn spun toward the spot the laugh had come from, pointing her lantern at it, and her eyes widened as something slipped out of view. Without pausing, she shot forward, tumbling and crashing through the broken props and costumes that littered the stone floor, until the wall of the cellar loomed before her. Shadows lurked in the far corner.

She felt the gaze on her. She felt it searing through her skin, the eyes hiding in the last shadow it could find. A victorious thrill ran through Emberlyn as she stopped. She stared into the pitch-black corner triumphantly and flexed her fingers around the pipe. Glee filled her with heat, at odds with her hammering heart.

She took a step forward and watched with satisfaction as the light licked at a pair of black leather boots. They shuffled in an attempt to get away, but there was nowhere for them to go.

“Don’t,” a deep voice hissed.

Emberlyn’s mouth twisted into a morbid smile, like the bared teeth of a predator who knew it had bested its prey and would soon feel the warmth of blood dripping between its jaws.

She lifted the lantern and shone the full light onto the figure in the corner.

Thirteen

The Boy in the Shadows

It wasn’t his appearance that startled her. It wasn’t that she’d been expecting a decrepit monstrosity looming out at her with a gaping jaw but instead found a boy her own age staring back at her with furious eyes. It wasn’t that his skin seemed to shiver into sporadic, swirling trails of dust that clung wherever the light grazed him.

It was the overwhelming sense of familiarity that punched through her chest the moment he came into full view.

He pressed himself up against the wall in an effort to escape the glow of Emberlyn’s lantern. “Get it off me!” he snarled.

Emberlyn did as he asked, too shocked to process anything but what was demanded of her. The shadows swallowed his face again until there was nothing but the outline of his lips, his strong nose, and the dark hair that hung in messy curls in front of his forehead, half concealing eyes that glowered at Emberlyn. His skin solidified once more in the dark, looking so like a normal boy’s that Emberlyn was left wondering if she had imagined the sight of his skin breaking into glittering dust. She tore off her mask of stars to allow herself to observe him more clearly, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud.

“Who—who are you?” Emberlyn stammered, the pipe limp in her hand. She was certain they hadn’t met—they couldn’t have. How often did Emberlyn come across a strange boy who seemed more like a half-dust creature in the light, with whom she exchanged pleasantries? She knew she couldn’t possibly know him, but…didn’t she? Despite the warmth of her cloak, a chill spread over her arms.

The phantom’s eyebrows furrowed—a mere suggestion of expression obscured by darkness.

“Who am I? Don’t you mean to ask ‘what’ am I?” The boy’s voice was smooth, quizzical, as if he was genuinely surprised Emberlyn hadn’t immediately demanded to know what monster stalked the shadows beneath a decadent Parlizian theater.

Emberlyn swallowed and spoke again, forcing her voice to sound strong. Unafraid.

“Who. Are. You?” she demanded. The boy gave another sardonic chuckle that made Emberlyn’s eyes narrow.

“Étienne,” he said. “I already know who you are, Emberlyn. You’re all that Mademoiselle Fournier can seem to talk about. Although I do wonder why you have chased me through the corridors like a madwoman and cornered me in a cellar with a pipe?”

Emberlyn let out a surprised huff of breath.

“Wh-what? No, you were the one following me!”

“I’m not the one brandishing a weapon.” Étienne lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Emberlyn could do nothing but stare in disbelief as he simply stared back, a challenge in his eyes.

“Why do I feel like I know you?” she hissed with a cracked voice. A look of bewilderment crossed Étienne’s face, but it cleared as quickly as it came.

“Perhaps you are dreaming,” he said softly, as if trying to lull her to sleep.

“No, I’m not,” she snarled at his attempt to deceive her. “Why do I know you, Étienne? Why are you so familiar?”

The thought was grating on her. Just as when she squeezed her bracelet branded with that name she didn’t know, Étienne’s face was sparking some kind of vague recognition. A memory of a memory she couldn’t grab no matter how much she reached for it.

“I can assure you, we have never met, nor do I recognize you beyond the day you showed up in my theater.”

“How long have you been following me?”

“My God, I promise I have better things to do than that.”

This strange figure’s nonchalance set fire grumbling in her chest. “Yet every time I’m in a corridor I can feel you watching me,” she snapped.

The corner of Étienne’s mouth lifted.

“You merely piqued my interest.”

Emberlyn’s stomach rolled at that. She stepped forward, hesitating when he shrank away from the approaching light with a barely audible gasp. Her heart thundered in her ears as she squinted, trying to make out more of his features, trying to place where he fit into her memories. Was he a ghost? A specter that frequented her nightmares? Or perhaps her dreams?

“What are you?” she asked tentatively.

“Ah, there’s the question I was waiting for.” Étienne’s half smile peeled back into a grin, foreboding in the darkness. “Who knows. There. That’s it. Anything else? Or are you going to stop pointing your pipe at me and go back to your room? Go back to wandering the corridors some more in search of your Puppet Master and leave me alone.” He barked out a laugh. “What were your intentions the other night, anyway, when you were outside his door? To hurt him? Try to sever the strings that bind you?”

Emberlyn lowered the pipe, her stomach dropping. Sever the strings?

“You know? You know what he really is?” she whispered. But she already knew the answer when her curse didn’t rise to her throat to choke her.

He knew the truth, which meant she could speak freely.

Étienne’s features hardened as Emberlyn’s legs seemed to turn to water, his smile fading. “Perhaps,” he said, but offered no more.

“What do you know?” Emberlyn asked frantically, shock burying itself deep inside her bones. “How do you know? Tell me, or I’ll put the light back on you.”

She stepped forward, raising her lantern threateningly. The light stroked along his chin, which immediately broke out into a dance of dust and shadows. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat at the sight.

“Please,” the boy said, his voice suddenly low and begging, nothing like the biting tone from before. “Lower the lantern. It hurts.”

Emberlyn did as he bid her, the pain in his voice making Emberlyn’s stomach twist with guilt. Despite the situation, something deep inside her didn’t want to hurt him at all—though she didn’t drop her facade as she snapped at him.

“Then tell me what you know. Tell me who you are, Étienne,” she demanded, though her voice trembled. “What do you know of my Puppet Master, when no one but him is able to speak of it? I’m tired of these games. I will hurt you, if you can be hurt. If you’re not a ghost already.”

Despite her fear, she needed to know more. It was impossible that someone else could know the truth, for Malcolm would never tell a soul, and the Marionettes would simply choke on the words. And what he had thought when he saw her standing outside Malcolm’s door? Did he intend on revealing her to someone?

Étienne sighed.

“I guess you are as much a prima donna as those of the theater say you are. I have to say, I’m disappointed. I thought you might have…a little more substance.” He cocked his head, shaking it dejectedly, his expression suddenly thoughtful, distant. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have let my curiosity get the better of me.”

“What are you—”

But before Emberlyn could finish her sentence, the boy twisted, and something heavy was launched toward Emberlyn’s head. She let out a shriek as she ducked, her hands flinging to cover her face, only just able to hold on to her lantern. She turned to stare at what had narrowly missed her as a crash thundered behind her. A book lay with its pages open against the floor, its spine cracked where it had landed.

“You could’ve—!” Emberlyn yelled as she whipped back around, ready to spit poison. But Étienne was gone, melted into the darkness. No eyes watched her save for the tangled marionettes’.

Emberlyn searched the cellar in a frenzy, barely stopping herself from tearing out her hair when the glow of her lantern refused to reveal Étienne’s form. She tore through the props in every corner, stomped up every aisle of tangled marionettes and ripped clothing off rails, but he was gone. Vanished into thin air. Again. She couldn’t fathom how he did it.

There was only one way into the cellar except for the way she had entered—a door on one side that seemed to have sealed itself shut with age. But she would have heard his footsteps on the iron staircase echoing above her if he had fled back into the theater’s corridors. No, he was simply there one moment and gone the next.

She returned to the space where she had accosted him, squeezed him into a corner with nowhere to run. She held the lantern out in front of her as she explored the floor, looking for clues, anything that might tell her something about this strange Étienne. A torn, dark blue blanket and a musty-smelling pillow were haphazardly piled in one of the corners. It seemed he lived down there. Emberlyn frowned as she approached it.

Hundreds upon hundreds of matchsticks, some burned to nothing more than a stub, some only gently torched at one end, littered the floor around his crude bed. She bent to pick one up, dangling it in front of her.

So the boy liked to play with fire?

Something else caught her eye. To one side, a stack of books had been knocked over as if he had barreled through them in his attempts to get away from her. She squinted, holding the light closer, but couldn’t translate the language on the titles.

She turned, seeking out the limp form of the book that had narrowly missed her head and scooped it up. It was heavy, and the pages crackled as Emberlyn opened it, as if it were older than the theater she stood beneath. She paused on a page, wrinkling her nose at the printed sketches of what looked like a monster. Its claws were reaching, its jaws open and salivating. She shuddered and snapped the book shut.

She looked around the cellar one more time, then back down at the book. She hoped it was his favorite. She hoped it was one of the only possessions he treasured. He wasn’t going to get it back—not unless he came for it and answered her questions. With an indignant sniff, she tucked the book under her arm and marched away.

Emberlyn moved through the corridors back to her room with the book clutched against her, waiting to sense those heavy eyes regarding her. Waiting to see if he would appear to steal it back. Hoping he would materialize before her. She walked slowly, ears straining to hear the slide of a cloak along the flagstones, a restrained breath by her ear. But she heard nothing. He wasn’t following her anymore, and the thought made her feel oddly disappointed. The silent company of a creature in the darkness felt more welcome than the true emptiness of the theater, now that it was gone.

She didn’t want to go back to the ballroom. She was already exhausted without throwing fake smiles and delicate tinkling laughter into the mix, as she was sure her sisters were doing. Her body was lethargic, her mind weighed down with too many thoughts, too many questions.

She hadn’t gotten any closer to understanding what was happening. Who was this boy who broke out into dust in the light, who seemed to disappear at will, who had haunted her footsteps and watched her standing outside Malcolm’s bedroom? Who had thrown a book at her head and then vanished for good? If he knew the truth about who Malcolm was, even if Emberlyn couldn’t fathom how, did he even intend to reveal to anyone that Emberlyn had been lingering outside his bedroom that night—intend on scuppering their last chance at freedom?

And why was Emberlyn so certain she had met him before? She didn’t know if she had ever been to Parlizia—wouldn’t ever be able to know without her full memories. Was it possible she knew him from a life she couldn’t remember? She was certain there was some kind of connection there. Felt it in the pit of her stomach, a truth impossible to ignore. She knew him somehow. And she had a feeling he knew her, too, otherwise why would he have been so dedicated to following her?

It was too much to try to comprehend—simply more to carry when she was already occupied with seeking her revenge, with saving herself from the curse that danced inside her. She turned the last corner before her bedroom.

And she froze.

Aleida’s eyes met hers instantly, so Emberlyn knew she couldn’t turn away and hide. She stood in a ruffle of soft pink skirts, lantern held out before her and cupping something wrapped in a napkin in the other hand.

“Emberlyn,” she said softly, a hint of relief entwined with her name. “I didn’t know where you were. I saw you leave in a hurry and made my excuses to go after you, but your room was empty and…What’s that?”

Emberlyn looked down. Though she held the book tightly in one arm, she still clutched the pipe along with her lantern in the other. She had forgotten to get rid of it. She cursed under her breath and stared back at Aleida, trying to feign an expression of innocence.

“Why are you carrying that around, Ember?”

Emberlyn didn’t answer, but she stepped forward, covering the space between herself and Aleida. Aleida straightened her shoulders and moved into Emberlyn’s path as she made to go around her.

“Ember,” Aleida said urgently. “Where have you been?”

Emberlyn couldn’t help the bitter smile that gripped her lips.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain it,” she said, and breezed past Aleida.

“Try me.” Aleida scrutinized Emberlyn’s expression more closely. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she whispered when they were shoulder to shoulder. Emberlyn stopped and turned her head to take in Aleida’s expression. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes wide and watery with concern as the light of her lantern flickered inside them. Shadows that spoke of restless nights ringed her eyes. Something in Emberlyn’s chest cracked.

She wanted to fling her arms around her best friend. She wanted to collapse against her chest, sob, tell her everything—tell her about the boy in the prop cellar with the swirling skin who simply couldn’t be of this world, who she was certain she knew, of her decision to kill Malcolm, that she thought her curse had torn its way through her when she set foot into Parlizia. Malcolm’s attack, the gaping hole Esme had left inside Emberlyn’s chest when she died, which had grown even deeper when Aleida refused to run away with her.

She wanted someone to share her burden, help her understand, help her heal. She wanted Aleida to promise to help ease a knife into Malcolm’s neck and dash away into the night with her, ready to face whatever came next.

But Emberlyn stayed upright. She trembled, but she remained strong on the outside. When she had planned to escape, she wanted to keep Aleida at a distance to ensure she wouldn’t get involved, or try to stop her. Now with a darker, viler plan brewing in the back of her mind, Emberlyn knew there was even more reason to keep Aleida away from her. Keep her innocent of the plot to murder their Puppet Master so she didn’t suffer the weight of the danger Emberlyn wanted to shoulder alone. Both her and the rest of their sisters.

She brushed past Aleida and pushed her bedroom door open just as she heard Aleida sigh.

“Look, I’m sorry. Can I start again? I brought you these.”

Despite herself, Emberlyn paused, turning to glance into Aleida’s hand as she unwrapped the napkin she held to show Emberlyn a collection of five delicate chocolates.

“I know chocolate is your favorite, and I know you didn’t eat anything. I thought you might like them.” She held them out toward her. “Please, let’s stop whatever this is between us. I miss you. I miss my best friend.” Aleida’s voice dropped to something low and pleading. “I know you tried to escape. That day, at the train station. I worked it out not long after. I’m so sorry; I know you must be going through hell after that. But at least we know the truth now that we can’t leave, so we can learn to live with it. If you talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling, it might help. Please.”

Emberlyn’s throat bobbed as she hesitated. There was so much she wanted to tell her. But if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and she would achieve nothing more than to reel her best friend deeper and deeper into her murderous plan—one she fully intended to keep her away from. With a small shake of her head, she swept into her room, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Taking a deep breath, Emberlyn placed the pipe and lantern on her bedside table so she could turn the key in the door. She faced her unlit room and hugged the book to her chest like it could shield her from what might be lurking there. She expected to find a heavy gaze, burning eyes. But there was nothing.

She heard a thump behind her as Aleida pressed her forehead against the door.

She heard Aleida’s voice, muffled through the door. “I’ll be here. I’ll still be here when you’re ready to talk.”

Emberlyn pretended she couldn’t feel the hot tears of overwhelm burning down her cheek.

She desperately wanted to tell her what was happening—but she wanted to keep her safe even more.

Fourteen

The First Fall of Faust

Long into the night, when the ancient clock towers sang over the frost-nipped rooftops of Parlizia, Emberlyn sat up in bed with the blankets pulled around her waist and Étienne’s book propped open against her legs. Her lantern glowed on her bedside table, a fire burning steadily in the hearth. Emberlyn squinted as she flipped through the pages, periodically glancing up into the silence of her lightless room, hoping the boy would appear. She’d mulled over their strange meeting a hundred times and kept coming back to the same two facts. That she was sure they had met before somehow. And that she longed to see him again, for his presence to satiate her curiosity. She pictured his strange, dust-swirled hands stroking over the book she now held in her lap. Wondered over and over again who he was, what he was.

She couldn’t understand a word of what was written inside the dusty tome, but it was such an old volume that she believed whatever it was must have been important. It must have meant something to the strange boy for him to keep it beside his bed. Monsters didn’t keep possessions. Monsters didn’t read. So why did he have this? Soon she stopped trying to translate the intricately inked foreign words she brushed her fingertips over and instead turned her attention to the pictures.

Flashing jaws. Sharpened claws. A dead body surrounded by a pool of blood, with odd symbols marking the ground around them. Though every image made Emberlyn recoil, made her feel like something was going to come shrieking out of the ink of her room to get her, she couldn’t stop looking.

She frowned as she flipped to the next page, her other hand absentmindedly tracing the name on her bracelet, and there, sliding down the center of the book, was an unused matchstick. Étienne had marked this spot. Emberlyn sat up straighter, letting the book fall into her lap as she stared at the page with renewed interest. She squinted at the title, as if the weight of her gaze would unfurl its meaning.

But the strange language was entirely unfamiliar to her.

Her eyes drifted to the accompanying pictures, and she almost recoiled. The image showed two figures. One stood facing the other, their arms outstretched as if they were conducting an orchestra. The other was hunched with their fists balled around the hilt of a knife. One that was buried inside their own chest, as if they had done it to themselves. Emberlyn squinted, leaning in closer to pick out the details. The look of despair on the face of the one who held the knife. The sheer glee in the expression of the one who held his arms aloft. The one whose eyes…the one whose eyes seemed to snap to Emberlyn’s.

She jerked backward, her heart suddenly in her mouth. She snapped the book shut with her mind whirring, ensuring the matchstick was still in place before delicately putting the volume onto the floor. Curling into a ball, Emberlyn stared at the blank red cover until her pulse had calmed.

She didn’t know exactly what she had seen on the page. But she had a hunch as to why he had marked that page specifically by the pictures alone.

Emberlyn sat silently, her thumb still running over her bracelet, her mind racing. The boy who haunted the prop cellar knew about her curse. He also somehow had in his possession a book that seemed to depict exactly what was happening to her. Had been following her, for some kind of purpose. But she couldn’t understand the words and needed someone who could. Perhaps…needed the help of someone who had offered to give her anything she wanted.

Emberlyn sighed, shuffling deeper into her sheets as she realized what she needed to do next.

Tomorrow, she would pay Mademoiselle Fournier a visit. It wasn’t ideal, but if Emberlyn could feign little more than a passing interest in the content of the book as a whole, perhaps Mademoiselle Fournier could help shed some light. Perhaps Emberlyn could find out what was said in the pages that she was certain, somehow, detailed the curse that ran through her veins.

Malcolm was extraordinarily pleased with his own generosity. Emberlyn wished she could claw that self-satisfied smile from his face as he stood in the foyer of Le Théâtre de Feu, decked in his finest woolen coat and expensive top hat, watching the activity bustle around him in the golden glow of the morning light. He had muscled into their dining room and announced, over a breakfast that Emberlyn had only picked through, that since they weren’t rehearsing on the weekends, he was going to treat his dancers to a day out exploring Parlizia.

The Marionettes had been awash with excitement and rushed to the dormitory to don their warmest dresses and coats, brushing through their hair as quickly as they could. Emberlyn had ignored their invitations to get ready together and had instead drifted back to her own room. Now, as she approached Malcolm in the foyer, in nothing more than a simple long-sleeved dress with no coat to warm her shoulders, the Marionettes paused their feverish conversation to shoot her quizzical glances. With her chin held up high despite the nervous twisting in her stomach, she made a beeline for the Puppet Master.

“Sir,” she said, waiting for him to turn his gaze to her. She knew, while in public, he expected to be addressed with a title. “With your permission, I would like to stay.”

Emberlyn ignored Rosalyn’s mouth twisting with confusion and kept her attention on Malcolm, who cocked his head at her.

“Let me get this straight. You, Emberlyn, don’t want to go and see Parlizia? You won’t get another chance, you know. I’ll be far too busy to allow such trips once the show opens.”

Emberlyn’s chest ached with a longing that she quickly tamped down. She had gone to sleep that night determined to carry out other plans today, and she intended on seeing them through.

“With your permission, sir,” Emberlyn repeated, offering no further reason.

Malcolm’s eyes darted around to see who was listening. Various employees of Le Théâtre de Feu were flitting through the foyer, sneaking glances at the troupe. His lips thinned. Emberlyn knew he would have to have a very good reason to refuse such a simple request as this when there were others around to wonder about his reaction.

Eventually, the tension broke and Malcolm shrugged. “Doesn’t make a speck of difference to me if you would rather sulk in your room. Come on, ladies; let’s go.” He beckoned to the smartly dressed young men who were hanging around listlessly, who suddenly sprang into action and hurried forward to flank the Marionettes. “Our chaperones here will make sure nobody approaches any of you.”

Emberlyn shook her head as her sisters began to filter out the grand front doors. She jumped as Rosalyn stopped in front of her, Aleida floating anxiously behind, listening in.

“Are you delirious?” Rosalyn snapped, instantly getting Emberlyn’s back up.

“No. Tired,” Emberlyn responded shortly, and swiveled on her heel, not pausing to wave goodbye to her sisters as they set out to explore the streets she wished so desperately she could see herself.

“Doesn’t want to spend time with us, more like,” she heard Rosalyn mutter at her back. Emberlyn flinched but kept moving, her destination clear in her mind, until the noise of the exiting Marionettes was little more than a hum.

After a brief stop back to her own room to collect the ancient tome, she set out to find Mademoiselle Fournier’s office.

She didn’t have to search for long. The gilded door waited in the center of an opulent corridor framed with luxurious marble and glittering lights. Mademoiselle Fournier’s name was etched onto a gold plaque hung in the middle of the door. Emberlyn stood, facing it, her heart hammering.

Mademoiselle Fournier had told Emberlyn she could come to her for anything, but still, that didn’t mean she could trust her with her secrets—not when she seemed so familiar with Malcolm. What other choice did Emberlyn have, though? She couldn’t read their language at all, and she needed someone to help her understand what she was looking at. Exactly how much Étienne knew.

She took a deep breath before she rapped her knuckles against the heavy wood, her grip on the ancient book tight.

She couldn’t tell if it was footsteps she heard or the thudding of her own heart, but soon the door swung open and Mademoiselle Fournier’s eyes widened at her. A tremble of sweet perfume floated out from the room behind her.

“Emberlyn! Good morning, my lovely. What is it that I can do for you?”

Emberlyn looked at her for a moment, her thoughts tangled like the knotted strings of the marionettes in the abandoned prop cellar. She scrutinized Mademoiselle’s face carefully. Her eyes were wide. Honest. She smiled like she was genuinely happy to see Emberlyn.

Emberlyn offered Mademoiselle Fournier a wide, winning smile that made her feel like she was wearing a poor copy of her own face. She dropped into a small curtsy.

“Hello,” she said in Mademoiselle Fournier’s language, an imitation of the words she had heard others say in greeting, before she switched back to her own. “I hope I am not disturbing you, but I wondered if we could speak for a few moments?”

Mademoiselle Fournier’s face lit up.

“Of course! Please come in.” She pulled the door open wider and stepped aside as Emberlyn hesitantly shuffled into the theater manager’s office. “Are you not joining the others on your tour of the city?”

Emberlyn took a sweeping assessment of the room as she answered swiftly. “No, I’m afraid not. I prefer to spend my downtime indoors. I’m not fond of the cold, and you keep the theater so wonderfully warm.”

Around her, bookcases burst with leather-bound tomes, loose papers poking out of every gap, while trinkets and perfume bottles lined the shelves. A desk dominated the center of the room, upon which files and paper and old ticket stubs balanced precariously in several piles around a delicate china teapot issuing forth an enticing plume of steam. Emberlyn caught the scent of sweet tea under the layers of perfume, and her mouth watered.

Mademoiselle caught her gaze. “Ah, understood. I’m a creature of luxury myself, preferring to nestle down with a hot cup of something than suffer frozen toes. With that said, would you like some tea?” she offered, opening a china cabinet on the far wall and pulling out a dainty cup. She gestured with her head to a seat before the chaotic desk. Emberlyn nodded her agreement for the tea and took her time settling into the green wingback chair, trying to calm her rolling stomach. She thanked Mademoiselle Fournier as a tantalizingly sweet cup of tea was placed onto her saucer. Emberlyn all but threw it back without restraint, the feel of the warmth slipping down her throat calming her as Mademoiselle Fournier lowered herself into her chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“How can I help you?” She smiled with her curious gaze trained on Emberlyn over the rim of her cup as she took a delicate sip.

It was now or never.

Emberlyn pulled the book she hugged to her chest away and let it drop to the desk. Mademoiselle Fournier’s eyes flickered down toward it in surprise.

“I found this book, and I would like to know what it is about. I thought it…looked interesting.”

Emberlyn faltered at Mademoiselle Fournier’s expression. She replaced her cup with a clatter and reached out, brushing the front cover with her mouth open, her eyebrows raised.

“My God, where did you find this?”

Emberlyn’s heart all but stopped at the shocked tone. Had she made an awful mistake?

“I was…uh, just wandering. Exploring the corridors. I just found it.” Emberlyn shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant way and fixed her attention on the book in front of her. She tried to smooth her features into an expression that didn’t tell of her guilt. To Emberlyn’s relief, Mademoiselle Fournier broke out into a laugh.

“I know this book! It belongs to the theater’s collection. We keep a very small library in a hidden location within the theater. The founder of Le Théâtre de Feu was very fond of books such as this, and he squirreled them away. We have been taking care of them and building up the collection over time.” Mademoiselle’s manicured fingers brushed the spine, her smile fading. “In the last few years, several books have gone missing, including this one. Which is why we moved the location of the library in an attempt to preserve the remaining books, locking it to ensure it is accessible to the eyes of only a select few. How curious that you found it lying about.”

“What is it about?” Emberlyn hurriedly diverted her attention away. “The pictures are…” She didn’t know how to finish.

“Terrible, no? I once flicked through myself but couldn’t stand it.” She shuddered as if seeing the drawings in her mind’s eye. “It’s an in-depth history of the occult. Black magic. Any dark legend or mystery spanning from the dawn of time must be in here.”

She stared at it again before she slowly looked back up at Emberlyn. Emberlyn leaned forward in her seat to catch every word.

“Well, thank you, Emberlyn. For bringing it back to me. I can lock it back away in the library.” She moved as if to close the book and drag it toward herself.

In her sheer panic, Emberlyn all but slammed her hand down on the book, her heart leaping as it almost slipped out of her grasp.

“No! I mean, I’m sorry, but I thought I could keep it? I don’t have anything else to read, you see.”

Mademoiselle Fournier looked bewildered, glancing between Emberlyn and the book.

“This? This isn’t a topic for lovely young ladies. I have many others you can borrow whenever you like.” She swept her hand toward her bookcases, but Emberlyn vehemently shook her head.

“No, please. I like the look of this one.” She knew her voice was weak and begging. Pathetic. But she wanted this book. Needed it. She wanted to do something, anything, to understand who Étienne was, what he knew, and what he was, so she could work out what to do next. Work out how to make sure he didn’t get in the way of her plans, as well as perhaps even discover more about the curse that ran through her own blood. She couldn’t do that if the book was confiscated before she’d even translated a single word.

“It’s awfully old and precious, Emberlyn.” Mademoiselle Fournier’s teeth worried at her bright red lips. Emberlyn said nothing and simply looked at her, one hand resting on the tome.

Eventually, Mademoiselle Fournier’s face broke out into another smile, and Emberlyn fought not to slump back in relief. “Oh, okay. You may keep it on the condition that it is returned straight into my hands before you head back to New Kora. Only because you seem to be a lucky charm, Emberlyn. Nobody else has been able to locate this old tome.”

An image of the old books stacked by Étienne’s bed flashed through Emberlyn’s mind. She smiled back and nodded.

“And here.” Mademoiselle Fournier stood and began to dig through her bookshelves. She pulled out a small volume wrapped in a shade of emerald green. She placed it gently in Emberlyn’s waiting hands. “A translation dictionary. To help you understand.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle!”

Mademoiselle Fournier smiled in response as Emberlyn stood.

“Just take care of them both, my lovely.”

Emberlyn nodded and made toward the door, hurrying as fast as she thought she could get away with without looking too rude. But on the threshold, she paused. She turned back with the books clutched against her heart.

She couldn’t let a word of this reach Malcolm.

“Mademoiselle…Malcolm…he doesn’t let us read what he hasn’t chosen. Would it be all right if…?”

Emberlyn watched Mademoiselle Fournier’s expression tighten. “He doesn’t let you choose your own books?” she asked in an aghast tone. Emberlyn scrambled to cover up her tracks.

“No, no, I don’t mean he doesn’t let us.” She forced a breezy laugh. “He just prefers if we don’t. He says some material can distract us. Ruins our concentration.”

Mademoiselle Fournier’s expression softened, and she raised her hand in the air, indicating that Emberlyn didn’t need to say anything more. Her eyes twinkled, and she pressed a finger to her lips.

“How very old-fashioned. It’ll be our secret, my lovely.” She smiled. Emberlyn grinned back and hurried from the room.

Emberlyn stood in the wings of the stage dressed as Faust, fingers sliding behind the heavy curtains as she tugged them aside to peer out. The Parlizian audience was filling the theater for opening night, bodies writhing like a pit of hungry, brightly colored snakes, desperate to be satisfied. Their outfits were more brightly colored, more garish, than the audiences back at Manrow Theater in New Kora. Her stomach churned.

She had hoped to have achieved something by now. To have figured out exactly what Étienne was, what he wanted from her. To be certain he wouldn’t get in her way. But her translation of the tome had been slow going, Étienne refusing to appear for her when she slinked into the shadows to try to seek him out once again, to find answers about what he knew of her curse. And then, as opening night had fast approached, the downtime Emberlyn so valued was all but stolen, torn between dress fittings and constant rehearsals both for Malcolm to assure himself of his brilliance and Mademoiselle Fournier’s expectations. She had barely any time to think through her next move, though she knew she needed to move quickly.

She didn’t know how long any of them had. When the next girl would fall. When it might be her turn to be claimed by the curse.

The electric atmosphere of opening night didn’t reach her. Only half an hour before, she had brushed away Aleida’s attempts to help her with her hair and makeup, as she always had, and pretended not to care when she saw the hurt shining in her friend’s face. Aleida looked awfully tired, with ringed eyes and stooped shoulders. Her expression was burned into Emberlyn’s mind, but she refused to let it weigh her down—not when she was ensuring this distance would keep Aleida far away from what Emberlyn planned to do. Instead, she had affixed her trademark opal tiara into her curls herself.

As she listened to the noise of the theater, she caught only snatches of words she couldn’t fully comprehend, flashes of grins as important guests she cared little about gathered in the boxes that rose to the ceiling on both sides, roaring laughter emanating from the gilded tiers. The chandelier gleamed in its invading and illustrious way.

Where the auditorium was a distant hum of expectant delight, the stage behind her was a panicked hive of activity. Footsteps rushed in the rafters overhead, the precarious planks of wood suspended by rope swaying with the impact. Young boys darted about to set the scene, to prepare the pulleys and trapdoors. The orchestra tuned in the pit before the stage, producing a lilting and honking sound that faded into the background.

Emberlyn observed it all with a clinical indifference.

Marionettes approached, placed their hands on her arm and asked if she was okay, but their voices sounded far away, like they were whispered on the other side of a street in a snowstorm. She barely made out the words, barely picked out the features on their faces to work out who was even speaking. She simply nodded or looked away from them, pretending to be acutely interested in the activity of the nearest stagehand as he rushed past so fast, her skirts rustled, until they gave up and left her alone.

She began to stretch, twisting her ankles in her hard-tipped ballet slippers, bowing her back to feel the pull in her thighs. Mademoiselle Fournier appeared, clapping her hands, wishing them luck. Then Emberlyn was floating alone toward center stage. The light of the theater dimmed, and a hush fell. Malcolm made his way to the box overhead, unable to maintain his mysterious Puppet Master facade because of the thrilled grin that kept breaking across his lips.

Opening night. His big return to the Parlizian theater scene.

Emberlyn could only hope he slipped as he climbed up to his ridiculous Puppet Master box and broke his neck as he landed.

But no such thing happened. Strings wrapped around Emberlyn’s wrists as her curse wriggled and freed itself, shimmering to her surface and along her skin. Then the curtains rose to a heavy applause that rattled through Emberlyn’s chest. A thousand burning eyes stared back from their red velvet thrones, rolled and wrapped in gold and shadows. Silence followed. Her heart pounded.

The conductor flicked his wrist, and the music began.

Emberlyn was elsewhere as her body moved. As it arched and stretched, leaped and twirled. An enraptured audience observed with bated breath the Princess of New Kora, come to dance for them in Parlizia. They marveled at her swift movements, how her body bent but never broke, how she took the space of the stage as if she owned it. As if she owned the air in everybody’s lungs.

When her sisters joined her on the stage, Emberlyn’s soul was close to sleeping. It was turned toward the dark, wrapped in cold away from the audience, the theater, Parlizia. The curse had Emberlyn completely.

The curse was Emberlyn.

Until something called her out of her waking slumber—the numb feeling that had overcome her. Something stirred in her mind. Pricked at her bones. Her consciousness was suddenly pulled back to the surface from the depths of herself. It was like walking through a tunnel to come out blinking in the sudden light.

The shadow had been summoned. Come to dance with her and only her, and her whole body warmed at the sight of him—at the prospect of finally, finally being held by him once more. She had altogether missed and longed for the firm touch of his hand on her body, had been waiting patiently for the warmth of his shadowed skin against hers. He had not been revealed in rehearsals, Malcolm not wanting to ruin the majesty of his appearance—though Emberlyn knew he would come. She had not seen her shadowed dance partner, the one that swept her up in his darkness upon the stages of New Kora, in weeks.

The shadow circled Emberlyn as she danced on the spot, arms slowly extending to the rafters above. He had come to take the role of Mephistopheles, to hear Faust’s pleas, to slink away, to taunt and cajole. To promise this dancing Faust everything her heart desired. The shadow neared, arms extended as if to take Emberlyn in its arms, and then was gone again, spinning out of her touch. She reached again, but the shadow slunk back, hesitant.

Emberlyn watched her arm extend toward the shadow once more. She watched him turn his back.

Then, in one sweeping motion, Emberlyn was gathered in his strangely solid arms. She collapsed into his chest as Faust sank into her heart’s desires. As she gave herself over to Mephistopheles, to this thing of darkness, and held her soul out for the taking.

Emberlyn came alive at the shadow’s touch. She stared at him in fleeting glimpses as they moved and swayed and spun together, every nerve sparking as his warmth brushed against her skin.

But then her stomach turned cold. Her heart pounded as every sense came alive and she realized. She knew why Étienne felt so familiar. Like he was a stranger she had passed on the street every day of her life, why she had felt such a strange, instant connection.

Étienne, the boy whose skin broke out into swirls of dust when the light touched him, who haunted the Parlizian theater, and this pure-shadowed figure that had Emberlyn wrapped in his arms as if daring the world to try to take her from him, whose very touch gave her the strength to carry on night after night, who held on to her in a way that ensured she never lost herself under the gleam of the hot spotlights…they were the same.

She hadn’t realized until now. It had been so long since she’d been reunited with this dancing figure that she didn’t make the connection. Couldn’t trace the shape of this boy who held her in his arms against the boy who had stood just outside the beam of her lamp, glowering at her, fading to dust where the light touched him. Couldn’t see how her longing for this shadow and her desire to see Étienne again were but two layers of the same emotion. But she was certain. She was absolutely positive now that she could clearly see him.

Emberlyn was dancing with Étienne’s shadow.

Fifteen

A New Doll to Play With

Opening night was a resounding success. The reviews were extraordinary. Malcolm and Mademoiselle Fournier gathered the Marionettes before the next day’s matinee so she could translate them aloud. Malcolm’s grin widened with every fresh comment of praise. In the next performance, he forced Emberlyn’s body to dance harder and with more passion than ever before, and by the end of it, her bones begged for rest.

Each night, when the shadow appeared to tease Faust into parting with her soul, Emberlyn’s confusion built. His familiar, grounding touch, which always sent fire shimmering along her skin and burned her into delicious wakefulness, took on a deeper meaning. Shivers of secrets unspoken prickled at her skin wherever the shadow, Étienne, whatever it was, touched her. For so long, that touch had been the only thing grounding Emberlyn in her own body. Learning the suspicions she had held deep in her soul about the shadow being something more were true was indescribable. The realization that the person she had longed to be real for so long lurked somewhere within the depths of the theater where Emberlyn, too, now dwelled was unfathomable.

She wanted to locate the real him, demand answers, unravel the strange web of emotions that consumed her waking hours. But Emberlyn’s nights gave way to exhaustion after every evening performance, the days filled with interim rehearsals and matinees.

Whenever she managed a few moments of alertness, she’d sit with Étienne’s book on one side and the dictionary on the other, her eyes flicking between the two, rubbing her Florisa bracelet between her fingers as if that could help her understand. But it was slow going. Before long, the words became nothing but squiggles to Emberlyn, and frustration built in the pit of her stomach as she could do no more than pick out basic words like “blood” and “death” and “lord.” More often than not, she’d find herself simply staring at the sketched monster that she could have sworn had returned her gaze before. She gave up quickly, too tired to make sense of what she was reading. She’d glare into the shadows of her room before she drifted away each night, thinking of him.

Étienne.

Hoping to feel a gaze that never came.

Who was he? How could Malcolm conjure his shadow, both here and back in New Kora? How could this strange boy become little more than swirling dust under the glare of a lantern, but look like a real person when hidden in the darkness? What was his connection to Malcolm, her curse, and why hadn’t he revealed himself again?

Though Emberlyn had tried to coax him back out of the shadows, slipping into the darkness whenever she could bear to stay awake long enough to do so, he remained elusive. As the days rolled past, she came no closer to understanding who Étienne was or what it could all mean. Where he had once been so fascinated as to trace her every move, now he was incurious, and Emberlyn’s frustration and curiosity had built to breaking point.

Tonight, when she was back from whatever ridiculous event Malcolm was insisting on taking her to, she would return to the prop room and kick her way through his belongings, make a statement he couldn’t ignore. Force him to tell her what she needed to know, so she could continue with her plan. Save herself—save her sisters.

Emberlyn busied herself applying the finishing touches to her makeup—more muted than what she’d wear for the stage, but enough to keep Malcolm and whatever investor he was inevitably parading her before tonight happy. No matter what she was doing, where she was, Malcolm expected his Marionettes to look as perfect as possible, and that meant time wasted preening in front of her reflection. She looked into her blank eyes in the mirror, which someone had replaced after she made up a story about knocking it with a candlestick, and ran her hand through the sculpted red curls that framed her face.

Suddenly, there was a firm knock on the door.

Emberlyn straightened and frowned. Malcolm had agreed to meet her in the foyer.

“Come in?” The door opened, and a row of silhouettes appeared in the corridor, the fire in the hearth a maid had built for Emberlyn earlier lighting them up.

Her sisters.

Emberlyn scanned the row of furrowed brows as Ida, Miriam, Rosalyn, Jia, Anushka, Grace, and Aleida moved to the middle of her room, shutting the door behind them. An awkward silence instantly built. Emberlyn met Aleida’s eyes. They were dull, like she was drained of energy. Bloodshot.

“What now?” Emberlyn sighed, forcing irritation into her voice as she addressed only Aleida. But Jia was the one to step forward, chin tilted upward.

“We are worried about you,” she said. Emberlyn watched the sadness swim in her wide eyes.

“Worried?” Emberlyn asked. “I have no idea why you would be.” She tried to force more irritation into her voice, but her chest tightened and it came out wobbly. She swallowed in an effort to get rid of the sudden lump her throat.

Rosalyn loosed an impatient huff of breath. “Don’t start with that nonsense. We get it; you want your space. You’ve been stuck in this life the longest. You’re tired. But the way you’ve been acting lately is too much, even for you. As the leading Marionette, you are meant to help the new dancers acclimate to this life, but I don’t believe you’ve said more than two words to Grace since the time you showed her around our theater in New Kora. We’ve done everything without you lately.”

Emberlyn met Rosalyn’s impatient glare with one of her own. “Grace is not my responsibility,” she said, ignoring the daggers Grace shot in her direction. “Helping any new dancer is not my responsibility. I’m not sorry I wasn’t there to help you hold her hand.”

“What we mean,” Aleida interjected before Rosalyn could bite back, “is that you’ve been different. You keep pushing us away. You don’t join us in the dormitory at night, you barely speak to us, and you walk about with skin as pale as a ghost’s. You didn’t even come with us to explore Parlizia, which is so unlike you. You used to grab any moment you could to go outside.” Aleida stepped forward.

Emberlyn tensed her jaw as the Marionettes fell into silence, awaiting an answer. An explanation.

Miriam piped up from the back. “We know about the train station. We understand. We haven’t mentioned it before, because we didn’t want to upset you more.”

“Please talk to us,” Jia whispered.

Emberlyn’s chest cracked.

She wanted to tell them. She wanted to tell them everything, wanted her sisters to wrap her in their arms and tell her she was going to be okay. She wanted to sink into the folds of their skirts and breathe in their rose-powder scent.

But she couldn’t let them be a part of what she was planning. What she had to do. She had to push them all as far away as possible. To ensure they were never implicated along with Emberlyn should she be revealed as the perpetrator.

Push them away to protect them.

The crack in her chest sealed. She smiled gently. She put on her travel cloak and tied the cord around her neck.

“Excuse me,” she said as she slid through them. “Malcolm is waiting for me.”

Emberlyn pulled open the door and walked away with the feeling of their hot gazes boring into her back.

Emberlyn didn’t ask where they were going, and Malcolm didn’t volunteer the information. She sat in the shadowed, bumpy motorcar, gloved hands folded in her lap and gaze trained to the window, barely noticing the Parlizian streets they rolled through. She sank into her seat, making herself as small as possible in the hope Malcolm would forget she was there.

The car grinded to a stop. Emberlyn straightened, taking note of where they were as she swung her legs out the door.

They were on a brightly lit street, flickering gas lamps sending dances of light and shadow along the pearl-colored buildings. A heavy sheet of snow had blanketed Parlizia. She pulled her cloak closer around herself as the ice-cold night sank its teeth into her flesh.

Malcolm joined her on the pavement, beaming, pretending not to notice Emberlyn flinch when he suddenly spread out his hands. “What do you think?” he asked.

Emberlyn turned her attention to the building before her as their car began to crunch through the snow away from them. People in fine clothes and an aura of giddy laughter filtered into a theater named Le Théâtre de Liberté. Flickering candlelight streamed through extraordinarily tall windows and bathed the snow in slivers of orange and gold. A board with black lettering protruded above the doors, reading Gabrielle Marseille en Vol de la Colombe.

“A theater?” Emberlyn ventured. She framed it as a question though she already knew the answer. She bit back what she really wanted to say: Why have you brought me here?

“Exactly!” Malcolm boomed so loudly that several passersby jumped. Their eyes widened as they landed on Emberlyn, though they didn’t approach her. Emberlyn glazed over their whispers and pointing fingers, waiting for Malcolm to continue. It seemed even the Parlizians knew of the Princess of New Kora now. “My treat. Thought you could use some time away from the theater considering we’re not booked in for a show ourselves tonight.”

“In…another theater?” The bitter words slipped out before she could stop them, and her stomach dropped when Malcolm’s gaze narrowed. “Thank you,” she added. “I’m sure it will be a wonderful show.”

Malcolm placed a hand on Emberlyn’s shoulder. Her every muscle tensed.

“I’m your friend, Emberlyn,” he said softly. Emberlyn stared down at the glistening snow to avoid his eye as Malcolm ran his cold thumb along her cheekbone, trailing over her chin.

Emberlyn nodded as bile climbed up her throat.

“Thank you,” she muttered. Her mouth filled with a sour taste.

“Let’s get inside. I paid for a box, you know. Oh, and one more thing. Many influential people are here tonight. Important people—to both of us. So I need you to drop the sour face. I will, however, allow you to do that yourself.” Malcolm looked smugly down at her, as if not using his curse to force her face into happy contortions was the greatest gift he’d ever given.

Emberlyn gritted her teeth. She forced a smile.

“Perfect,” Malcolm purred, finally removing his hand from her face.

Emberlyn wandered after him into Le Théâtre de Liberté. In the glow of the flickering candlelight, she did as Malcolm asked and nodded and smiled at any stranger who recognized her. She swayed with an air of barely contained excitement, as if there was nowhere else she would rather be, through crowds that gathered in the foyer and scrambled to speak to her. Malcolm did the rounds, making sure everybody who was anybody saw him so generously treating his lead dancer to a night out, shooting his dazzling smile.

Only when Emberlyn and Malcolm were led into the privacy of their upper box and the door closed behind them did she allow her smile to drop. She threw herself into her chair, taking in the swarming masses of the theater’s patrons below her feet with disinterest as the hum of the auditorium rattled through her head.

Malcolm sat beside her, chattering aimlessly as if they truly were old friends. She nodded, leaning away so the heat of his breath didn’t whisper through her hair when he spoke. She did all she could to ignore the lazy arm he swung around the back of her chair.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the orchestra kicked up a tune. A gentle, curving wail of a bow against strings lulled the audience into a hush. Emberlyn shifted toward the barrier of their box, using the music as an excuse to move away from Malcolm. She rested her arms and head on the barrier as she stared at the stage, the sconces snuffed out.

The dancers entered, their white bodices glimmering under the hot lights, their toes delicately pointed. Emberlyn watched as they performed arabesques, trying not to let the jealousy break her bones. Their freedom, the careless way they moved their bodies as if they could never comprehend a reality where their movements weren’t theirs to control. Autonomous. Real.

A new dancer gracefully dipped into view to a thunderous wave of applause and whistles. Emberlyn frowned as she watched the girl, the stage hers and hers alone. She joined the crowd as their applause died into rapt silence. This must be Gabrielle Marseille. The name on the board. The one everyone had come to see.

Every step was perfect. Impeccable. Every cabriole, every plié was balanced. Artful.

She was incredible.

“Wow,” Emberlyn whispered to herself.

It had been so long since she’d seen anyone dance like this: because they wanted to, not because they had to. It had been an age since dancing had seemed a thing of beauty, an expression of life in its purest, most passionate form, rather than an act of control. She had almost forgotten what it looked like. Had definitely forgotten what it felt like. Emberlyn’s heart squeezed like a wet rag being wrung out, something in the pit of her stomach stirring.

Longing. Her eyes stung with tears when she recognized the emotion that welled up inside her. She altogether envied and loved the girl who danced below her feet. Emberlyn wanted to know her. Wanted to be her. She wanted the life of dancing that she should have had. One where her movements were her choice, where the stage allowed her heart to burn with passion and desire just as she had dreamed, not shrink back in fear.

“Impressed?” Emberlyn stiffened when Malcolm leaned in, his sharp breath tickling her neck. She had almost forgotten he was there. The world, for a blissful moment, had become just her and the girl dancing on the stage. Emberlyn swallowed, trying to fight the revulsion that instantly rose inside her, but Malcolm continued before she could answer.

“That’s Gabrielle Marseille,” Malcolm whispered. “I met her and her current manager at the ball Mademoiselle Fournier hosted for our arrival. She’s the best dancer in all of Parlizia—besides you, of course.”

Emberlyn restrained from shaking her head and instead made a small noise of acknowledgment in the back of her throat, hoping he’d lean away. She wanted to watch Gabrielle. To be transported somewhere else—anywhere that didn’t belong to this world.

But he didn’t move away. Something shifted in the air. Malcolm’s breath hitched in excitement as he uttered his next words.

“We may be requiring her services very soon. I don’t plan on being caught out again like I was with Heather’s sudden demise.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help but whirl toward Malcolm. Her eyes widened.

“What?” she whispered, her voice quiet yet cutting as sharply as shattered glass. Dizziness struck at her with the speed of a lashing viper. Panic rose to dance on her surface.

She was dying. She was next, and in some sick game Malcolm had brought her to see the unfortunate soul who would replace her when she was nothing but dust in the ground. “M-me? To replace me?” she trembled out through the lump gathered in her throat.

Malcolm cocked his head, his white teeth flashing like fangs in the dark. “Oh no, my dear, dear Emberlyn. Not you.” Emberlyn didn’t notice the hand that had come up to idly play with her hair, her rapt attention on Malcolm and his words and the thunder in her chest. It plummeted when she realized what he was saying.

No. No.

Malcolm’s lips pulled into a thin smirk, his fingers pinching at a curl.

“What’s the matter? Too focused on yourself to notice the condition of your best friend? How awful.” Malcolm let out a dry chuckle. “It was obvious, I thought. Though, perhaps I have been watching you all a little bit more closely since the last girl perished. I gave myself time to prepare when I realized, as I’m sure you did, my clever Emberlyn, that those who are not strong enough tend to succumb to the power of their gift.”

Malcolm took a deep, satisfied breath.

“Was that why you tried to run? I wouldn’t worry, my dearest,” Malcolm purred. “I expect you’ll be here with me for a very, very long time. To welcome every future dancer into our troupe. I simply need to find more like you, and then we will be perfect. Unstoppable. We just have to replace the weaker ones as they fall.”

He looked pointedly at the girl dancing beneath them.

No. Please, no. Her chest tightened to the point of puncture as Malcolm leaned in, malice dripping from every word as he delighted in Emberlyn’s pain, idly playing with a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. He took his time saying his next words.

“Gabrielle Marseille is going to be my next Marionette. Gabrielle is going to replace Aleida.”

Sixteen

The Watching Shadows Be Damned

Emberlyn moved through the corridors of Le Théâtre de Feu with a body that felt limp. Lifeless. While Malcolm’s hungry eyes had watched Gabrielle spin beneath them, like a hunter stalking his prey, Emberlyn had kept her composure for the rest of the performance. She held her expression steady, dipping her head in farewell and offering her final thanks as Malcolm dropped her off at the theater before continuing into Parlizia to find wine and rich acquaintances.

Emberlyn pulled out the pins holding her hair up as she walked, her curls dropping to tickle her face and catching the hot tears that now clung to her cheeks. Her breath hitched with barely restrained sobs as she stumbled through the darkness.

Not Aleida. Please, not her best friend. She couldn’t bear the thought of facing this life without her. How did she not notice what was happening to her best friend? All the times that Aleida was stooped, her eyes darker, more weary than normal, why had her thoughts not clicked? So caught up was she in her desire to escape, her determination to destroy the man who caged them, that it had not even crossed her mind that it could happen to her best friend so soon after Heather.

Emberlyn’s mind was numb, scattered, as she followed the shadowy corridors toward her room. The walls of panic were starting to close in. Starting to smother her.

Her footsteps paused as something hunched on the floor shifted, her heart instantly rocketing into her mouth. A figure was slumped against Emberlyn’s bedroom door, obscured in the darkness. It didn’t react to her arrival.

“Étienne?” Emberlyn whispered, her voice nothing more than a whimper. She blinked away the watery fuzz her tears left in her eyes as the shadowed figure turned its head to look at her. It slowly rose to its feet.

Emberlyn sucked in a breath.

“Aleida?” Her heart twisted as Aleida stood, wavering on the spot. She wore a cloak with the hood pulled up, concealing most of her face.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get back,” Aleida said, her voice cracking. “Can we talk?”

Emberlyn stepped closer, barely able to make out Aleida’s face in the darkness. Her limbs shook as she closed the distance, throat aching with held-back despair. Was it true? Was Aleida really dying? Aleida stood still as Emberlyn approached. She simply watched as Emberlyn reached out, gently taking the edge of the cloak’s hood in either hand, and pushed it away from Aleida’s face.

Emberlyn’s stomach dropped.

The area around Aleida’s eyes had darkened to the point where they almost looked like two hollow pits. The light of the lantern emphasized the sickly sheen of her skin, and her chest heaved as if she couldn’t get the air she needed. Her lips had started to swell and crack.

She looked like Esme had. How Heather had.

Aleida looked like she was going to die.

“You’re crying,” Aleida whispered. “What happened?”

Emberlyn’s chest cracked open. She let out a guttural howl that echoed through the corridor, clamping her hand to her mouth to scream into. She barely felt Aleida’s arms wrap around her, didn’t notice Aleida fumbling for Emberlyn’s door handle and twisting Emberlyn into her room. She was only rage and fear and sorrow. More grief than girl. As the door closed behind them, the girls collapsed to the floor, their arms clinging to each other desperately as their bitter tears and raging hearts filled the darkness.

“I hoped he was lying,” Emberlyn choked out. “I wanted him to be lying.”

“H-he knows?” Aleida’s voice came in broken gasps, her words stuttering.

Emberlyn screwed her eyes together as more hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She couldn’t tell Aleida about Gabrielle. She couldn’t tell her that Malcolm had already lined up another, waiting patiently for her life to blink out. Emberlyn simply nodded and buried her face into Aleida’s neck, focusing on the tight arms wrapped around her. Trying to draw some semblance of strength from them but unable to find any.

“I know we haven’t been speaking lately, Ember,” Aleida said after a pause, her voice shaking. “But please, talk to me. I don’t know how long I have, and I wanted you to know. I wanted my best friend to know.”

“You don’t deserve this,” Emberlyn said forcefully. “My God, you don’t deserve this.”

The girls fell into shuddering sobs, then quiet weeping, collapsed against the door together as the remaining seconds slipped by. How many they had left, they didn’t know, but soon Aleida would crumble. Soon Emberlyn would lose another piece of her soul.

Emberlyn rocked Aleida into a fitful sleep, buried in her arms. She held her as she sank into Emberlyn’s pillow, her tears drying on the sheets as Emberlyn’s heart broke over and over again.

When they had calmed, the girls had climbed onto Emberlyn’s bed, pulling the sheets over their heads and shutting out the world just as they used to when they were new Marionettes. They spoke of their time together, of everything and nothing. They smiled through watery eyes at the memories of laughter they carved a space for out of the darkness of their existence. They spoke of Esme, Heather, and what might lie beyond death.

Aleida explained she hadn’t wanted to worry Emberlyn, or any of their sisters. She felt well enough during the day, could hide the curse’s effect. But at night, it gnawed through the marrow of her bones. It sank its teeth into her heart, her lungs, her stomach. Ate and ate at who she was until she couldn’t hide it anymore. Her time was coming, and she needed someone to know.

Emberlyn squeezed her friend as tightly as she dared, not wanting to add to the pain of the rot already festering inside her. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, wetting Aleida’s hair.

Emberlyn loved her best friend, her sister, and the thought of losing her was like her world splitting open before the pieces collided again. A pervading feeling of hollowness and emptiness danced inside this raging storm of grief.

Images of Aleida decaying flickered into her mind’s eye. Swollen tongue, ink-stained lips. That smell—that rotten, sour smell when the curse finally claimed them. She fought them away just as quickly with bared teeth and fresh tears.

As they had curled together, Emberlyn had silently inspected Aleida’s face, her shining skin. If her symptoms were the same as Heather’s, as Esme’s, then Emberlyn guessed Aleida had no more than two weeks left to live—three at the very best. She might make it through to closing night, might even make it back to New Kora if they left soon after, but that was it. That was Aleida’s time up.

When Emberlyn was sure her sister had drifted into sleep, her body heavy in Emberlyn’s arms, Emberlyn slowly untangled herself and eased away, pulling the sheet up to Aleida’s chin.

She couldn’t take Aleida’s place—couldn’t claim the rot to spare her friend from the death that was reaching for her. But there was something else she could do.

Malcolm needed to die, so she and her sisters could be free. So the strings knotting them all together could snap.

She had wanted to keep Aleida, her sisters, away until she could work out what Étienne wanted, for she did not fully understand him or his intentions. To prevent her sisters getting implicated in her crimes.

But with Aleida’s end hovering above her head like the blade of a guillotine, the watching shadows be damned—it was time to risk it. She didn’t want to waste a moment more trying to speak to Étienne. No longer cared about what he knew and how he knew it.

She stood by her bed, staring down at Aleida shivering despite the warmth of her room. Emberlyn leaned to kiss her on the forehead.

“I’m so sorry. I really am,” Emberlyn whispered into her friend’s ear. “But there is one more chance. One more way I can get you out of this.” Emberlyn took a deep breath. “I love you.”

With that, Emberlyn picked up the heavy candlestick on her dresser and left the room.

Seventeen

A Girl in the Dark

As Emberlyn strode through the corridors blanketed by night, soundless save for the whisper of her evening gown along the cold floor, she had no thought in her mind other than that of Malcolm’s agony. All that mattered was causing him a fraction of the pain he caused his Marionettes. Translating the grief that thrashed through Emberlyn’s body into bruise and blood and broken bone. To hell with the consequences—tonight, Malcolm would pay. Tonight, his death would release them.

Emberlyn paused when she reached his door, glancing around to ensure Étienne hadn’t chosen this moment to make a reappearance. Night after night she had longed for his presence once more, for an opportunity to explore and understand the strange connection between them, but not now. She briefly acknowledged the grief she felt in her heart at the thought that perhaps after tonight, she would not have another opportunity to do so, but she forced it away as quickly as it came.

Malcolm’s foghorn snore trembled through the wood, announcing his unguarded presence. A shiver ran down her spine, her stomach turning. Her curse fluttered, as if it understood Emberlyn’s intentions to hurt its master.

Despite everything inside her demanding she rush into his room, she took her time. She wanted to get as close as possible, so she could unleash the feral fury that was snarling inside her and cave in his skull with the heavy weight of the candlestick before he could so much as gasp. Shaking, she slowly turned the handle and opened the door.

The room was bathed in shadow. Only a weak stream of light was shining in through the window from a nearby streetlamp, the orange light licking against the floor as Emberlyn closed the door behind her. She turned the key, cringing at the clunk the lock made. Her eyes drifted to Malcolm, but he only rolled onto his back with a soft groan.

She moved toward him, her fingers tightening around the candlestick. His shirt was rucked up to expose the white flesh of his belly, as pale as a corpse’s, pulse fluttering in his throat. A bead of drool clung to one corner of his wide-open mouth, the smell of wine heavy with every snore. If only all those who admired his charming smile, who hung on to his every word, could see him now.

Emberlyn took a deep, shaky breath. She stepped closer and stared down at the sleeping body of the great Puppet Master. Beloved in New Kora, revered in Parlizia. Hated by those who knew what he really was. Who looked past the simpering charm, the expensive suits, the elaborate parties, and the pockets overflowing with coins and found the rotting core of the man he truly was.

The man who’d ripped Emberlyn from her family and thrust her into a life she didn’t understand, stole her memories and left her with only glimpses of the person she was meant to be. The man who tore every Marionette out of her life and into a cursed existence. Who destroyed Heather, destroyed Esme, and God knows how many more of the unknown Marionettes he had never mentioned. Who was now destroying Aleida.

He deserved to suffer.

Emberlyn stepped forward until her shins pressed against his bed, soaking in the sweet moment of his vulnerability. Her heart hammered at her ribs as she watched his chest rise and fall, the candlestick in her hands aching for chaos. She hoped that the ghosts of her long-lost and unknown sisters were somehow watching. That they were behind her, grinning beautifully wicked grins, waiting for the iron tang of blood. She imagined their presence like a warm embrace, concocted their encouraging whispers—their pleas for Emberlyn to take revenge for their stolen souls and the agony they’d endured for Malcolm.

Emberlyn lifted the candlestick high above her head, her mind a tsunami of hate and anger. Her blood thrashed through her veins, and the watching silence of the room deafened as she aimed for the soft section at his temple to strike a killing blow.

She wondered, briefly, how sweet it would feel at the moment of his death. If the heaviness of the curse inside her would simply disappear, how light she would feel. How beautifully empty her veins would run, with naught but her own blood and adrenaline flowing through her. She smiled, her eyes darkening.

A heavy weight dropped into the pit of her stomach as her smile turned into bared teeth—and she swung.

Eighteen

The Touch of a Phantom

A hand wrapped around Emberlyn’s wrist. Another covered her mouth, clamping down to muffle the gasp that tore from her throat.

Adrenaline pulsed through Emberlyn as she sent a sharp jab with her elbow into the person’s rib cage. A breath hissed in her ear, and the hands around her loosened. She spun out of their grip, turning to face her attacker with the candlestick poised, ready to defend herself.

And almost dropped it.

“Étienne?” Emberlyn gasped. The strange boy from the prop cellar was doubled over in pain. His arms were wrapped around his chest where Emberlyn had driven her elbow, and his cheeks were puffed out, straining to stay silent. His dark curls hung over his burning eyes, features clear and solid with no direct light to kiss them. His eyes darted toward Malcolm and then back to Emberlyn. Still hunched over, he raised his fingers to his lips.

Emberlyn glared at Étienne with wild eyes, her blood pounding in her ears. She sucked in a sharp breath, louder than she intended.

Étienne lunged.

His hand closed around Emberlyn’s wrist again, and before she could fight him off, he pulled her across the room. Emberlyn’s spare arm flailed, aching to connect the candlestick with his jaw, but before it could land, she was pulled toward a hole in the wall that hadn’t been there before. The mirror in Malcolm’s room had been pulled aside on a sliding hinge to reveal a pitch-black space.

Étienne yanked her inside, and Emberlyn landed with a thump against a sidewall, reeling her arm back to attempt another hit.

Étienne’s wide eyes demanded she stop, his teeth gritted. Emberlyn froze at his expression. His chest pushed against hers, his fearsome gaze boring down into her in warning, pinning her in place. The thud of his heartbeat ricocheted through the corset of Emberlyn’s dress and sent her stomach flipping at the nearness of this strange boy. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but notice his scent, the earthy softness of dust and the last trails of smoke after a fire has been quenched. Her stomach squirmed uncomfortably as she thought of his shadow. The heat she always felt upon his touch, the longing she always felt for his appearance. Her skin flamed, the unwarranted sensation stoking her temper even more. She bared her teeth like a feral cat, but he only pressed in closer, making her heart skip as his eyes darted away.

Emberlyn eventually followed his gaze, and her stomach dropped. Through the gap left between the mirror and the wall where Étienne had not closed it, Emberlyn watched with despair as Malcolm woke. He sat upright, blinking in his lightless room.

“Is someone there?” he called out, his voice heavy with sleep.

Étienne’s breath was hot against her cheek as they stood almost nose to nose in the space behind Malcolm’s mirror. The boy kept one hand barred against the sliding door, the taut tension in his biceps making him quiver. Emberlyn realized he didn’t dare close it now and risk Malcolm seeing the movement.

Emberlyn’s eyes met Étienne’s, visible only by the faintest indirect light of the streetlamp through Malcolm’s window. One of his curls dropped forward to brush Emberlyn’s forehead, that smell of dust and the smoke of a blown-out candle tickling at her nose as he lifted a finger to his lips again.

The reality of what had happened came crashing down. What she had failed to do—the compromised position she was now in. She didn’t want to think what might happen if Malcolm found her hiding in his room with a strange boy and a candlestick clearly intended as a weapon curled in her hands.

This time, Emberlyn nodded, trying to hold her loud, shaky breath. She watched as Malcolm’s gaze scanned the room, head turning to take in each corner. His eyes fell on Emberlyn.

Her throat closed.

But then his gaze continued on, sweeping past her, unable to pick out the gap between the wall and the mirror in the darkness. Emberlyn’s shoulders dropped, relaxing as the tension seeped from her taut muscles. Étienne seemed to feel the same; his hand on the sliding door loosened. Her relief grew as Malcolm lay back down, curling up beneath the sheets and falling back to sleep within moments. Her breath rustled through Étienne’s curls. His eyes caught hers once more.

With her anger receding, replaced by cold relief, that same ripple of familiarity, of some unfathomable connection, flooded Emberlyn’s chest. Something coiled in the pit of her belly as their breath came out heavy, their heat entwining, their hearts pounding in unison. Malcolm was no longer an immediate danger, but they didn’t dare move yet. They simply stood staring at each other, both gazes so full of unending questions.

Who was this boy in front of her? Why did he reappear only to stop her from finally, finally, claiming the revenge, the freedom she deserved? How was he connected to the shadow that kept her grounded in a lifetime of horrors?

She realized, with curiosity, that from the moment he had stopped the candlestick, she had been able to feel him. His hands felt so solid, his chest so firm and steady against hers. So much like his shadow’s touch that his mere proximity was setting her heart to racing. But memories of his strange, swirling skin nipped at her mind. Was he not a being of dust and darkness? Emberlyn hadn’t imagined she’d be able to touch him when she saw the way his skin seemed to break out into swirls of dust motes, as if he might as well be made of smoke—but she had. He’d felt…alive.

Slowly, Emberlyn raised her hand and reached out. As her vision adjusted to the dark, she watched as Étienne’s eyes flickered down, following it, she paused for a moment, her fingertips hovering over his now solid skin, allowing him the chance to recoil. But he didn’t. He stared at her steadily with eyes that seemed as molten as lava and made Emberlyn’s breath catch in her throat, understanding in his expression. She swallowed. She let her fingers graze his cheekbone.

He felt as hot as any living thing. His skin was warm and smooth along his cheeks, the sharp curve of his jaw hard beneath her touch. She trailed to the tip of his nose, down to linger on his throat, where she felt the erratic beat of his heart. Alive. Somehow, completely alive. Emberlyn couldn’t help but shape the word on her lips.

Real?

Étienne’s gaze sat on her mouth. Slowly, he nodded.

Real. Not a ghost, not a being of dust. Real.

She loosed another breath and snatched her hands away as if burned, her cheeks flaming as she realized she was simply caressing this boy in front of her. But Étienne barely seemed to notice as he glanced back out of the gap in the mirror, before tilting his head to one side in question.

Is it safe?

Emberlyn took in Malcolm’s slumbering form beneath Étienne’s braced arm and nodded. He slowly slid the mirror back into place. He gritted his teeth at the clunk it made as it found its home. Then the pair was cast into total darkness, and Emberlyn could sense Étienne only by his scent and the warm press of his body.

Emberlyn felt a small pressure against her palm as Étienne tentatively touched her, then curled his fingers into hers and tugged gently. Emberlyn frowned, but with the adrenaline fading and her blood only just returning to her brain, she was too exhausted to question him. She squeezed his hand to let him know she would follow and allowed him to guide her into the darkness.

She expected to meet a wall—to be simply led to the back of a cupboard to wait for Malcolm to fall asleep once more, but they didn’t stop. Emberlyn stumbled blindly after him through the full black. He moved confidently, as if he belonged there. They walked and walked, with only the warmth of Étienne’s hand in hers to anchor her.

Suddenly, they stopped, and Emberlyn knocked her forehead against his shoulder blade. She lurched back as Étienne let out a low chuckle. Emberlyn bit down on her tongue. She wanted to escape the depths of this darkness so she could face him.

Étienne’s body moved, though Emberlyn couldn’t see what he was doing. There was a click that sounded like a lock opening, then a heavy shuffling sound as something was pulled back against the floor. They took two steps forward before Étienne threw his weight against something and light leaped at Emberlyn’s eyes.

She cringed, blinking rapidly as she followed Étienne out of the lightless passage and into what appeared to be an empty bedroom. The bed was stripped of sheets and simmering in dust, the mirror on a vanity table reflecting the piercing glow of the silver moonlight coming in through a cracked window. The wind whistled through it with a sharp bite of cold that sent chills racing up and down her arms. She’d heard it before in the corridor, the first night she hunted down Malcolm. The nights she spent searching for this boy who had led her through the darkness.

“Mind your step,” Étienne whispered. Emberlyn jumped at the sound of his voice and glanced at the floor. She was on a low wooden platform, mere inches from the ground. She stepped gently down into the bedroom as Étienne released her hand.

She turned. They’d come through a wardrobe. Emberlyn gaped as Étienne leaned back in to replace the false back and close the wardrobe doors.

“So you can’t melt into the shadows,” Emberlyn whispered. “You use secret passageways to get around.”

Étienne shrugged as he turned to look at her, his eyes drifting up and down, taking in Emberlyn’s disheveled appearance. She was still in her gown from earlier that evening, goose bumps rising across her skin in the chill, though it felt like a lifetime since she’d watched Gabrielle dance. Étienne wore a white shirt that had seen better days, rumpled trousers that once might have been considered smart, feet forced into dilapidated boots. A thick cloak buried his shoulders, clasped at his throat. He was broad, taller than Emberlyn by at least a head and a half. And, she noted with a sinking feeling, devastatingly gorgeous. The prop cellar had been too dark to truly study him, but here in a room gently limned with moonlight, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Trapdoors, rotating bookcases, false walls,” he answered. “I know all the hidden secrets of my theater.”

Étienne’s eyes fell on the candlestick Emberlyn still clutched, as if he hadn’t noticed the strange way Emberlyn was staring at him—or simply wanted to look away. She had forgotten she had it at all and now held it to her chest as if afraid he’d try to take it. They stood, neither saying a word, rigid like one of them might suddenly leap at the other’s throat. Though she knew this boy in front of her was something unnatural, made out of things she couldn’t understand, he was no less alive than she. She had felt just how truly real he was with her own fingertips. Felt the beat of him, the warmth at his throat. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably at the memory of his body pressed against her. The similarity in how she felt between touching him and touching his dancing shadow. He may have been more handsome than Emberlyn could bear, but that didn’t make him trustworthy, and she couldn’t calm her racing mind enough to make sense of all it had discovered. Specter or boy? Phantom or human?

Ally or foe?

Before Emberlyn had a moment to consider what she was doing, she dropped the candlestick, reached out to grab his hand, and pulled him into the beam of moonlight that pierced the room before he could react. She thought only of that moment in the prop cellar when she had cast her light on him and set his skin to swirling. With a sharp hiss of pain, Étienne pulled away, but not before his hand burst into dust in Emberlyn’s grip, until she was left holding nothing.

“What was that for?” Étienne barked, cradling his hand where he had slunk back into the darkness and it had become solid once more.

But she didn’t reply, too lost in her thoughts. Solid in darkness, dust and smoke in the light. What was he?

Emberlyn shook her head. Whatever he was, he had stopped her gaining the freedom she so desperately needed by hurting Malcolm. It didn’t matter how handsome he was, how her heart skipped at the mere sight of him, how her mind was screaming at her that he was the missing puzzle piece to the mystery of her beloved dancing shadow—he had gotten in her way. He had braced the door, held his body against hers as if prepared to defend her, but had he not torn her away when it most mattered, she would be busy rousing her sisters to claim their escape. Regardless of whether or not he’d meant to help her, he’d done little but interfere.

Heat rose in her chest when his eyes narrowed at her.

“What?” Emberlyn snapped. Étienne’s frown deepened.

“Are you serious?” He shook his head when Emberlyn only glared at him in response. “My God, I saved you from almost certain death tonight, and all you can say is ‘What?’?”

Emberlyn made a noise at the back of her throat and paced away from him, turning about the room in agitation. Her hand drifted to her hair, and she tugged at it in exasperation.

“Certain death? What are you talking about?”

“I know killing him seems like the answer, but—”

“He deserves it for what he’s doing,” she cut in, not pausing in her pacing. She bit down on her tongue, drawing blood as she crossed the room end to end and back again. “We deserve it after all we’ve suffered.”

“I understand you’re angry,” Étienne said, attempting to put on a gentle voice that only further highlighted his barely restrained frustration—and grated on Emberlyn’s nerves. “But you clearly don’t understand. You haven’t thought this through—thought about what could happen if you succeeded. And besides, I’m not sure that was something you would be able to carry on your conscience.”

“Who are you to tell me what my conscience can carry? You don’t know what he’s done to me and my sisters, and you took away the only moment I’d ever built up enough bravery to bite back, you—you monster!”

Étienne’s expression tightened. It spurred Emberlyn on as her chest ached, her blood boiled. She spat venom, hoping her words would pummel him. She wanted to hurt him. She stalked toward Étienne like a wild animal, stopping mere inches away.

“What are you really, Étienne—if that even is your name? What kind of monster are you? Would I even find a heart if I cracked your chest open? Or is it just dust and darkness? So ugly on the inside that even the light itself can’t bear to touch you?”

Fury burned in his molten eyes, but Emberlyn wasn’t deterred.

“Answer me, damn it!” she hissed, shoving hard against his shoulder. “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do? What gave you the audacity to assume you know best?”

Étienne dropped his chin, his shoulders drooping for a moment, before he straightened again. He lifted his gaze to meet Emberlyn’s head on. She swallowed at his ferocious expression but forced her own features to remain hard. Cold.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered, and brushed past her toward the bedroom door.

“What? Welcome for what? Come back here,” Emberlyn demanded.

Étienne ignored her, reaching for the door handle just as Emberlyn rushed forward and grabbed the edge of his cloak, pulling him away with a strength that surprised her.

“Listen to me!” Emberlyn said as Étienne turned his head toward her, his lips a thin line, his jaw tense and quivering. She dropped his cloak and stepped back.

“I don’t have to stay here and listen to the insults of someone who has absolutely no idea what she’s caught up in, or what she was about to do tonight,” he growled. Étienne covered the space between them in two strides as his top lip curled into a snarl. Emberlyn straightened her back and stood her ground at his approach, but her heart leaped in her chest as he towered over her, the ferocity of his expression splintering her will.

“Did you not think for one second that if you had killed him, you could have torn the curse out of every single one of your sisters’ bodies until they were nothing but ashes? Have you not thought for one moment that the all-powerful Puppet Master’s curse could destroy you rather than let you go when you killed him, and that you were about to risk everything?”

Emberlyn recoiled like she had been slapped. Everything froze save for the frantic hammering of her heart.

“You…what?” she asked, suddenly breathless.

“You just risked taking the lives of the other Marionettes without even a second’s thought, so blinded by your own rage.” He stepped closer until she could see the glint of his sharp canines, making him look like something wild. Something beautifully beastly. “I never revealed myself to you again, Emberlyn, because I hoped that if you had paused, if you had just taken a moment to think about what you were doing, you might realize what risk you were so carelessly waltzing toward. But alas, it didn’t cross your foolish little mind, did it? I may have just saved all your lives tonight, and you have the audacity to call me a monster.”

Étienne shook his head, stepping away. “I’m not the monster here,” he whispered. “I may look like one on the outside, but at least I’m not one on the inside, and that’s more than I can say for you.”

Emberlyn’s body turned to ice as Étienne pivoted away from her once more. Her chest splintered and cracked.

She was a monster. A monster. Why had she not even thought of that? She knew how powerful this curse was. The agony she had felt when she tried to run. Why did she not stop to consider the alternative—that the Puppet Master’s death might mean their own rather than freedom?

She could have killed them all tonight.

Before she knew what was happening, she dropped to her knees, the cold of the stone instantly flooding through her dress and gnawing through flesh and bone. She wrapped her arms around her chest and screwed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the world around her, erase it as her throat opened and she let out an animalistic, mournful howl.

She shuddered as a warm hand suddenly touched her shoulder. Over her anguished cries, she heard a soft voice above her head.

“I’m sorry, Emberlyn,” Étienne said as he got to his knees beside her. “My God, I don’t know why I said that. I know you weren’t thinking straight, and rightfully so after everything you’ve been through.” Emberlyn blinked through the fuzz of her tears.

He gazed down at her with wounded eyes, his cheek a shimmer of dust and shadows where he’d knelt in a corner of lazy moonlight. He adjusted himself out of it with a hiss of pain, before tentatively allowing his hand to wander along her back. Stroking her in a way that should have been comforting, if his touch hadn’t been so strangely familiar. So akin to the desire and longing she felt upon the shadow’s touch.

“Aleida, my best friend, my sister, she—she—” But her words were swallowed by another wave of grief. Her dress suddenly felt too tight. She couldn’t breathe. She was suffocating.

“Can you loosen the ties of my dress?” She gasped as she fought the heavy breaths that tried to break open her throat. Étienne’s hand froze.

“Uh…sorry?” he asked after a pause.

“Don’t be a prude,” Emberlyn snapped. “I can’t breathe.”

Emberlyn heard him swallow, before he muttered a tense affirmation in his own language. She took a deep breath as her dress loosened from around her chest. The walls stopped feeling like they were caving in on her. The pair sat in silence, the crumpled Marionette and the strange boy on his knees beside her, as oxygen began to flow back into her body.

He kept rubbing her back gently, his touch sending ripples of warmth through her body. She furiously blinked her tears away, shame coursing through her at her display of weakness now that her fractured thoughts were piecing back together again. She gritted her teeth, her cheeks heating up as she kept her head angled toward the floor, unwilling to see what expression she might find on Étienne’s face. She didn’t want pity. And she didn’t want to be the first to break the silence.

Finally, Étienne spoke. “So Aleida is in your troupe?”

Emberlyn’s throat tightened at the sound of Aleida’s name. She swallowed as a rush of grief clawed at her insides, only moments after composing herself. She forced herself to sit upright, straightening her back and steadying her voice.

“Yes. She’s my best friend. She’s…” She paused as the next word choked her. “D-dying.” She shook her head. “I was just so angry. He’s taken so much.”

Étienne gave a solemn nod.

“The curse is destroying her,” he said simply, as if he knew what she was going to say.

Emberlyn flinched as the last tears swept down her burning cheeks. “You keep talking like you know what’s going on. Like you know what’s really happening, who Malcolm is. I’m able to speak of it to you—how is that possible?”

“I do,” he responded. His hands folded into his lap as he looked away, his expression suddenly drawn into sadness.

“How?” Emberlyn urged, leaning forward. She reached out, hesitating before lightly touching his shoulder. Even though she knew he was solid in the darkness, the touch still surprised her for a moment, until she pushed the thought away and refocused. His gaze pulled back up to hers. “How, Étienne? Nobody knows. How can you? Who told you? Please, speak to me.”

Étienne sighed softly. In one swift movement, he stood and offered his hand to Emberlyn. She tentatively placed her palm inside his and allowed him to help her, leaning on his sturdy arms as she got to her feet. He squeezed her palm in a last gesture of comfort, his eyes taking on a gentleness that she knew meant his earlier anger had been tamped down completely, replaced by something softer as he regarded her.

“Not tonight. Rest.”

“Étienne, I—”

But Étienne had already moved to the door. He pulled it open slightly, peered into the corridor, and then looked back at Emberlyn as a ghost of a kind smile stretched across his face. It was wonky, like he had to force himself to remember what a smile looked like.

“I promise I will tell you. But you’re in no state to hear what I have to say tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll come at midnight. Then we’ll talk.”

“Tell me now,” Emberlyn insisted. But Étienne only gave her a look.

“No,” he said sharply, before he softened his voice. “I need time to think.”

“Time? I don’t have time! Aleida doesn’t have time.”

“If it has only started to consume her this last week or so, then she does. This isn’t something I ever thought I would need to explain. Tomorrow, I will give you the answers you are looking for, once your mind has settled. I promise.”

Emberlyn looked at him for a moment longer, her gaze searching his implacable expression for a crack, a twitch, something she could leverage to hear his secrets tonight. But she found none. She nodded, sighing as she gave in to his request. She wanted to know, but the night had left her drained—had left every emotion simmering on her surface, ready to boil over. And she knew that Aleida had at least two weeks left, assuming she walked the same path as Heather, as Esme.

Whatever secrets this phantom named Étienne had promised to tell her about this curse, who he was, how he knew, how he was connected to the shadow, she needed to hear it on a full night’s sleep. Once she had digested and accepted all that had happened this night—all she had risked, unpicked the strange feelings coursing through her when she considered this strange boy before her. She could wait another night.

Emberlyn passed through the door Étienne held open for her, brushing the dust off her skirt as she stepped into the corridor.

“Good night.” Étienne’s soft voice floated behind her. She turned as he closed the door, and Emberlyn was alone once again, standing in the silence with nothing but the fading tendrils of adrenaline to keep her company. After a few heartbeats, she pivoted on the spot and walked headfirst into the darkness without glancing back.

When Emberlyn curled back around Aleida’s frail form, she sank immediately into exhausted dreams.

Nineteen

The Unfurling of Secrets

Before Emberlyn walked onstage for the next evening’s performance, she watched Aleida standing with the Marionettes in her gown of red and black. Aleida was right—she could hide her sickness well during the day. Her heavy stage makeup concealed the dark rings about her eyes, and she stood tall, her shoulders pulled back. If it weren’t for the slight crease between her brows and the quiver of her lower lip, nobody would be able to tell there was anything wrong unless they were watching closely.

When Emberlyn had awoken that morning, Aleida was already gone. But Emberlyn didn’t yet have the courage to go to the Marionettes’ dormitory to find her and risk facing her sisters. Not when she had brushed them all off so cruelly the night before. Not when, unbeknownst to them, she had risked all their lives in the dying hours of the night. Instead, she simply spent the day consumed by thoughts of Aleida, of Étienne, hiding away in her room while her sisters engaged in hobbies to keep themselves occupied.

She tried not to think of all she had risked. How foolish she had been not to consider the other possibility of what might happen upon Malcolm’s death.

When Emberlyn performed that evening, she waited for the weight in her body that told her Étienne was watching as she danced. But it didn’t come. Emberlyn cast her gaze into the shadows of the rafters as much as her curse allowed, searching for the boy made of dust as a thousand pairs of eyes tracked her, her hand entwining with his shadow counterpart. Tried to ignore the disappointment that coursed through her when she realized he was not there.

But he still came at midnight, as he’d promised.

A knock sounded from somewhere deep inside her room as a clock tower marked the middle of the night. Emberlyn sat up in her bed. She stared around the room but saw nothing.

“Come in?” she called. She got to her feet as her mirror slid away from its place on the wall, on a secret panel Emberlyn would never have noticed otherwise. A heavy pair of boots stepped out of a passageway, and Étienne entered Emberlyn’s bedroom. He stood just out of reach of a beam of moonlight, staring at Emberlyn. Emberlyn tried to ignore the nervous tightening in her chest as they drank each other in, the odd sensation of certainty that they had some ineffable connection between them. She suddenly became very conscious of her nightclothes and tugged at them awkwardly. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Emberlyn cleared her throat. “I wasn’t expecting you to knock,” she said.

Étienne gave her a small smile. “Burst into a lady’s room without announcing myself? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The air between them refilled with silence. Étienne shifted, looking straight back at Emberlyn with curiosity as she watched him, taking in the sight of this strange boy that set her heart to racing, this utter mystery, standing mere paces away from her. Slinking out of the shadows to whisper secrets into her ear. Ones she was all too willing to hear.

He towered over her, his shoulders wide and sloping gracefully into arms that Emberlyn could tell, even through his loose cotton shirt, were toned and taut—a twin to his dancing shadow. He carried himself upright, as if he, too, were pulled up by strings, but his jaw jutted with a confidence that ended before it reached his eyes.

Those eyes. They mimicked the appearance of his skin when he slipped into the light; gray dust swirling in a gentle breeze, with a molten heart reminiscent of a burning star. They were framed by delicate curls of brunet that twirled around his ears and bunched against the collar of his shirt. He was beautiful, if that was something that could be said of a creature born of smoke and dust.

At that thought, Emberlyn gave a nervous chuckle, which she quickly covered with a cough.

“So…my room has a trick mirror, too, huh?” she said to draw his attention away from looking too closely at her sheepish expression. Étienne nodded.

“I knew they would put the lead dancer in here,” he answered. Emberlyn cocked her head at him, but he simply gestured toward the empty space behind the mirror. “Let’s not talk yet.”

Emberlyn nodded, moving toward her dresser to pick up her lantern, but hesitated when Étienne made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Sorry…I’d rather you didn’t while we’re walking.”

“Oh. Right.”

Emberlyn instead stepped past him and into the space behind her mirror, ignoring the tingle of his hot breath on her cheek and the subsequent nervous squirm in her stomach as he leaned across her to pull the mirror closed.

Silently, he twisted his fingers into hers and led her through the heavy darkness. As she had the night before, Emberlyn followed blindly, moving slowly so as to not step on Étienne’s heels or crash into his back again. It occurred to her more than once that it was not a good idea to allow a stranger to walk her into darkness, but what choice did she have?

Étienne had secrets. Emberlyn needed to know what they were.

Finally, he stopped to fumble with something. Emberlyn waited patiently as something heavy slid along the floor. A crack of light grew, slim at first, but wider and wider as Étienne opened another secret entrance. Emberlyn stepped out after him and looked around.

They were in the abandoned prop cellar again, where she had cornered him. Emberlyn watched as Étienne slid the fake wall back into place in a spot swallowed by shadows. He had left a lantern in the corner beside his makeshift bed, far enough away so they stood outside the ring of light it cast, but close enough that they could just see. Emberlyn eyed Mademoiselle Fournier’s missing books resting in the glow.

The glare lit up the damaged faces of the tangled marionettes surrounding them. They didn’t repulse her as they had the first time. They weren’t an omen, a forewarning from a mysterious beast who wanted to do her harm, as she had initially thought when she chased Étienne here. They were simply abandoned dolls who needed some attention.

Étienne watched Emberlyn as she moved closer to the pile of marionettes, her fingers brushing over them. She chose one and drew it out. Three more came with it in a flash of twisted color, their strings tangled together. She swallowed at the sight of the limp marionettes and set to work picking them apart.

“So…” She kept her back to him as she focused on untangling the knotted strings of the marionettes.

“So…,” Étienne repeated, his voice hesitant. “I promised I’d tell you what I know. So what do you want to know?”

Emberlyn’s lips twisted into a half smile. “Everything,” she murmured.

“Well, where should I start?”

Emberlyn thought for a moment, chewing her lip.

“How do you know about the curse? About who Malcolm really is?”

She glanced over her shoulder as he swallowed hard. Pain flickered across his expression.

“Diving right in with the hard questions, I see. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from you,” Étienne said in attempted lightness, but his expression slowly retreated into solemnity when Emberlyn didn’t respond in kind. “I used to be a dancer,” he said, but hesitated when Emberlyn’s eyes widened and flicked up and down his form.

Étienne had not always been a thing of darkness and shadows? He certainly had the shape, the physique for dancing, to cope with the tremendous skill and fitness needed for such a profession, so that part didn’t surprise her so much—especially considering she danced with his shadow each night.

“I belonged to a different company that used to frequent Le Théâtre de Feu when Malcolm put together his first dance troupe. His first Marionettes.”

Emberlyn almost dropped the puppets in her hands. This must have been what Mademoiselle Fournier had alluded to in the foyer when they had first arrived. She couldn’t help but interrupt him.

“His first Marionettes? Did you know Esme?” Étienne’s gaze went distant for a moment.

“Yes, I did. The only survivor, though what she had to do to leave here alive I would…struggle to tell you. Especially if you admire her, which I think, by your reaction, you do. Esme made it to New Kora, then?” he said with a strange bitterness. “She must have, if you know her.” Étienne turned his head away, his voice a murmur as he lost himself in his past. “I…I had some things I wanted to say to her. But when I realized she wasn’t here, I assumed…” He trailed off without finishing his sentence. He didn’t need to.

He could only assume that the curse had taken her.

Emberlyn shook her head, at a loss for words.

“What happened?” Emberlyn whispered hoarsely, a part of her not wanting to hear the answer. “I still don’t understand how you know.”

Étienne’s shoulders moved as he took a deep breath and began to pace in the shadows as far away from the lantern as possible.

“I’d have to go a bit further back to explain it.”

Emberlyn nodded, and with a heavy voice, he continued.

“I met Malcolm and his Marionettes a few times. They were the live-in act, like you are now. I often came across the Marionettes in the corridors or the wings of the stage, and my troupe loved to talk to them. Were besotted by them. They were all so beautiful. All so…oddly detached. Hiding secrets behind their smiles.”

“What were their names?” Emberlyn whispered. She felt she needed to know something of them, however small. But Étienne shook his head.

“Time has swallowed most of their names. But I remember Genevieve. The lead Marionette. She looked…uncannily like my sister, who I missed so much while I was traveling. Even had some of the same mannerisms.” Étienne shook his head, smiling fondly before the expression vanished like a passing ghost. “We became so close, like best friends, despite what my fellow dancers thought was really happening between us. She was not able to tell me directly exactly what was going on, of course. But there are ways around his curse. Loopholes. With the trails of information and with the help of a certain book—one I believe you now have in your possession,” he added with a small twitch of his lips. “I worked out what she was trying to tell me. Once I spoke it aloud, though it sounded ridiculous to my own ears, she was then able to tell me freely about what was happening. About the…dark magic.” He met Emberlyn’s gaze. “The curse.”

All Emberlyn could hear was the pounding of her own heart in the pause, her hands frozen halfway through a knot in a Marionette’s strings. “Did you believe her?”

“I have to be honest; it took some time to accept it, but all the other Marionettes backed it up when they discovered I knew. They weren’t happy, though. I thought they were going to murder her for telling a stranger such a dark secret, so scared of what Malcolm might do.” His fingers fumbled together as he spoke, his lips pulled down into a mournful line. “But eventually, I think they all found some kind of relief in somebody else knowing what they were going through. Because I already knew, they could tell me more.”

Emberlyn nodded. She remembered the strange relief she’d felt when it seemed Étienne could relate to what she was going through, despite the unknown consequences of a stranger carrying such knowledge. “I can understand that.”

“After I watched Malcolm for a little longer, saw how he treated them, it began to make sense. I believed them. The Marionettes wanted out, and I wanted to help them, even if I was terrified. So I tried to learn everything I could, read as many books as I could, that might help point to something, anything, that might break the curse.”

Étienne’s throat bobbed as Emberlyn focused on him completely, the puppets in her hand limp and forgotten.

“Gen and I always found ourselves returning to that book. It was cataloged as part of the library, but Malcolm, too, had interest in it and kept it for himself. Gen had to steal it when he’d left it alone for a moment.”

Emberlyn’s chest tensed as a memory of those two strange figures from the pages rose to her mind. “I tried translating some of it, but…it’s tricky. I found the page you’d marked. It refers to my curse, doesn’t it?”

Étienne nodded. “Yes. It’s the most primal curse in existence. But…it is truly terrible. Powerful. The book explains its rules, how it’s made. There is, unfortunately, nothing on how to break it, though I go over it again and again, just in case I’ve missed something. But…” He trailed off.

“How does it work?” Emberlyn all but whispered. Étienne took a deep breath, as if readying himself.

“To become a Curse Wielder, you must commit a truly heinous crime. You must murder someone in cold blood. And not just anyone. Someone you love.”

Emberlyn’s stomach turned, her throat crawling, barely noticing the hand she lifted to press against her heart in dismay. “That’s…that’s awful.”

“It’s why there are so few Wielders. Those who exist, or have ever existed, have raw power at their fingertips, the ability to completely subject someone else to their will. But, my God, the consequences are…astronomical. You must first suffer to cause suffering. The only way to become a Wielder is to shatter your soul into pieces. To take away a part of yourself and fill it with an indisputable darkness that you can manipulate. Malcolm became a master of a dark force no human should ever have access to by tearing out a part of his heart. By hurting someone he loved.”

Emberlyn’s throat grew even tighter. That he was able to love someone and hurt them for his own gain…Did he ever regret what he did for this life, or was he so drunk on power that his love was forgotten, became insignificant as the coins rolled into his pockets? Emberlyn knew he had wanted fame, wealth, power, ever since he was young, his deepest, most desperate desire to make a name for himself within a profession he loved. But was it worth it?

Every air about that man sung of evil, and he murdered girls whenever his precious curse destroyed them from the inside out. But to imagine that Malcolm had crushed the life out of someone who must have loved him back—trusted him—to gain control of this darkness…and for what? Money? Power? To control Emberlyn and her sisters? She shuddered. It was unbearable to think about. Unfathomable, and despite the fear he struck into her heart, her hatred somehow managed to grow even deeper.

“Who?” she managed to ask. “Who was it he killed?”

Étienne shook his head. “I don’t know. He never told anyone.” He started to pace again.

“Like I said, I found out only how these curses were made, how they were used, not about Malcolm specifically. I know about how those who are cursed cannot leave, cannot tell anyone what is happening. Not how to undo it. But the Marionettes were willing to risk everything to escape Malcolm. They decided to kill him. In the same way we had found the loophole that enabled them to talk to me about what was happening, we thought Malcolm’s death could be a loophole for their escape. A loophole, or certain death—which we would not know until we risked it. But they were ready to accept death if that was what happened.”

Emberlyn’s stomach turned to ice. Esme had planned to kill Malcolm? The previous Marionettes had planned his death, just as Emberlyn had?

Why hadn’t it worked?

Emberlyn nodded frantically at Étienne to carry on.

“I helped them plan. And when we weren’t doing that, Genevieve and I stole what snatches of time together we could, despite knowing she could be torn from the world the moment we put the plan into action.” Étienne smiled sadly, and Emberlyn’s chest twisted at the bittersweet expression on his face.

“But because of that—because of us—it all went wrong. Malcolm became suspicious of Genevieve. She was his lead Marionette, so he always had his eyes on her. He noticed she was spending a lot of time away from the others and knew something wasn’t right. He…he tortured Esme for answers. She was Genevieve’s best friend, and she…she, like everyone else, thought we were lying when we said we were nothing more than friends, and as far as Malcolm was concerned, I was her secret amour.”

Étienne’s wounded eyes fell on Emberlyn.

“But that wasn’t all that Esme told him. She told him everything. Everything, Emberlyn. All our plans.”

Emberlyn swallowed, unsure of what to do. What to say. But at least now she understood why Étienne struggled to talk of Esme. She simply nodded, her stomach knotting into a hard ball, like layers upon layers of tangled string.

“Not only did he think that Gen and I were having a relationship, which he absolutely forbid his Marionettes from, but he knew they were all plotting to kill him. He thought…he…” Étienne started to tremble.

Emberlyn crossed the space between them and gripped his elbows as tears formed in his eyes. The boy Emberlyn had thought a monster now quivered with restrained sobs at his memories of Malcolm, and her throat tightened in grief for him. Suddenly, all she wanted was to comfort him, close the gap of distance between them. She recognized his pain. It was one that had lingered in the corner of her mind for years, and she hated to see it reflected back so clearly.

“He tricked us,” Étienne spat, his jaw trembling. “He locked us all in one room and…tore the curse out of them. They never had a chance of survival. One by one they fell at his feet, crumbled into nothing but dust. Esme—he tied her in the corner and made her watch all of it. He…he saved Gen for last. All I could do was watch him tear the life out of her chest.” Étienne’s shoulders drooped. He reached up to swipe a tear away with the back of his hand. “When he was done with the Marionettes, he tried to kill me. He set a fire in the hearth and held my head over it until I passed out.”

Emberlyn felt the heat of her own tears break away from the corner of her eyes.

“When I awoke, something was different. I’d have thought I was dead if I weren’t still solid in the darkness. I don’t know exactly what happened, but my guess is that in that moment, his power was so chaotic as he destroyed the others, that when he tried to kill me the power of his curse got mixed up in my own fate, somehow. I kept to myself, learning quickly to keep in the shadows where the light couldn’t burn my skin and turn me to dust. I wandered for ages, lost in my own mind with grief. They were all gone.” His voice cracked on the last word. “The Marionettes were gone. I overheard someone say Malcolm had abruptly left for New Kora with his Marionettes, and I knew he would have kept Esme alive to go with him. His last, broken, subservient Marionette, to start again somewhere new.”

He broke away for a moment, keeping his chin dipped so he didn’t have to meet Emberlyn’s eyes. He took a few shuddering breaths as he composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice was smoothed over. Distant. “My troupe assumed I had left with them. They moved on to their next theater, believing I’d simply gone to start life anew somewhere else.”

Étienne’s chest heaved as if he had been sprinting, running away from something.

“And that’s how I know about Malcolm and the curse that lives inside you,” he finished flatly. “That’s what happened. That’s how I became…this.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help herself. She placed a hand on his cheek, solid in the darkness. She rested the other on his chest. She felt the warmth of his skin and the steady beat of his heart beneath her touch as he closed his eyes and leaned into her palm. Real. Real. Real.

A real boy, his life shattered by the same man who had torn her own to pieces. The true to life counterpart to the shadow she so revered. She wanted to pull him close and never let go. To show him she understood his pain, that she felt it too.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as tears snaked down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry you had to cross paths with that monster.”

Étienne gave her a grief-riddled smile, his shoulders heaving as he took a deep breath to steady himself.

“I hope you don’t have any more questions about Malcolm, because that’s all I know.”

Emberlyn’s heart wrenched. Esme. Poor, poor Esme. Emberlyn tried to imagine watching all her sisters be destroyed in front of her, and couldn’t. The thought of witnessing that happen to Aleida alone was a knife to the heart. And Esme—Esme had been the one to give up the information. She was the reason Malcolm had killed them all, and she’d been forced to live with that until the day she, too, crumbled to dust.

Despair flooded her at the thought. She had suffered firsthand the kind of torture Malcolm could exact. That it was likely endless until Esme cracked…she shuddered. She did not blame her for revealing every dark secret she had simply to make the pain stop.

He had tried to kill Étienne. He had turned him into a thing of dust the light couldn’t touch. He…Emberlyn frowned. The pieces fell into place.

“Your shadow…,” she whispered. Étienne opened his eyes.

“Correct,” he said sadly. “I think, somehow, I lost my shadow that day, though I struggle to understand why. Perhaps in the same way to Wield a curse you have to split your soul, its erratic power split my existence somehow. Because I cannot cast a shadow, I cannot allow the light to touch me—I start to dissolve if I stumble into it.” Emberlyn stared up at him for a moment as her thoughts entwined like twisted vines. She knew it was time to tell him what she knew.

“Do you remember when I said you were familiar to me?”

Étienne nodded. “Yes. Strange.”

“I know why now.” She gripped him tighter. “Malcolm’s shadow—the one he performs. The one I dance with. It’s you.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “You’re not making any sen—”

“But it does make sense now,” she interrupted impatiently. “Well, as much sense as it possibly can. Malcolm’s curse seems to play by rules I can only guess at.”

Emberlyn looked up and froze when she saw the storm settling on his face.

“Étienne?”

His jaw quivered with undiluted rage. Emberlyn shrank back, dropping her hand from his cheek. He barely seemed to notice.

“Should…should I have not told you?”

“He…he took my shadow? Performs with it?” he finally said after a few shaky breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m suddenly not feeling myself.”

“Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell when you watched me dance with it? Or sense our…our connection?” Emberlyn hesitated on that last bit, suddenly nervous that all she had felt pass between them was all in her own head.

But Étienne’s throat bobbed in a swallow as he peered down at her, mulling over her words. “I…I saw the shadow, but I didn’t feel anything—didn’t see anything of myself in it. How could I, when I didn’t know to look for it? When I watch you perform, you’re the only one I pay attention to.”

Emberlyn thought he wasn’t going to address the topic of their own connection, until he finally dropped his eyes and stared at his boots. “I…I must admit, I did…I found myself inexplicably drawn to you. But I thought that might have been…for a different reason.”

Emberlyn felt her chest tighten with something at the admission, a sudden warmth flooding through her body. But the feeling quickly dimmed at the new expression of sadness that crossed Étienne’s face. He moved away to the shadowy corner and opened the secret entrance. He turned, extending his hand out to her without meeting her eyes. She could tell with a sinking heart that the conversation was over. As much as she wanted to push for more, to find out exactly what Étienne thought, what connection he felt, she knew it was not the right time. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her hand into his and let him lead her through the dark once more.

When she entered her room, she turned back to find Étienne’s face disappearing behind the slowly closing mirror. He paused when only one eye was visible. They stared at each other for a moment, the weight of the information shared that night making the empty space between them feel suffocating, yet somehow lighter than before.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I promise.”

“Good night, Étienne,” she responded, but he didn’t leave yet. His mouth was pulled into a guilty straight line, the sight of it making Emberlyn’s heart pick up speed as she waited to see what else he had to say. Finally, his mouth trembled open.

“I am truly sorry. About what I said last night.” Emberlyn’s breath hitched. “You’re not a monster. You’re a girl in an awful position she should never have been exposed to. I’m sorry. You’re…you…” His eyes flicked up to meet hers as Emberlyn held her breath. His ghostly figure in the darkness seemed to tense, eyes drinking her in, before he shook his head.

“You’re so very brave, Emberlyn,” he whispered, before he firmly pulled the mirror closed.

Étienne was gone.

Twenty

A Dance with Darkness

Emberlyn struggled to fall asleep that night. Too many thoughts raced through her mind as she watched the sliver of moonlight sliding across the floor. A clock tower called out the passing hours over the snow-dusted rooftops of Parlizia and wound through Emberlyn’s window on a wind that made the glass shudder.

Esme had endured so much at Malcolm’s hand. Before she’d set foot in New Kora, Malcolm had broken her in more ways than Emberlyn could have imagined.

Esme had watched her friends die believing it to be entirely her fault. The gaping hole that had been torn into Emberlyn’s chest from the absence of Esme widened. Her whole body ached. She wished she had known this had all happened so she could have told Esme it wasn’t her fault. She wished Esme had died believing herself guiltless, not with shame weighing on her heart.

There had been Marionettes before Malcolm’s current troupe. Étienne had confirmed what Malcolm never spoke of. And she knew why he didn’t—those girls had tried to kill Malcolm and failed.

She wondered if Malcolm knew that Étienne had survived having his shadow torn away from him. Would he have come back here to Parlizia if he did? If he knew a boy he had attempted to murder haunted the dark here? What would he do, if he did know?

And bookending all those thoughts were the words that repeated in her mind, unbidden.

I found myself inexplicably drawn to you.

Eventually, Emberlyn sank into her restless dreams.

Emberlyn stood outside the door to the Marionettes’ dressing room. It wasn’t long until curtain, and usually, Emberlyn had her costume brought to her room so she could prepare in isolation. But today, after knowing all she did about the original Marionettes, about what was happening to Aleida, an aching longing to be with her sisters thundered through her body. She could hear them, their low voices in scattered conversations and the rustle of material as they adorned their costumes and teased their hair into crowns.

Emberlyn raised her fist to knock, then hesitated. They might still be upset with her for distancing herself from them. They might take one look at her and tell her to leave.

Emberlyn took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts away. She knocked sharply on the door.

The voices inside died away.

“Come in?”

Emberlyn pushed the door open as all heads swiveled to stare at her. Several eyebrows went up in surprise, but nobody said anything. Emberlyn hovered in the doorway, scanning the room. She found Grace watching her solemnly. Her expression no longer carried the fire that had distinguished her so easily from the other girls who’d auditioned for her place. She looked beaten down. Like she had accepted her fate, just as the other Marionettes had; her eyes no longer even held any accusation toward Emberlyn. The look devastated her.

Emberlyn found Aleida in one of the chairs along the right-hand side, her face, drawn in exhaustion, breaking into a smile. Emberlyn relaxed a little.

“Can I get changed in here today?” she asked in a small voice. “With you all?”

There was a moment’s pause—a heartbreakingly solid moment of tension, before it collapsed. The Marionettes leaped to their feet and surrounded Emberlyn, powdered arms pulling her into hugs of skirts and glitter.

“Obviously!” Rosalyn rolled her eyes at Emberlyn.

“Come and sit down.” Jia gave her a soft smile as she offered a chair.

Miriam squeezed her hand. “Are you sleeping okay? You look exhausted.”

Emberlyn was rushed into the chair Jia offered, their collective voices dizzying. But she smiled as she sat down, and soon Aleida’s familiar touch was in her hair, teasing her locks into her signature curls. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Emberlyn’s couldn’t help but fill with tears. Despite the pain in Aleida’s body, the rot festering inside her, devouring bone and flesh, still she came to do Emberlyn’s hair. Just as she used to.

Grace leaned over toward Emberlyn.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.

Emberlyn’s eyes flicked toward her, then to Aleida, who had her chin down, pointedly not listening.

“S-sorry?” Emberlyn stuttered, tension seeping into her shoulders. The last time Grace had spoken to her, Emberlyn had been able to do little more than watch Grace sob on the stage of their theater back in New Kora. The memory made her stomach churn.

“I understand now.” Grace nodded determinedly, though her chin wobbled. “It’s not your fault. You had no choice. You really didn’t.”

A tidal wave of relief and sorrow and anger crashed through Emberlyn’s chest, cutting off her breath. “Still,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Grace simply dipped her chin once in response and turned her glistening eyes back to her own mirror.

When Aleida finished Emberlyn’s hair by tipping the perfect curls out over her shoulders, Emberlyn changed into her costume surrounded by mirrors and sisters. She looked at the several reflections of herself as she patted her face with powder and dabbed crushed rose petals onto her lips. The Marionettes sank into their usual routine as they prepared for the evening’s performance. Emberlyn let the murmur of noise and rustling of clothing wash over her as the girls bent into stretches, flexing their muscles and tying the ribbons of their ballet shoes up the length of their calves. It felt familiar.

It felt as close to home as was possible.

She watched Aleida in the mirror. How, occasionally, she broke away from the chatter to take deep breaths. She had put extra powder around her eyes to cover the dark shadows of her restless nights, which Emberlyn knew were there. When Aleida looked up and caught Emberlyn’s eye, she forced a shaky smile. Emberlyn imagined Gabrielle standing in Aleida’s place, and her stomach twisted. But she forced a smile back.

Soon, a stagehand arrived to call them through. The Marionettes filtered out, marching through the corridors in shivers of satin and tulle to the wings of the stage, where they stood among the hive of noise and activity, waiting for curtain.

Rather than wandering away to keep to her own thoughts, Emberlyn stood with her sisters for the first time in a long time. But she didn’t listen to their murmurs. Instead, she lifted her eyes to the rafters. She felt that weight in her stomach drop when Étienne’s smoky gaze met hers.

Before she could react, a flurry of new chatter kicked up. Malcolm, dressed in his Puppet Master garb and tilted top hat, approached the Marionettes. He appraised each of them silently, all but skipping over Aleida and taking an extra moment to inspect Grace. Her freshly blank expression was like a fire stamped out.

When his gaze landed on Emberlyn, he said nothing. But she held his stare with defiance. He strode toward her and reached out, twiddled one of her curls in his fingers, then slid a cold finger down her throat and across her jugular. Emberlyn gritted her teeth but stayed still, her heart fluttering in protest at his vile touch, before he turned and began to climb to his spot above the stage without a word.

Then she was called forward by a voice she couldn’t pin to a body. Emberlyn strode onto the stage with the tendrils of Malcolm’s cold hand lingering on her skin. The fact she knew he’d done it on purpose, just to make her heart spike in anger, made the feeling worse. She waited with a curved spine and a bitterly aching chest for her curse to claim her.

The performance began with the Marionette standing alone, as the thunder of applause rattled through her bones. When her spine straightened, her hand elegantly extending, nothing existed outside of Le Théâtre de Feu. Nothing mattered but the Marionette dressed in icy blue and a cape that looked like a winter’s breath as she spun before a blazing hearth.

As she landed her first pirouette, her chest cracked open with grief. The shame of her lack of control tripled with the weight of Étienne’s heavy gaze fastened on her dancing body. Fresh humiliation prickled along every inch of skin with every turn and spin.

She didn’t want him to see her this way. She wished he could watch her while she was free, with her love for dance raiding every cell, pursuing every movement, cemented clearly on her expression like she was sure it once had been. Like she deserved.

They were both once dancers who had found their lives’ greatest passion. The stage had been their home, their comfort. Now she really was nothing more than a puppet. The joy that must have once directed every decision she made, filled her every waking moment and more besides in her dreams, had shriveled away and become something ugly. Something the free Emberlyn would never have been able to recognize.

Her once-safe home had become something haunted and decrepit.

Finally, Faust prepared to make a pact with the devil. The shadow, Mephistopheles—Étienne’s shadow—appeared to the audience’s collective gasp of surprise. The shadow approached her, and in it, she saw everything she had somehow missed before. The way the outline suggested taut muscles, the flow of its form implying a dancer’s body, sculpted by years of experience and passion. When it turned, the hint of what could be a dark curl rested on the bridge of the shadow’s strong nose. But the audience didn’t see any of that. They saw only the embodiment of shadows, of darkness, come to tease Faust into the depths of hell.

I found myself inexplicably drawn to you.

Emberlyn cast her eyes to the rafters. She spied the figure of Étienne—the real Étienne. Or at least the Étienne who was more real than the shadowed figure who spun her. His hands still dangled, his body frozen, the weight of his gaze on her almost suffocating. But she couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t tell if he recognized his lost shadow below his feet, what thoughts were running rampant within his mind. Though she wanted to reach out toward him, hoping she could translate her feelings through their connection, wishing upon wish that she could do something to comfort him as he discovered his stolen shadow spinning below his feet, she could do nothing.

So Emberlyn only danced with darkness and wished silently for the night to end, so that the cracking open of a new day might bleed its secrets.

Twenty-One

Shadows upon Shadows

The knock came when a distant bell had just finished tolling the twelfth hour, finally breaking Emberlyn’s agonizing wait. Étienne had spent hours dancing through her mind. What had he thought of the dancing shadow? What had he thought of Emberlyn when he watched her dance once more? Her cheeks flaming, she swung her legs out of bed and fastened her gaze on her mirror.

“Come in,” she whispered. The mirror slid back as Emberlyn’s heart jumped in her chest. Her strange mix of emotions as Étienne stepped into her room still hadn’t ceased to baffle her. She was all at once nervous at the thought of this strange being standing so close to her, worried about what he had to say. But she was also relieved that he was finally here again, with her. Longing for the feeling of the intense gaze that made her feel so seen.

For a moment, he stood quietly, respectfully on the other side of her room. They read the expressions on each other’s carefully arranged faces, before finally, Étienne held out his hand.

Silently, Emberlyn stood. She crossed the room and placed her hand in his, refusing to let her expression give any indication of the goose bumps the sensation of his touch sent racing along her arms. She let him lead her through the night once again. It almost seemed familiar by now. As if Emberlyn was as much a creature of darkness as Étienne was.

When they arrived at the cold prop cellar, a lantern glowing dimly in the corner, Emberlyn moved straight toward the table of marionettes to continue her work picking them apart. She collected the tangled puppets she had begun to unknot last time as Étienne replaced the wall of the concealed entrance. She began to work at the strings with her back to him, unwilling to meet his eye. A knot came undone, and then another, as Emberlyn waited for him to speak first.

Finally, he did.

“You were right,” he said simply, his voice hoarse.

Emberlyn didn’t turn around. “You watched me dance tonight,” she said.

“I wanted to look closely at the shadow you spoke about. I had to be sure.”

Emberlyn twisted her head to look at Étienne. He was watching her fingers working, dark curls loose in front of his wounded eyes, arms limp by his sides.

“And?” Emberlyn coaxed. Étienne nodded.

“It’s mine.” He took a shaky breath. “It moves like me. Looks like me. Malcolm not only split me from my shadow that night, but he stole it too. He’s using it as a prop. He took my shadow with him and left me trapped here because of it.”

Emberlyn sighed. She knew that pain well. Every day what had once been her passion was now her despair. To see his shadow in place of where Étienne himself should have been—performing for crowds of his own free will…Malcolm had stolen so much from so many.

Had Malcolm’s dark magic absorbed Étienne’s shadow into his own? Was it trapped there, freed on a leash only when it was time to perform? When Malcolm had tried to murder Étienne, perhaps his shadow had simply latched on to the closest thing it could find—became part of Malcolm—and he had discovered this interesting new element to his “gift” to exploit without connecting the dots, without caring how it came to be.

“How?” is all she asked.

Étienne shuffled his feet, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing through the cellar.

“I don’t know,” he spat. “I thought I understood the curse, but Malcolm is…Malcolm is powerful. More than we can guess at. Of all I have learned, of all I discovered to try to help Genevieve, help the others, I never read of anything like him. Wielders can normally trap two—three at the most. Malcolm has trapped countless. He’s plucked so many girls out of their lives and bent them to his will like it’s nothing. He…his soul…” Étienne’s cloak rustled in agitation. “His soul must be so shattered, obliterated into darkness, to be able to do what he does. I’ve never read of an evil that compares with him. To trap you—to trap all the Marionettes, to take the very shadow from my body to turn me into this…this…”

Words failed him. Emberlyn carefully undid a final knot, pulling two newly freed marionettes away from each other, and turned to face Étienne. She swallowed, her throat tightening at the expression of pure agony on his face. She ached desperately to take it away from him, carry some of it for him, her fingers demanding to skirt across the surface of his skin and wipe away the tears that threatened to overflow—to let those goose bumps rule her body once again at his touch. But she had to focus.

She had more questions. Needed more answers. She had to focus for both their sakes.

“So what you’re saying is that Malcolm is beyond anything you’ve ever read, worse than any Curse Wielder you’ve ever discovered in that book of yours,” she said, the sheer weight of her fear, the true understanding of just how deep the evil ran in the man who owned her life crushing her emotion to become something blank.

Étienne ran agitated hands through his curls.

“No matter how evil we know this man to be, something else is quite clear. Malcolm is smart. He’s a villainous, evil creature dragged from our deepest nightmares, but he’s intelligent. He’s developed his powers in ways that I don’t think anyone else has before, grown and manipulated his darkness, enabling him to extend his power. But he’s never overextended, focused instead on building wealth and fame as a dance-troupe manager while keeping his greed under just enough control that he doesn’t rouse suspicion. Going only far enough to stoke his own ego with the renown he builds.” Étienne looked up. He stared at Emberlyn with a ferocity that took her aback. He stepped closer until Emberlyn could smell his dusty scent.

“To control so many for so long, when most can control a few souls at best, it’s…it’s…”

“Étienne, you’re scaring me,” Emberlyn whispered, her hands beginning to shake as her heart hammered frantically against her ribs. She dropped the marionettes to the table, no longer interested in unsealing their tangled fates. “What are you trying to say?”

“His power has grown beyond that detailed in the book. To seemingly rewrite the rules of an ancient magic, to become darker than dark itself to the point he can innovate with it…I…” His eyes were distant, like he was transfixed by something Emberlyn couldn’t see. He shook his head. Emberlyn could tell his mind was swimming with thoughts he could barely put together, laced with a fear that built webs and caught them before they could be spoken.

“Étienne,” Emberlyn uttered, desperate to bring him back to her. Desperate to understand.

Suddenly, his eyes seemed to clear and he closed the final distance between them. Étienne took her hands in his. Despite the fear ricocheting in her body, the sudden warmth that seeped into her skin gave her chills that spread through her at his touch. But the warm feeling dulled when he finally broke the silence.

“His death may be the only way out; you’re right. But…the odds are stacked against you, Emberlyn,” Étienne said. “His sheer strength, his power. I can’t see how the curse won’t tear you apart if you try. Before, with Gen, I thought there was a good chance, but now? I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s any way you and your sisters can survive him. Me too. I think, with Malcolm still controlling my shadow, my fate will likely be shared with yours. I think he owns me too.”

Emberlyn untangled her hands from Étienne’s and clutched them together over her chest, as if that could calm the panicked beat. The desire to sink to the floor and sob tempted her body to fold.

“Aleida is ill…I…” Emberlyn brought her clutched hands to her face, pressing her knuckles into her lips so hard they hurt. The pain helped to steady her. “I want to keep her alive, Étienne. I want to take the risks I have to, to keep my best friend in this world.”

“Emberlyn, Malcolm is—”

“I know,” Emberlyn interrupted, her mouth twisted into something bittersweet. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I can give up. That doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t take the risks I’m willing to take. To lie down and let this monster devour me—devour my sisters. Destroy Aleida.”

Étienne looked at her, his brow furrowed. But after a moment’s contemplation, his expression softened as Emberlyn stepped forward and took his hands up again, squeezing them as she did, to help convey just how strongly she felt. How certain she was that despite everything, despite what was weighted against them, she couldn’t give up. She stood close to him, their bodies almost touching, and tipped her chin up to stare defiantly into his dark eyes.

“I have to finish what I tried to do,” she whispered. “We have to try, have to grab our only hope, even if the chances are slim. Let me kill him.”

She watched him, daring him with her eyes to challenge her. She blinked as his features slowly softened.

“I know,” he said gently. “But it might all be for nothing. We don’t know what will happen when his life ends, if—”

“I’m prepared to die for this, Étienne,” she cut in. “I’m prepared to die tomorrow if that’s what is needed of me, to stop this monster. To stop him from hurting anyone else, ever again. I want to end this, one way or another.”

Étienne’s expression darkened. His despairing, bottomless eyes held hers, the years upon years of grief and isolation all swimming to the surface to dance a lonely solo.

But then a small, sad smile cracked through his grief-stricken visage.

“You look…You could use…” But his words trailed away. Tentatively, he pulled Emberlyn’s hands toward him, her body following, until, frowning, Emberlyn understood what he wanted. Part of her begged her to step away, head shaking, but deep down she knew that wasn’t what she wanted. Instead, she stepped into his embrace, wrapped her arms around him until their bodies were finally pressed together, their warmth at long last meeting. Emberlyn’s heart picked up its speed as she leaned her cheek against his chest, feeling his own beat a similar rhythm in response as the warmth of him chased away the cold taking root in her bones. He rested his chin on the top of her head as his currents of heat wound their way through her, for a moment, dulling her fear.

It was the strength she needed, as Étienne released a sigh that seemed to unwind the tension in his body—and unwind the same in hers. The comfort both of them were desperate for. Two drifting wraiths trying to work out how to save themselves from the endless gray of their existence, finding solace in each other as their arms entwined, their hearts synced. Emberlyn squeezed her eyes closed and allowed herself to lose her anger for just these short, bittersweet moments. Something in her longed to pull away ever so slightly, to tilt her chin up and find…she wasn’t sure what—more comfort, more shared emotion, something more translated in the molten glow of this beautiful creature’s eyes.

She knew she shouldn’t feel like this—not when there were so many things to be thinking about, not when she wasn’t even certain what Étienne was, how he could possibly exist. But still, she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but allow herself to sink into the strange, tentative warmth his touch coaxed from her skin when his hands rubbed so gently along the ridge of her spine. Because when he held her, he felt more real than anything ever had. More certain. She was sure, in that moment, that Étienne felt it all too. That the connection she was certain they had, the strength of which she could feel growing and growing with every meeting in the silent shadows, he nurtured too.

She wasn’t imagining it; she couldn’t be. He felt something.

I found myself inexplicably drawn to you.

And, Emberlyn finally had to admit, she felt inexplicably drawn to him too.

She kept herself firmly tucked against him, reveling in the simple pleasure of holding another who understood her soul—and of being held back, as the darkness swallowed the two of them together.

But then the moment was shattered with reality, broken by the sound of Étienne’s mournful whisper, like he didn’t want to break the moment, either, but knew one of them had to.

“You might be prepared to die for this, Emberlyn, and I admire your bravery—truly. I am too. But are your sisters? Can you really make that choice for them?” Étienne spoke above her head, his voice rumbling through his chest as Emberlyn’s face crumpled.

His words haunted the air long after they were spoken.

Twenty-Two

Star to Star

Hours after their meeting in the prop cellar, the feeling of Étienne’s body against hers refused to fade. The warmth lingered, the sensation of his firm dancer’s body against hers in a way that wasn’t simply performance, a show for someone else to look at, haunted her. As Emberlyn tried to sleep that same night, tossing and turning, her thoughts raced through her. Always, despite the fear gripping her mind and soul, returning to him. Étienne. The way he held her, and the way her heart had responded. The peace she’d felt in that small moment.

Despite the warmth that bloomed as she thought of this newfound connection between two restless spirits, she knew she couldn’t be distracted. That she had to stay focused on the task at hand, and on the reality of her existence. Sort through the mess of thoughts in her mind about what was right and wrong, what was worth risking. If she had it in her to put the lives of her sisters on the line in the pursuit of freedom.

She knew, deep down, that the morally right thing to do was what Étienne had begged of her. When their embrace had slowly untangled, he’d tried to persuade Emberlyn to tell her sisters everything. To bring them into it all and let them decide for themselves whether they wanted to risk their lives.

But what if they said no? What if they didn’t want to take the risk? Emberlyn couldn’t go through with her plans if she knew it was not something that her sisters were willing to allow, if they preferred to take their chances and hope they were strong enough to survive the curse. If they preferred to live with hope in captivity than die at a moment’s notice.

Death was a scary thought, after all. That endless, consuming dark. Even Emberlyn wasn’t immune to that fear, but it simply didn’t frighten her as much as the thought of staying here. Staying with Malcolm. But she knew perhaps her sisters would disagree—that an infinity of silence was not something her sisters would be able to comprehend, would be so willing to risk walking into as Emberlyn was.

But…it wasn’t right to take the choice away from them, in the name of ensuring they wouldn’t stop her. Could Emberlyn really be so selfish as to take all their lives into her own hands? To take even more control away from them than the Puppet Master was already taking?

As morning bled into afternoon, the thoughts twisting and tangling in her mind, Emberlyn knew she wouldn’t be good company. Her grief and fury were bleeding out of every pore, threatening to consume her completely. Which was why, though she had made amends with her sisters and rejoined them previously to get ready before a performance, today she was back in her own room with her mind whirling, her hands alien and shaking with the full force of emotions she didn’t have time to sort through.

She wiggled into her costume, her hands fumbling at the ties at her back as frustration made her useless. She gritted her teeth, her fingers scrabbling, her chest heaving as her exasperation reached boiling point when a knock sounded in her room.

Emberlyn froze, cocking her head. She glanced out her window. The day had already succumbed to darkness as Parlizia drifted sleepily through the depths of winter, but it was not yet nighttime. It couldn’t be…

“Étienne?” Emberlyn whispered.

In response, her mirror slid open a crack. But Étienne didn’t appear. Instead, his voice floated into her room on a whisper.

“Is it safe?”

Emberlyn’s eyes darted around her empty bedroom. “I’m alone, if that’s what you mean?”

Étienne cleared his throat. “I mean, are you dressed?”

Emberlyn swallowed as her cheeks flared into life. Her costume was mostly on; it was just the useless ties leaving the curve of her back exposed where she couldn’t seem to reach them. She angled herself so she was facing the mirror, so he couldn’t see the loosed ties.

Her voice came out weak. “As best as I possibly can be.” She clasped the gaping costume to herself as she extinguished the light in her room. When the room plummeted into a murkiness lit gently by the moon through the window, Étienne’s boots finally made contact with the floor of her bedroom. Her breath caught ever so slightly when he stepped out of the dark, his burning eyes on her. At the sight of her clutching her costume to her body, his gaze drifted to the ceiling.

“What are you doing here?” Emberlyn asked.

“I could hear your muttering and insults aimed at your dress from miles away.” Étienne kept his chin tilted to the ceiling. “Why aren’t you getting ready with your sisters?”

Emberlyn sighed. “I’m not really in the mood to pretend I’m okay.”

Étienne nodded, his mouth setting into a thin line. He clutched his hands together, his fingers fumbling, his eyes still refusing to meet Emberlyn’s. “Do you…um…that is to say, do you need…?”

Emberlyn watched with a raised eyebrow as he made some strange hand gestures she couldn’t decipher. Finally, his chin risked a tilt toward her, and he let out a sigh.

“Do you need help?”

The heat in Emberlyn’s cheeks flared even hotter.

“I swear I don’t normally have this much trouble. I’m just…I feel so…” Emberlyn shook her head. “That damn costume manager obviously tied it wrong this time.” She spun on her heel, suddenly self-conscious, and presented her back to Étienne. “Maybe you can see what that woman has done.”

Emberlyn waited with her heart thundering, as Étienne wavered on the spot. Then he stepped forward until she could feel him standing just behind her, his breathing stilted in a way that made her swallow nervously.

“Well?” Emberlyn snapped, trying to break the tension she felt building up inside her. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks fine to me,” Étienne murmured. “I think you’ve tangled it slightly. May I touch you? Uh—it. The dress.”

Emberlyn’s stomach squirmed. She gave a nod, not trusting herself to answer. She held her breath as she waited for Étienne’s hands. She felt him begin to slowly tug at one of the ribbons that bound the dress at the back, his hands deftly working through what Emberlyn assumed was a knot of her own creation. Her heart threatened to crack open her ribs as her body jolted under the tugging of her ties, and she kept her jaw firmly clenched.

She gasped as suddenly his fingertips grazed the skin of her back, involuntarily jerking forward as heat washed through her.

“Sorry, are you okay?” Étienne asked.

Emberlyn let out a nervous laugh, her voice coming out more high-pitched than normal. “No, no, your hand was just cold is all. Carry on.”

Étienne returned to her ties, finding a rhythm as he worked the ribbons through the eyelets. Sliding them through, tugging them tightly so Emberlyn was pulled back into him, until the heat of his breath tickled at her neck. Emberlyn closed her eyes and tried to think of something, anything else, as Étienne worked. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, but she didn’t think it normally took this long to tie her costume—almost as if he was taking his time.

Savoring it.

“Done,” Étienne finally said. Emberlyn’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice, the disappointment that gripped her at the loss of his touch raising one of her eyebrows. She turned, giving him a small smile without looking up. Her arms stayed wrapped around herself.

“Thanks,” she said to his boots. “I had better get going. Was there…was there another reason you wanted to see me?”

At her question, she dared to look up and almost recoiled at the ferocious look in his eyes. But it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t fury. It was something else. Something more akin to what she herself was feeling. What had slowly been blooming between them, suddenly stoked. Slowly, Étienne’s lips quirked up.

“Just wanted to see if you needed my help. Which clearly you did.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help but smile back. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not usually half as helpless as I was just then.”

Étienne backed away slowly, his hand reaching out to push the mirror aside. “I don’t doubt it.”

With that he stepped back into the yawning mouth behind her mirror and disappeared as if he had not been there at all. As if Emberlyn had imagined the yearning for his hands to never leave her body that had commanded her entire being and stolen her breath in those short few moments.

Malcolm released her from the curse when the curtain dropped, the heavy material muffling the thundering applause on the other side. Emberlyn’s body sagged in exhaustion, the warmth from her last interaction with Étienne long since faded after the hours of dancing, and the endearing, faraway gaze forced onto her face wiped and drawn into something heavy.

She stood from her collapsed position on the floor, stretching her back, testing her limbs as they became her own again. Satisfied she had full control, she moved toward the wings, eager to return to her room. Though she knew she needed to stay on track, to work out what she was going to do next, a part of her longed to see if Étienne might be waiting in the dark for her there. Longed to feel that aching in her chest that felt like some kind of sweet sickness whenever he was near. Whenever he looked at her.

As she made her way through the wings, toward the door that led out into the corridors, a figure leaning against the wall caught her eye. Aleida.

Emberlyn’s heart wrenched, and she instantly made a detour toward her. Aleida’s head was dropped backward, leaning against the wall as if she couldn’t bear its weight. Emberlyn reached out, touching her shoulder, watching as Aleida pitched forward slightly and blinked at her for a moment as if she didn’t recognize her best friend.

“Hello,” she said after a moment, her dull eyes lighting with recognition. “Are you okay, Ember? You look so worried.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help the surprised laugh that barked out of her. “Am I okay? Are you okay?”

Aleida pushed herself off the wall, straightening her shoulders. “Don’t worry about me, Ember. Plenty of life left in me yet.”

With a watery smile cast in Emberlyn’s direction, Aleida slowly dragged her feet out through the rush of activity in the wings and into the solace of the corridors. Emberlyn watched her hunching form, weighed down with the exhaustion of the performance, as guilt and fury waged war inside her.

You fool, Emberlyn hissed to herself in her mind. Faster. You need to go faster. No more distractions. No more Étienne. She couldn’t lose herself, her plan, to a boy she couldn’t stop thinking about. Her sisters needed her. She needed to work out what she was going to do—and tonight. Aleida might have weeks left, but she was not certain of that.

She straightened her shoulders and made to march back to her room.

“Emberlyn! Wait a moment, please.”

She froze as Malcolm called out to her from across the busy wing of the stage. She turned slowly and recoiled when she picked out his repulsive face among the rush of activity. He gestured for her to come to him.

Swallowing hard, Emberlyn softened her features, forcing herself not to grind her teeth as she so desperately wanted to. She couldn’t let her expression give anything away. Malcolm had discovered what her predecessors had planned for him and he’d killed them all, one by one. No remorse. No hesitation. They were as disposable to him as cheap wooden puppets, and just as replaceable. Genevieve’s star status hadn’t protected her, and it wouldn’t help Emberlyn either.

“Yes, Malcolm?” she said, her voice smooth and firm, her expression carefully arranged to mimic her usual lofty self.

“Are you free for a moment?” His expression gave away nothing.

Emberlyn cocked her head, hesitant. “May I ask for what?”

Malcolm gestured to his right. Only then did Emberlyn notice the girl standing beside him. She blinked before recognition dropped in her stomach like a stone.

Gabrielle Marseille.

“I mentioned to you before that I might be interested in recruiting another dancer to join the Marionettes? Remember?”

Emberlyn only stared at Gabrielle. Tawny curls cascaded over her shoulders and swept gracefully over one eye, her lips slowly flattening into an uncomfortable line as she took in Emberlyn’s horrified expression. Emberlyn swallowed and forced her features back into boredom, though her lip trembled.

She stood in the presence of the dancer Malcolm intended to replace her best friend with, once Aleida was no more than ash.

“Yes. Gabrielle, I believe?” Her voice shook, though Malcolm didn’t seem to notice, his jubilant gaze fastened on Gabrielle. Her uncomfortable expression relaxed, and she took a small step toward Emberlyn, eager to please.

“Indeed. Emberlyn, isn’t it?” she said with a heavy accent. “I’ve heard so much about you already. I am so very glad to meet you, and so humbled to have been approached by Monsieur Manrow.”

“Gabrielle has asked for a chat with you, Emberlyn,” Malcolm interjected. “Star to star. Tell her what it’s like to live as a Marionette among the bright lights of New Kora.”

Emberlyn’s eyes flicked between the two of them, her body quivering, her stomach churning. She inclined her head. “I would be delighted,” she mumbled.

“Excellent! I leave you in capable hands, Gabrielle. And please, do come find me if you wish to talk more.”

Emberlyn’s stomach clenched at the thought of leaving Gabrielle alone with him, but on the outside she didn’t flinch.

“Forgive me, Gabrielle,” she said. “I must change out of my costume first.”

“But of course. I’ll meet you in the foyer when you are ready?”

Emberlyn nodded as Gabrielle bade her farewell and disappeared from the stage. Emberlyn moved to hasten away, desperate not to spend one second more than she had to breathing the same air as Malcolm, when his hand snaked out and latched on to her arm.

Emberlyn hissed in pain, panicked tears budding in the corner of her eyes as Malcolm leaned in, keeping a pleasant expression on his face for those who looked in their direction, though the warning in the low voice he muttered into her ear was plain.

“Remember, darling Emberlyn,” he said. “She has to say yes. Gabrielle must say yes to joining us. If she agrees, you will be rewarded. Understood?”

Emberlyn trembled a nod, her arm straining against his grip. But he didn’t let go.

“Closing night is only days away. We’re leaving for New Kora almost straight after. You don’t have long to persuade her to join the Marionettes, understand? She insisted on speaking to my lead before making the choice,” he growled, his distaste clear. “I so hope for your sake you don’t mess this up.”

He jerked her arm and forced her startled stare to meet his threatening gaze.

“I’m counting on you. Okay?” he said coolly. Emberlyn only nodded again, silently begging him to release her. When he finally did, it took every ounce of self-control she had to walk calmly away.

Once she was alone, she started to run.

“No, no, no. Please, no.” The whispers tore out of her throat as she raced through the corridors to her room, wrenching the door open and slamming it behind her again. Only then did she let out the anguished cry that had been building up in her chest.

She tore off her costume, letting it fall to the flagstone floor in a crumpled heap. The costume manager would kill her if she saw how Emberlyn kicked it across the floor, but she didn’t care. She dragged her nails over her scalp, twisting her hair around her fist and pulling as she tried to straighten her thoughts, tried to keep her heart from splintering open her rib cage.

How could this happen? How could Emberlyn walk through the theater with Gabrielle, knowing full well what would happen to her if she said yes to Malcolm? Knowing she was to take Aleida’s place? She couldn’t possibly allow herself to be a part of that. She wouldn’t be able to get through it without breaking into tears.

It was one thing to lead a new Marionette toward her undoing when Malcolm had already ensnared her. It was another to coax and encourage one into Malcolm’s arms herself. Emberlyn had been a part of many of Malcolm’s ceremonies, it was true. But she had never been a part of his active recruitment before.

But what else could Emberlyn do? Her curse would not allow the words to come, even if she dared to speak them. She could refuse to accompany Gabrielle, but Malcolm let her get away with only so much under the guise of the spoiled lead dancer. She would receive longer than five minutes of torture next time she disobeyed him.

She had to meet Aleida’s replacement. She had to answer her questions and persuade her to join the Marionettes.

She might as well feed the curse into Gabrielle’s veins herself.

Emberlyn moved toward her mirror, tugging her fingernails down her cheeks as she stared into her bloodshot eyes. She pressed her palm against the mirror, focusing on the coolness against her skin to distract herself from the breathless gasps that fogged against the glass, the panic racing through her body. Images of Grace writhing, screaming, clawing at the air underneath Emberlyn’s firm hold tore through her mind.

“It’s not me,” she whispered. “It’s not me doing this to Gabrielle. It’s Malcolm. It’s all Malcolm. I have no choice. I have no choice.”

She had to play the part Malcolm demanded of her. Emberlyn couldn’t even attempt to disobey him—she knew he would have no problem tearing the life out of her as he had the other Marionettes if she outlived her usefulness. As he had to Genevieve.

Emberlyn yanked a day dress out of her wardrobe. She took deep breaths to keep the ache that threatened tears at bay. She took one last look at herself once she had pulled the dress over her slip, smoothing it down before placing her cold hands onto her burning cheeks to reduce the red flush that had seeped across her face. She prepared herself to play a part in the ruin of another girl.

She left the room to find Gabrielle.

Twenty-Three

Run

As she approached the foyer, Emberlyn heard two female voices laughing, lilting through the vast hall in that now-familiar singsongy language she couldn’t understand. Emberlyn walked into the foyer, empty of all patrons who had come to watch her dance earlier. She blinked against the harsh light of the chandelier.

Her eyes fell on Gabrielle, who stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, head tipped back in a laugh as she faced Mademoiselle Fournier. When Gabrielle’s eyes flickered over to Emberlyn, her face lit up with a fresh smile. Mademoiselle Fournier turned.

“Ah! Here she is, the lead Marionette!” Mademoiselle Fournier exclaimed, swapping languages for Emberlyn. “I hear Malcolm is interested in recruiting dear Gabrielle.”

Emberlyn nodded as she moved to stand with them. Gabrielle’s eyes crinkled warmly at her in a way that broke Emberlyn’s heart. The innocence that sat in that little gesture, overwhelming.

“I must say, it will be a shame not to have you about Parlizia anymore, Gabrielle. But they are all such talented girls, and I do highly doubt this will be the last showcase the Marionettes put on here,” Mademoiselle Fournier said as she looked between them with twinkling eyes. Gabrielle laughed—a soft sound that dripped with kindness and made Emberlyn feel even worse.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” Gabrielle said. “And I must say how nice it is to see you again. It has been far too long since I last performed here.”

“Very true. Either way, we must set something up for you soon.” Mademoiselle Fournier clapped her hands together. “Right, I’ll leave you in very capable hands now, Gabrielle.” She bobbed her head at both of them before she twirled away, her footsteps echoing through the foyer. Gabrielle turned to Emberlyn, and Emberlyn returned her smile with a weak one of her own.

She wanted this over and done with.

“Shall we walk?” Gabrielle asked.

Emberlyn nodded. Silently, the pair began to climb the staircase. Emberlyn walked alongside the girl Malcolm wanted Emberlyn to doom. A girl who could never replace everything Aleida was to her.

“I performed here once, as part of another troupe.” Gabrielle spoke as if Emberlyn had asked her a question. But Emberlyn had been focused only on attempting to still her racing thoughts, to work out how to talk to Gabrielle in a way that didn’t choke her or break her heart into pieces. It seemed impossible to find a balance between the two. “It was before I made more of a name for myself. Mademoiselle Fournier was always so lovely to me.”

“Yes, she does seem lovely,” Emberlyn said feebly.

“So, Emberlyn…,” Gabrielle began as they reached the first floor and turned to climb the next level of the grand staircase. Emberlyn silently begged her not to ask a question she couldn’t answer without pulling her closer and closer to a fate she didn’t deserve. “I thought it might be beneficial to have a word alone with you. I believe, if I decide to accept Malcolm’s offer, we would be working very closely together.”

“Understandable.” Emberlyn forced herself to disguise the tremble in her voice.

She cringed at her own aloofness. She knew she wasn’t making it easy for Gabrielle. But Emberlyn didn’t want to make it easier for Malcolm. She knew the curse would prevent her from saying anything truly damaging about him, prevent her from revealing his curse, but that didn’t mean she had to spout compliments. Emberlyn could only hope that, by some miracle, Gabrielle would choose to walk away from Malcolm on her own. If only she could say just enough that Gabrielle could make the choice for herself—Emberlyn would take the punishment of Malcolm’s frustration. It would be worth saving this girl’s life for it.

“I would like to know more about you—about the troupe itself, too,” she said as they began their next ascent. “What are the other Marionettes like? Do you all get along?”

Emberlyn swallowed.

“We’re like sisters,” she replied. “We live together, share meals together, perform together—back in New Kora, we share a dormitory. We have our differences, of course. For example, Rosalyn can be…strongheaded. It’s not a bad thing, but it isn’t always smooth sailing, living in such tight quarters all the time.” Emberlyn fought back a wave of shame as she thought about how she had cut herself off from them lately.

“And do you work closely with Monsieur Manrow? Is he a good manager?”

The true words immediately rose up like bile in her throat. Blocked by a curse that refused to let them shape on her lips.

“He mostly leaves us to our own devices whenever we aren’t performing,” she said through gritted teeth, worlds away from what she really wanted to tell her—that they were expected to stand to attention whenever he walked into the room. That he carefully monitored how much food they had access to. That he controlled them in so many small ways that it would be impossible to count them all.

Gabrielle nodded as she listened, as they made their final turn and began to climb the last staircase to the very top tier of the theater.

“New Kora.” Gabrielle smiled wistfully. “It would be such an adventure to live and perform there, I must admit.”

“You don’t get to see the city,” Emberlyn blurted out. She bit down on her tongue when Gabrielle’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh?”

“I mean, you’ll be in the theater mostly. We don’t really get time away. Leisure time,” she clarified. “When we’re not performing, we’re normally sitting together. Reading, drawing—simple things like that. Never anything exciting.”

“Well, that’s all right. I wouldn’t expect to have a lot of time to myself.” Gabrielle smiled sweetly. “It would be enough just to be there. Tell me, is your home theater very lovely?”

Emberlyn grimaced. That was far too positive a response. “It’s not much compared with Le Théâtre de Feu,” she said curtly.

They stepped off the staircase and wandered through a corridor lined with red velvet and gilded borders. Artwork wrapped in extravagant, polished frames were spaced between the closed black doors, each leading to a different section of the auditorium.

“Well, not many places are.” Gabrielle chuckled—a happy, carefree noise that filled Emberlyn with both envy and adoration that burned as hotly as her guilt. “Do you like being a Marionette, Emberlyn? Enough that you would continue your career with Monsieur Manrow?”

Emberlyn’s stomach heaved. How could she answer this?

“I…I love my sisters,” she began hesitantly, focusing on her shoes as they moved through the plush avenues of the theater with no destination. She tested the limits of her curse as she thought the words she wanted to say, until it gave. Until it allowed her to say what she felt, without giving any information about the truth. “No. I don’t plan on staying.”

Her heart thumped hard against her chest as Gabrielle’s step faltered and stopped. Her gentle expression tightened into a slight frown. Emberlyn stopped, too, turning to face Gabrielle. She wouldn’t lie to bring Gabrielle into the Marionettes, but she also hoped this answer never made it back to Malcolm’s ear. That he wouldn’t work out she was probing for the loopholes, just like Genevieve. Finding those gaps in the curse’s boundaries where she could say so much through so little. He would probably still beat her near unconscious if Gabrielle turned the offer down, even without knowing exactly what hand Emberlyn had in that decision—she’d deny every accusation thrown at her. But that was better than the weight of guilt pulling her heart down through the floor, straight to the bowels of the earth.

“You don’t?” Gabrielle prompted, hunting for more answers. Emberlyn’s limbs suddenly felt weak with anxiety.

“I…I wish I could do something else, eventually. Travel the world, see what else is out there. Just…something else.”

Gabrielle’s expression softened but maintained an edge of tightness. “Ah. I see.”

Emberlyn nodded. She glanced over her shoulder at the corridor stretching behind them and wished she could leave. She had done well so far—planted enough doubt without too much risk. She didn’t want to mess it up now.

“If you don’t have any more ques—” The words halted on her breath when something caught Gabrielle’s eyes and her face lit up. She clapped her hands together.

“Look—an entrance to one of the boxes!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t been inside one of Le Théâtre de Feu’s boxes since my father took me to see a show for my birthday when I was a little girl. I told him I wanted to be a dancer that night.”

Emberlyn looked to the door Gabrielle had already begun to tug open.

“Um, I don’t…” But Gabrielle glanced back and shot Emberlyn a smile so wide, her words failed.

“Come on,” she said, and before Emberlyn could do anything else, Gabrielle took her hand and pulled her through. Her hand was warm. Alive. Free from a curse raging through the veins that throbbed there. Emberlyn swallowed and tried not to think about the feel of it in her hand as she allowed herself to be led into the box.

It was pitch-black inside, but the theater beyond the railing was lit in gorgeous, glittering sheens of gold, casting a glow over the plump red chairs that sat empty. The echo of applause still seemed to ring throughout the vast auditorium.

Gabrielle dropped Emberlyn’s hand as she moved to the railing, and Emberlyn closed the door behind them, blocking out the light from the corridor. She moved to join Gabrielle at the barrier as she stared wistfully down at the stage.

Vertigo struck Emberlyn as she took in the full size of the auditorium, the steep drop to the rows upon rows of seats below, and she stepped back into the shadows.

Gabrielle’s shoulders heaved in a sigh.

“I remember the first time I came here so clearly.” Her voice was a mere breath. “Like it was yesterday rather than more than a decade ago. That feeling of elation. The ache in my chest as I watched the dancers moving beneath me, my father holding on to my waist so I didn’t lean so far over the barrier. I probably would have fallen if he hadn’t held on to me.” Gabrielle gave a soft chuckle at the memory. “I felt endless. Like I could do anything I wanted.”

Emberlyn’s own chest ached. She remembered that feeling too.

She remembered being nothing but an anonymous face in a heaving crowd. Dim light flickering over an enraptured audience. She had gazed up at those upon the stage, those who pushed their bodies to their boundaries and then went one step further, becoming extensions of the emotions that sung inside them. Her heart had twisted with a passion so strong it made her feel invulnerable. With the realization that she knew what she wanted to do with her life. Stars exploding in her mind when she knew what she was put in this world to do.

The rest was shadows.

Her mother and father had sat beside her, but she couldn’t recall their faces. There was only that feeling, the snapshot of being alive, so strong it transcended the curse that had slowly seeped into her memories and pulled the veil down over them, until Emberlyn could barely recall anything that Malcolm hadn’t infected. She had only that hidden bracelet that held more mystery than answers. Florisa. She hadn’t pulled it out to look at in days.

And now her chest rocked with pain at the thought of Gabrielle facing what Emberlyn had. At the thought of losing Aleida just for this poor girl to take her place. The vibrant and hopeful Gabrielle in this box would become another hardened, ruined girl whose dreams had crumbled into ash, just like the one who was standing behind her, watching her with a heart silently breaking into two.

Gabrielle would become just like Emberlyn. Her body would fill with darkness and shadows, stealing away everything that made her Gabrielle Marseille until she forgot what it felt like to dance for the love of it—to dance when it felt like that was all she had been born to do.

Until the stage, which had once offered freedom, love, fervor, would be wrapped in Malcolm’s strings to become her threaded cage.

“What do you want to do with your life, Gabrielle?” Emberlyn asked, her voice hoarse as tears began to stream down her cheeks, hidden by the darkness of the box.

Gabrielle didn’t turn. She leaned farther over the barrier; her body bent at the waist as she tried to get a better view of the stage. She chuckled, oblivious to the footsteps as Emberlyn moved closer to her.

“I want to make a name for myself, anywhere I can,” she said wistfully. “I want my life to be huge. I want it to be something special. We get only one go at it, don’t we? So I’m going to spend it with my eyes set on the stars. I’m going to be one of the best dancers the world has ever known, until my name is whispered among dance students centuries from now. Until little girls and boys all over the world tell their parents they want to grow to be a dancer, just like Gabrielle Marseille.”

Emberlyn could hear the smile in Gabrielle’s voice as she took another step closer to her, then another, until she was standing only inches behind her.

“I want…,” Gabrielle continued with a sigh heavy on her breath, still unaware of Emberlyn’s approach. “I want to live every moment doing what I love. And I will. I swear it. I want to dance until I die.”

Emberlyn’s chest cracked open.

“Gabrielle,” she whispered.

Gabrielle turned away from the auditorium, her face alight with a fierce passion that stabbed at Emberlyn’s chest. But it slid away when she found Emberlyn bathed in shadows with tear-tracked cheeks and shaking hands, shoulders heaving as she fought to stay calm.

“Emberlyn, what—”

But Emberlyn shook her head, and Gabrielle fell silent, her eyes wide. She edged away at the look on Emberlyn’s face. Her heart pounding, Emberlyn probed for those gaps in the curse’s power, for the holes she could wiggle through. The loopholes that could allow her to say so much while saying so little. Gabrielle stared in horror as Emberlyn fought with the curse writhing through her veins, closing her throat by force until it felt like she was choking…until…the gap revealed itself.

The loophole.

“Listen to me,” Emberlyn urged. “Don’t interrupt me. Are you listening?”

Gabrielle’s throat fluttered as she swallowed, and she nodded, inching along the barrier while the glorious blaze of the auditorium burned behind her.

“You’re not good enough,” Emberlyn hissed. “You are nothing. Nothing compared with me. I saw you dance the other night, and I think you are talentless. It would be an embarrassment to dance beside you.”

Gabrielle’s expression hardened.

“Excuse me?” Her single laugh was threaded with nervousness. “Look, if I said something to upset you—”

Emberlyn held her hand up to silence her again, her stomach churning in shame when Gabrielle flinched away at the movement. But still, she stepped forward, desperately probing the hole she had found. She couldn’t say a word about Malcolm, a word about how he controlled her, how he would control Gabrielle. But there was nothing stopping her being vicious. Nothing closing her throat against nasty words that could chase her away for good. Despite the tears running down her face, she managed a snarl.

“Pathetic.” She stepped forward, her voice cracking as sorrow rippled through her. “To think you could upset me.” Emberlyn forced a laugh. “You are nothing to me.”

Gabrielle stared at her, the pulse in her throat thumping harder as she edged closer and closer to the closed door of the box.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” she spat.

“Leave,” Emberlyn said, dropping her voice to something soft, dangerous. “Leave. Run away and don’t bother me again.”

Gabrielle reached the door, her hand slipping over the handle without breaking eye contact. Emberlyn watched her with a sinking heart and forced fury etched into her every feature.

In one swift movement, Gabrielle opened the door and raced out into the corridor.

“Gabrielle, wait!”

Despite everything, she did. Gabrielle twirled to stare, her body visibly shaking with unbridled anger as she stared at Emberlyn with her jaw tense, her eyes glistening.

She wanted to beg her not to say anything. To not reveal her malicious behavior to Malcolm. But she couldn’t. Her throat closed, and she made a strange noise as she fought against the choking sensation.

“If you say a word of this to anyone, I will do everything in my power to ruin what little career you do have. And trust me, everybody will believe the words of the Princess of New Kora.”

The sound of that nickname in her own mouth made it sour. Gabrielle stared at her for a moment, the fury in her expression thick enough to drown a person, before, without another word, she spun on her heel and marched away, her footsteps thumping along the thickly carpeted corridor.

Emberlyn let her leave. She didn’t chase after her. She stood still, swaying slightly under the weight of what she had just done.

She hadn’t been able to try to save Grace. There was nothing Emberlyn could have done but lead her into the common room where Malcolm was waiting to destroy her and let Grace squeeze her hand in a way that she hoped alleviated some of her pain as she was cursed.

But Gabrielle, she could save. She could stop Malcolm from hurting this girl. It wouldn’t save Aleida; she knew that. But she couldn’t be responsible for the loss of everything Gabrielle held dear. She closed her eyes and stood, trying to calm her pumping heart, trying not to feel the tendrils of her curse wrapping around and squeezing it.

She opened her eyes and took one last shaky breath before she left the box. She closed the door gently behind her and walked at a measured pace through the corridors—full of glitz and sparkle that stabbed at her eyes and set off flashes of pain in her skull as she hurried down the stairs, until she reached the dusty, tomblike corridors of the theater the patrons never saw.

Only when she had calmly closed her bedroom door behind her did she explode into action. She desperately clawed at her mirror, searching for the concealed catch, until she pulled it aside. She threw herself blindly into the darkness beyond the false panel.

“Étienne?” she cried out. “Étienne?”

She stumbled through the passageway, breath coming in ragged gasps, as if choking on the shadows themselves. They grew thicker, closing in on her, watching, waiting to wrap around her and squeeze the breath out of her lungs.

“Étienne?” she called out again, her voice cracked through with fear. “Please!”

Arms wrapped around her. She let out a shriek as the shadows grabbed at her, ready to tear her apart.

“Emberlyn?”

She gave a cry of relief at the sound of her name on his lips. Étienne held her up as his hot breath tickled through her hair, his scent of dust and smoke enveloping her. She felt safer here, in the dark. In his arms. Like the horrors out there in the theater couldn’t reach her here.

“What is it?” he murmured into her ear, his voice a whisper over her hiccuping sobs. He held her as her body shook, as she fought with her stuttering chest to find her voice.

“I couldn’t do it,” Emberlyn uttered. “I couldn’t let her take the risk. I couldn’t allow her to give up her life. I…I found a loophole, like Genevieve did to speak to you. I threatened her, tried to scare her away.”

Emberlyn’s legs gave way, and Étienne lowered them both to the floor in a gentle heap, her fingers desperately grasping for him. He wrapped her more firmly into him, one hand running through her hair.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Who?”

“I couldn’t take her life, and I can’t take my sisters’,” Emberlyn gasped without answering. “You’re right. I can’t do it without their permission. I can’t decide it for them. They don’t deserve…Malcolm is going to kill…I…” Emberlyn took a deep breath. “I can’t be just another Puppet Master. I won’t.”

There was a pause, before Emberlyn felt Étienne nod. He spoke, his voice slow and solemn. “You’ve decided, then?”

Emberlyn nodded against his chest. She noticed then that he had started to rock her. His powerful arms encompassed her, keeping Emberlyn safe. But beneath the strength of his grip, he was slowly, perhaps even subconsciously, rocking her back and forth as he held her in his lap, as if his mind was desperate to do anything it could to comfort her. The warm feeling of gratitude, of something…else as she nestled against him, made her want to cry harder. She focused on the feeling of his hand tangled in her hair, the ripples of goose bumps it sent down her neck, as she tried to slow her breathing. And with his support, she calmed.

Étienne’s breath caught in his chest. “When?” His voice was hoarse. “When will you ask them?”

Emberlyn had the odd sensation she had crossed a line. A point of no return. It was time to seal her true fate. It was time to set something in motion, take action, after so long living in fear and quiet. There was no time to consider how to say it, the delicate dance she needed to perform to get her sisters to believe her. She simply had to do it.

“Now,” she whispered against his chest.

Twenty-Four

The Malice of Gathered Girls

Emberlyn burst into the changing room, startling the Marionettes as they were making to leave and halting them all in their tracks. They stared at her with bewildered expressions, their skin raw where the makeup had been scrubbed from their faces. Aleida darted forward after a pause, her body bowing beneath the effort.

“Emberlyn? What is it?” She grabbed Emberlyn’s elbows, concern racing through her features. Emberlyn’s mouth hardened into a thin line as she took in her appearance. The exhaustion weighted in Aleida’s eyes was now unmistakable to Emberlyn with the absence of makeup, the whites of them stained with an inky hue that gave them the appearance of sinking.

Emberlyn took a deep breath. She twisted herself out of Aleida’s grip to close the door behind her. The Marionettes watched in held-breath silence as Emberlyn reached out and turned the key. Even Aleida didn’t speak as Emberlyn locked them all in. Until finally, Grace spoke with a forced smoothness.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Please sit,” Emberlyn said, turning back to them. “I have something I need to tell you all.”

Emberlyn looked them each in the eye in turn as they slowly, hesitantly, found themselves a seat to perch on, their eyes darting toward each other for reassurance. For answers none of them had. The smell of perfumed powder was thick in Emberlyn’s nose and crawled into her skull to hang like a dead weight as she leaned her back against the door.

The Marionettes sat in stoic silence, waiting.

“I…I want to be honest. I’ve been carrying a burden I can’t bear on my own anymore. I know that you’re all aware I failed to escape when we got to Parlizia, but that’s not the only reason I was so distant with you all.” Her sisters gave her wry but kind smiles as she spoke, which helped confidence bloom in Emberlyn’s chest. “It’s time I tell you what has really been going on.”

She found a chair of her own to sink into as her legs went weak. This was it.

The point of no return.

She took a deep breath and told them everything.

She told them about her plans to escape at the very beginning, how long she had been readying herself to run. How she had tried and failed, and how Malcolm had hurt her. How she had decided to make an attempt on Malcolm’s life that same night.

She told them she had later entered his bedroom with the intention of killing him, but had been stopped by someone in the theater who knew more about their curse than she could have ever imagined. She went into detail about the Marionettes that came before, about Esme and Genevieve and what Malcolm did to them when he discovered their plans.

When she’d finished, she slumped down in the chair, breathing hard like she had been running from a monster. She heard the heavy breaths of her sisters as they simply stared at her like she had been attempting to converse with them in a foreign language. Emberlyn studied the floor, her body burning with shame after admitting the carelessness with which she had regarded their lives. But she felt lighter.

“That…that is a lot to unpack,” Aleida eventually said gently, her calm voice a warmth that settled over the room. “Tell us more about this boy you’ve been talking about. The one that seems to know who we really are.”

Emberlyn cringed, considering her next words carefully.

“Étienne lives here in the theater. He knew the previous Marionettes, and one of them found a loophole in the curse that enabled her to tell him everything. He tried to help them escape Malcolm, but when he found out they were conspiring to kill him, he destroyed them all—Étienne included. Only he survived. Sort of…”

Rosalyn cut in coolly. “What do you mean Malcolm destroyed him, but he ‘sort of’ survived?”

“He is…” Emberlyn hesitated. “Not exactly alive. He’s somewhere in between. Touched by the curse, but not in the same way we are.”

She didn’t tell them the rest—about how he had felt familiar, how they realized Malcolm had stolen his shadow, and how it was Étienne that Emberlyn had always unknowingly danced with over the years, responding to his touch as he spun her for countless audiences in New Kora. How, now, she longed for the sensation of his arms around her, reveled in the feel of it. Longed for the beat of his heart to echo hers.

She wanted that knowledge all to herself. For it to be hers and hers alone.

“Right.” Grace looked hard at the floor in concentration as Rosalyn let out a derisive groan. “So Étienne knew the other Marionettes and found out about our curse that way, somehow. He was attacked by Malcolm but survives today, again, somehow.”

“Could we meet him?” Ida suggested. “We might be a little more inclined to believe you—this—if we do.”

Emberlyn’s heart jumped. “He can’t come into the light. And…” She hesitated. She didn’t want to force Étienne to appear in front of her sisters, not when Emberlyn was the only one who had seen him in years. “I don’t think he would be happy to show himself.”

“How convenient.” Rosalyn let out a snort of laughter that cut through the ballooning quiet of the dressing room. Emberlyn’s hackles rose. When Rosalyn noticed the group’s expressions, her laughter halted, leaving imprints in the air. “What? It is a joke, right? Right, Emberlyn?” Rosalyn asked. Her eyes darkened when Emberlyn only looked blankly back at her. “Well, either that or she’s gone stark raving mad.”

“How could you possibly think—” Emberlyn snapped, but then stopped herself. She pulled in a long breath. She couldn’t expect her sisters to believe her so easily—not when she’d hardly believed Étienne was real, and she had witnessed him fade into dust when the light touched him, had let her fingertips trail over his skin just to convince herself that he was really there.

“I mean, the first part, about you trying to escape? Right. Yeah, totally on board. I can definitely see all that happening, and we were all there when you practically passed out. It’s hardly a secret that you want out. But…you’re trying to tell me some random boy in the theater somehow knew Esme, knows all about our curse, even, when nobody in the world but ourselves know and we’re not physically able to say a thing about it? He just happens to know the previous girls tried to kill Malcolm, and we’re not allowed to see him because he can’t come into the light? How long did it take you to come up with that?”

Anushka nodded. “I’m sorry, Emberlyn, but Rosalyn is right. I’m struggling to accept what you’re saying.” From the wounded way that Anushka looked at her, Emberlyn knew she was genuinely sorry to say such a thing.

“Why would I lie to you?” Emberlyn whispered, her throat aching with sorrow. Rosalyn stood and began to pace.

“Well, two reasons. One, you’ve changed so much since we came here that it’s hard to know whether you’re up or down. You avoided us for bloody ages, and you’ve been behaving strangely—”

“I explained that,” Emberlyn cut in sharply.

“And two,” Rosalyn carried on as if Emberlyn hadn’t spoken. “The rest of your story sounds like utter nonsense.”

“Have you been dreaming?” Miriam put in, her eyebrows furrowed and hands raised to show she meant no insult. “I know I get weird dreams when I have things on my mind.”

But Emberlyn was insulted through and through.

“Of course I can tell what are dreams and what are not. I’m not—”

“Emberlyn.” Rosalyn took her turn to cut in, and Emberlyn’s words disintegrated. “I think you might need some rest,” she said dismissively.

Emberlyn stared at her incredulously, her temper flaring.

“How dare you!”

Rosalyn opened her mouth to shout straight back at her.

“Please!” Aleida got to her feet with some effort, wavering slightly as she did so, and the furious voices in the room went silent. “Please, let’s not snap at each other like this. Let’s just listen to what Emberlyn has to say.”

“You believe her nonsense?” Rosalyn huffed.

“I believe we should give her a chance to speak. If you don’t believe her, that’s fine. We can make that decision when Emberlyn is done.”

Emberlyn heaved a sigh of relief as Rosalyn let out a scoff and perched herself back on the edge of her seat, arms folded.

“Thank you, Aleida,” Emberlyn said. But when Aleida’s eyes met hers, her stomach sank.

Aleida didn’t believe her either.

Emberlyn swallowed and hardened her expression. She couldn’t let this disbelief knock her down. It didn’t matter if none of them believed her yet—they would.

They had to. Which meant she had to change her tactic.

“Look.” She leaned forward. “This is all beside the point. It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me about Étienne. He exists regardless. But you do need to understand this much. I…” She gritted her teeth, the words sticking in her throat. “Malcolm asked me to speak to Gabrielle about joining the Marionettes. I was with her just now. We walked through the theater, she asked me questions, and I tried so hard to do as Malcolm said, but I…I…” Emberlyn took a deep breath. “As I said, our curse has a loophole. We might not be able to say exactly what is going on, but we can do other things, like…like…” Emberlyn glanced about the room, at the Marionettes who were watching her in rapt attention, waiting for her next words. “Like insult them. I told Gabrielle she wasn’t good enough to share a stage with me. I threatened her with ruin if she dared say a word about my insults.”

Emberlyn glanced up at the stunned faces of the Marionettes for only a moment—taking in the way Ida’s expression had drained, her dark-brown skin tight over her cheekbones—before she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Are you insane?” Miriam whispered hoarsely, her face paler than ever.

“I couldn’t allow her to give herself up so easily, not when she still had one foot in her freedom. I couldn’t be a part of that.” Emberlyn shook her head violently in distress. “But I know I put myself at a huge risk. If he does find out what I did, if Gabrielle decides to risk the ruin I threatened her with and tell him, Malcolm might do to me exactly what he did to the Marionettes who came before.”

All Emberlyn could hear was the pounding beat of her heart as her sisters failed to find words. To comprehend what Emberlyn had done. When they didn’t speak, Emberlyn continued.

“Secondly, we know there were other Marionettes before us. Esme was one of them, for heaven’s sake, but she came to New Kora alone. Why? Because those girls were defiant and were destroyed by the same man who created them. Created us.”

From the silence that reigned, Emberlyn knew she had hit the right nerve—struck upon the question they had likely all asked themselves in the dead of a restless night ever since they arrived at this theater. Emberlyn pushed further.

“You all know something is not right. That there’s something that he hasn’t told us. He’s done this before, and he’s more of a monster than any of us ever imagined. He doesn’t just let his curse take us slowly; he physically ripped the lives out of those who came before. And…there’s something else too.”

Emberlyn stood. Seven pairs of haunted eyes traced her movement as she crossed to stand before Aleida, looking down at her with her apology thick in her gaze. Aleida’s eyes widened, realization settling in her expression. She shook her head.

“Ember, no,” she whispered. Emberlyn’s throat caught with grief, but she didn’t give in to the feeling. Now was not the time to sink into her own emotions, to hide herself behind walls to distance herself from pain. She had to fight against it if she was to have the slimmest chance of saving herself. Saving her sisters.

“Please,” Emberlyn answered softly. “Tell them.”

Aleida looked like an animal caught in a trap, and Emberlyn had to fight to keep her guilt at bay. But she knew it was necessary. The others had to know.

“Aleida?” Jia asked. “Tell us what?”

Aleida squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her tightly held expression melted away, and only then did Emberlyn truly realize just how much Aleida had been fighting against her rotting curse, how much effort she had been putting into hiding it from the others. Her body slumped. She seemed to shrink before Emberlyn’s eyes. They watered at the thought of the strength it must have taken Aleida to conceal it so well.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Fine. I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want to worry anyone. But…but…” She looked up at Emberlyn, who gave her a small nod. “The curse has started to rot inside me. I’m next to die.”

The Marionettes all flew to their feet at once. They all began talking, each voice overlapping the last as they crowded around Aleida.

“What?” Rosalyn shrieked as Jia began sobbing.

“How do you know?” Anushka asked, her voice bordering on hysterical.

“I haven’t felt right for a while,” Aleida said, her head hanging. “Weak. Feverish. Chills and body aches. I’m exhausted but I barely sleep, and when I do, I have terrible nightmares that seem so real.”

Aleida shuddered while the others watched her, expressions reminiscent of a funeral procession.

“I have the same symptoms as Heather did. As Esme did.”

The Marionettes all stood in silence, save for the breathless, gasping sobs from Jia. Grace dropped her head into her hands. A grief filled the air, so thick it was suffocating. Emberlyn let it weigh in her throat. She let it crumple her chest, certain her sisters were feeling it fiercely, too—that impossible, crushing grip around their rib cages, their every bone, the sheer weight of all their loss, experienced and to come, shattering their hearts into pieces. Knowing they were finally noticing Aleida’s weak body, her sallow skin, and wondering how they could have possibly missed it. How Aleida had hidden it so well. Emberlyn swallowed, trying to regain a semblance of composure before she spoke again, as clearly as possible.

“We are not far from losing Aleida. Our sister. But I think we still have a small window of time where we might be able to stop this.” She looked around at the Marionettes, her voice fierce and trembling with passion. “And we have to try! I don’t want Aleida’s death on my hands if I can stop it, not when it’s something we could fix if only we were brave enough. Ending Malcolm’s life might be our freedom. I’m not going to lie and say it’s a sure thing—I don’t know if it is. His death might kill us, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s a risk I need all of you to be willing to take.”

Emberlyn began to pace as her sisters’ eyes followed her, not one of them daring to interrupt as Emberlyn’s words sank in. Even Jia had gone silent, leaning into Miriam’s arms.

“You’re talking about murder, Emberlyn,” Rosalyn finally said, the usual bite in her tone flat.

“Yes. I am. But if we don’t do this, then Aleida dies, and we will surely follow. One by one. Nothing will ever change. Malcolm will simply replace us if we cannot survive his curse, like he did with Heather.” She gestured toward Grace, who stood with her arms wrapped around herself as if that could save her. “Like he wants to do with Gabrielle. Like he has with Genevieve and all the other Marionettes whose names we don’t know.”

She stopped pacing. “You may not believe me about everything, but regardless, the cycle will go on and on until somebody has the guts to destroy him. But you all should be able to dictate how you want your lives to go, and if you’re ready to take the risk I’m asking of you, because no matter how desperate I am for this to be over, you all deserve a say in your own fates. But if you don’t, this will never end. This life will be all we know. I beg you to make the brave decision and join me.”

“What is it that you want us to do, exactly? Kill him how?” Miriam asked, almost breathless.

Emberlyn stood in the middle of the dressing room, her eyes tracing the expressions of each trapped girl. “After closing night, before we are due to return to New Kora, one of us will murder him in his bed.” She didn’t dare look at her sisters as she spoke—not yet. “I am happy to do that myself, but I need people in the corridors to lead away anyone who happens to be walking at that time. Some outside his door, and some with me, in his room. Ensuring our plans are successful.”

Their gazes lowered; their mouths pulled into thin, trembling lines. They fixed their stares elsewhere, anywhere that wasn’t Emberlyn. Her stomach plummeted. What felt like an age passed without one of them saying a word. Without one of them daring to look at her as the reality of her plan settled deep in their bones.

“I know. It’s terrible. But it must be done. When he is dead, if we survive, we will move to the next stage of the plan and get his body moved. I know a few places we can easily hide it, and then we can disappear,” she said, thinking of the network of hidden passageways. “Hopefully, everyone will think we simply left without notice, having completed the contract. He did it before, so it’s not a stretch to believe he would do it again. By the time his body is found we will be long gone.”

But the Marionettes were still silent. What was she going to do if they didn’t agree with her? Emberlyn knew she no longer had it in her to make an attempt on Malcolm’s life without the others’ agreement. But nor could she sit back as she lost her best friend to the same curse that writhed through her own body. The thought was unbearable.

“Sisters?” she whispered.

“I’ll join you.”

Emberlyn whirled and stared as Jia, her cheeks tearstained and her dark hair in disarray, tilted her chin up.

“I’ll join you,” she repeated. She swiveled around to address the other Marionettes. “We are cursed, sisters. We are controlled by a venom we cannot rid ourselves of. By a man of pure evil. To believe he’s done this before, that he’s more powerful than we realized, is not even close to the limit of what I believe possible of this world. Not after what I’ve been through—what we’ve all been through.”

She smiled at Emberlyn, who returned it shakily. Gratitude radiated out of her every pore.

“I’m with you, Emberlyn,” Jia said as her voice trembled with passion. “I can’t stand back while we die, over and over again. I’m ready to help you take the risk and kill him.”

“Oh, Jia.” Emberlyn gathered the girl in her arms, holding back the tears that threatened to emerge as Jia’s hair stuck to her already damp cheeks. “Thank you. It’s the right thing. I know you’re frightened, but it’s the right thing.” Jia nodded under Emberlyn’s chin.

Emberlyn pulled away after a moment. She looked around at the others silently and waited. She braced herself. Her stomach twisted as the silence built around her like a tomb, brick by brick.

But then, slowly, the Marionettes began to stand, anger and determination quivering in their raised voices as they roared their agreements. Eyes filled with both anger and hatred traveled the room, finding another gaze to meet, to draw strength from.

“We can’t live like this anymore,” Miriam growled.

Ida bared her teeth. “I want him to suffer like we have.”

Even Rosalyn sighed. “Fine. I think this Étienne boy is complete rubbish still, but…” Her eyes drifted to Aleida. “We can’t just keep dying like this.” She turned back to Emberlyn and gave her a determined nod.

“We might die if we do this,” Anushka said. “But we will anyway. We might as well go out fighting.”

Emberlyn nodded. “We might die, yes,” she said, her voice clear. “But what if we don’t? What if destroying the source of the curse frees us? We can go out into the world and find the lives we’ve always dreamed of.”

The Marionettes’ voices overlapped in agreement.

“Food from every country in the world.” Miriam closed her eyes, her tongue tracing her lips as if she could taste it already.

Rosalyn’s arms wrapped around her torso, her eyes suddenly filling with tears in a rush of emotion at odds with her usual brusqueness. “I might be able to start a family,” she whispered.

“Moscrat.” Anushka grinned. “I could finally move to Moscrat.”

“I want to find my mother,” Grace said tearfully. “I know I could remember her if I just had the chance to go back out into the world.”

Emberlyn’s chest wrenched with a bittersweet pleasure as they voiced their dreams, their passions. Soon the air became thick with their hopes, like the perfume of a field of flowers, their petals turning to the burning sun after a long winter. Hope grew in her chest until she felt like she might burst.

Her eyes fell on Aleida. She sat silently, her dreams trapped behind tightly sealed lips, chin trembling and eyes ringed with darkness. She avoided Emberlyn’s eye as she moved to kneel beside her.

“I’m sorry I’ve been keeping so much from you, Aleida,” she whispered, her sisters too busy dreaming aloud to notice them. “But I need you to trust me now. We can escape, for real this time. Without leaving anyone behind to face the dark alone.”

“I’m scared, Ember.” Aleida’s voice trembled. Emberlyn pulled her into an embrace, feeling the heat of Aleida’s tears spill out onto her own skin. “I’m scared this might be the end. I want to live. I want to go home.”

“If it is the end,” Emberlyn said softly, “we’ll be together. We’ll make sure he can never hurt anyone again.”

Aleida let out a choking noise as she struggled against her sobs, her body rocking in Emberlyn’s grasp.

“Okay,” she said slowly, her voice thick and cracked. “I’m with you, Ember. I’m always with you.”

Emberlyn closed her eyes and pulled her best friend, her sister, in closer. She couldn’t help the small smile blooming on her lips. One of joy and sorrow, of excitement and grief. She leaned her chin against Aleida’s head and took in a deep breath, the warmth of her love for her sisters storming through her stomach.

She opened her eyes again, and they caught on Grace. She had moved to stand separately, her arms still cradling herself as she watched the bustling Marionettes listlessly. As much as it pained her to do so, Emberlyn gently untangled herself from Aleida’s grasp and walked toward her. Grace turned her head at Emberlyn’s approach, but didn’t look at her. Didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you the same chance I gave Gabrielle,” Emberlyn said through a tightening throat, her sorrow making itself endlessly known. “I know I’ve said it before, but I am so sorry.”

The ferocity of Grace’s eyes as they met Emberlyn’s made her take a step back. It was the same look that had been on her face at her audition a lifetime ago. That same fierce, starving girl, ready to get what she wanted. Her voice was full of venom when she spoke.

“I want to be the one to make him suffer at his end.”

Emberlyn smiled.

Twenty-Five

To Dance Again

He came at midnight to take her hand and lead her through the darkness. The phantom guided the Marionette through the darkest recesses of the theater as she revealed her and her sisters’ plans. The smell of dust and smoke, of the absence of light and the chill of air never embraced by the sun, became Emberlyn’s comfort, wrapping around her with all the warmth of a home.

Though there was still so much to risk, Emberlyn found something resembling peace residing in her resolute heart, wandering with this strange boy.

It was nearly the end for all of them. Soon, they would all be free, one way or another. She didn’t know what would come at the point of death—had never really believed in the afterlife. But the cold emptiness of nothing was more appealing than remaining here, with the Puppet Master. Besides, her understanding of the rules of the world had already been so challenged. Some small part of her hoped she could be wrong. That there could be something more, beyond her mortal understanding. A peaceful place among infinity where she could simply rest.

“We’ve decided we can’t risk anything until the day after tomorrow. Closing night.” Emberlyn’s voice pierced the dark. Though she couldn’t see Étienne, she sensed him shift beside her.

He had led her deeper into the theater than ever before. She had blindly followed as he took her to new, secret places within Le Théâtre de Feu. She had learned to trust this creature of darkness. She knew he would not lead her astray and willingly placed her hand in his, longing for the comfort of his touch. And in turn, he held her hand tightly, too, as if he felt the same. As if they were always meant to fit together like that.

They crouched together in a crawl space hidden away at the uppermost reaches of the foyer, peering down at the vast, darkened hall through a small window dusted with cobwebs. The need for sleep rocked behind Emberlyn’s eyelids, her limbs aching. But it was a sweet ache. She didn’t want this night to end. If her freedom was to cost her life, she wanted to capture as many of these moments as possible, drawing them out for safekeeping.

“Is it wise to wait?” Étienne asked, his breath hitching as they looked down at the silent foyer. “Why not just do it tonight? Why not now? Or even tomorrow if you need time to prepare?”

Emberlyn shook her head. “No, I’m not letting my hate cloud my judgment. We need to be sensible. If we wait, we can disappear without much notice. Everyone will think we simply left abruptly after closing night like he did last time. If we leave any earlier, or don’t show up for the last performance that Malcolm has been paid for, we’ll arouse suspicion. Besides, tomorrow, Mademoiselle Fournier is throwing yet another ball to celebrate our success ahead of the finale. The whole of Parlizia will notice if something is wrong.”

Étienne shifted uncomfortably. Emberlyn watched his movement by the weak light trickling into their crawl space. “Oh, wonderful. Another night of laughter and meaningless chatter permeating every corner of this damned theater.” He shook his head, and Emberlyn couldn’t help but smirk at the tone. “What about Gabrielle? She could tell Malcolm at any moment, and then what chance will you have?”

“My hope is she knows how foolish it would be to risk telling anyone what happened, when I’ve threatened to ruin her. Besides, I would suppose if she was going to say anything, she would have already done so. Malcolm hasn’t mentioned anything aside from asking me how the conversation went,” Emberlyn insisted.

They’d covered every aspect of the plan, like who would be where. Who would be doing what. They had of course discussed murdering him sooner and simply leaving his body in plain sight in his bed, feigning ignorance, hysteria even, when they roused the next morning to find their beloved Puppet Master dead. But regardless of their acting skills, Emberlyn was certain they would be subject to a murder investigation. People were less likely to act if they thought him and his troupe simply gone, without scandal. They’d planned this far—it wouldn’t do to risk the lives they’d reclaimed, if they were to survive this, by being locked behind bars.

“And what about Aleida?”

Emberlyn stiffened, her heart instantly hiccuping against her chest. “Aleida isn’t…she’s not well, but she thinks she can make it. She thinks she can hold on for the sake of the others.” Emberlyn hated that this was the case. If she thought they could all get away with it, she would do it tonight, if only to ensure Aleida didn’t run out of time. But a murder investigation and several missing girls would not be easy to cover up.

She couldn’t imagine the level of bravery Aleida mustered to insist on delays for the benefit of her sisters, when it meant so much risk for her.

“Don’t worry, Étienne. We’ve talked this through extensively.”

And they had. Once the decision had been made yesterday evening in the dressing room, her sisters had become more her allies than ever before, the bond between them thick with trust and a determination that seemed to make the very shadows around them shrink away. Emberlyn reveled in the reignited connection, and she thought Aleida did too. When she last saw her this afternoon, she looked as though she had retreated several steps from death’s door, her countenance lighter. It gave Emberlyn a seed of confidence that Aleida was telling the truth—she really would make it to the very end. And the end was nearing.

“If Malcolm finds out what I did, or Aleida’s condition deteriorates and we cannot wait until the end of opening night, we have all agreed that at that point, we will do what we need to regardless of the public consequences,” Emberlyn continued. “It’s worth the risk if all other choice is taken away.”

Grace had swiped some knives from the kitchen and handed them out to the others—Emberlyn included—ready to plunge into Malcolm’s neck. Rosalyn had found a length of rope in a dusty corner of the stage, which she kept tucked into the front of her dress. If Malcolm discovered what one of them was up to, he discovered everything—they had to be ready to hurt him at a second’s notice. If there was even a moment of hesitation on any of their parts, he could thwart them with his curse, halt them in the blink of an eye just like he had with his first Marionettes. They had to be as prepared as possible. And if they couldn’t get away before an investigation began? Well…Emberlyn was ready to take the fall.

“Doing it on closing night removes so many potential complexities, so we must do everything we can to ensure we make it to that point,” she finished. Her words sounded confident, at odds with the rolling in her stomach.

Étienne fell silent for a moment. Emberlyn feared he didn’t intend on speaking again at all, until he finally gave a sigh that whispered through her hair and sent warm pinpricks traveling down her spine.

“Understood. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Emberlyn smiled.

“Wait in the shadows when it happens. Be there for us. But otherwise, no. Let’s stop talking about it now. I don’t want to spend this entire night worrying about it.”

“Agreed. It makes me feel…” He gesticulated with his hand, the outline of him all Emberlyn could see in the dark.

“Horrendous? Awful? Doomed?”

“Something like that.” Étienne chuckled, nudging her with his shoulder in a way that made her heart flip unexpectedly.

He had given her so much. Hope. A chance. An opportunity for more. The fear that had plagued her heart when they first encountered had been long since replaced with appreciation. With awe.

With unbelievable gladness that fate had brought him to her.

She felt a rush of warmth as Étienne gathered her hand in his and tried not to let the sensation touch her heart.

“Come,” he said. “I have something else I want to show you tonight.”

Emberlyn let him lead her—first on her knees as they shuffled out of the crawl space, then through dusty, abandoned corridors, unseen by anything other than things made of shadows, dust unspooling in corners like decaying cotton candy. He led her through hidden passageways, stepping lightly, until they arrived at their destination. He pulled aside one final trapdoor in what appeared to be a long-abandoned attic and helped Emberlyn climb down a rope ladder before he joined her on a suspended wooden platform that swayed underneath their feet.

Emberlyn stepped forward until her hands wrapped around the rope barrier keeping her from a sheer drop and stared at the stage below. They were in the auditorium. The stage was half lit in a low glow of electric light, kept on for the night. The stage itself seemed to yawn, an inky-black hole beneath them, its absence of activity chilling. Emberlyn shuddered as Étienne joined her, vertigo suddenly striking her.

“Whoa, steady.”

Étienne’s hand slipped around her waist and held her firmly against him as the world tilted, the heat of his skin burning through the material of Emberlyn’s bodice. New sensations quickly replaced the spinning world around her: a fluttering heart, a deep warmth that flooded through the pit of her belly, tingling into every bone. She turned her head, and her stomach sank further when she found those warming eyes looking straight back at her, the heat of his breath whispering against her lips.

Her body shivered with delight. Despite the pinpricks clawing their way up her neck, the little voice telling her to turn away, she didn’t. She kept her head tilted toward him, relishing in the delicious taste of that breath on her skin. Without thinking, she licked her lips, wetting them, her eyes on his lips as his top teeth grazed his bottom lip subconsciously.

She did turn away then, her cheeks suddenly flaming. But the warmth of Étienne’s breath on her cheek told her he hadn’t. That he was still looking at her intently, studying the profile of her nose, her jawline, her mouth.

“You stood here,” Emberlyn whispered. To distract herself from his proximity more than anything, though she didn’t fail to notice that he hadn’t removed the arm that encircled her waist, and the thought made her almost giddy with…what was that? Desire? Excitement? She wasn’t certain. Never in her life as a Marionette had a boy touched her this way, or given her the sort of attention that set her heart pounding rather than her temper flaring. Aside from the moment his fingers had brushed tantalizingly along her spine when he had helped her with the ties of her dress, anyway.

If it had been anyone else, Emberlyn was certain, it wouldn’t have had even a fraction of the effect Étienne’s touch did. If it were anyone but him, she knew she would brush them away as a nuisance. But this was different. This was something…more. As if it were always meant to be. As if her connection to his dancing shadow had simply been a preface to what had been waiting for her all along, a hint of the fate that was coaxing her forward. A suggestion of the boy who made her heart calm and her mind feel at home, who was waiting to draw her into the lightless spaces where she belonged, tied together by strings that did not control, but enticed. A string Emberlyn could choose to follow, and did so willingly.

Emberlyn knew she had started to unwind for him, as she was sure he had for her. And that, perhaps, she was helpless to stop this unraveling.

“You watched me dance. I could always tell when you were there. Like we’re tethered together.”

Emberlyn heard the smile in Étienne’s voice as he spoke, low and breathy. Echoing the thought of some unfathomable connection Emberlyn couldn’t help but consider time and time again. “I felt like a terrible phantom every time you caught me. All these years I’ve spent wandering alone, and then you show up…”

Emberlyn couldn’t help the grin that broke out on her lips. She studied the yawning stage, her spinning head now stilled with Étienne’s touch to anchor herself.

“And ruin your mysterious facade?”

“Something like that,” Étienne repeated, and chuckled again. When his laughter faded, they returned to their comfortable silence, a silence that was tinged with something else as she concentrated on that hand resting against her hip bone.

That goddamned hand.

“Do you think you’ll dance again?” Étienne suddenly asked, his voice tingling against Emberlyn’s collarbone, sending a shudder running down her back.

“Hm?” she asked, still distracted by the tightness of his half embrace.

“If you survive. Will you dance again?”

Emberlyn all but recoiled, and her stomach lurched. She stared down at the stage, worrying at her lip with her teeth.

“I…I haven’t thought much about what I’ll do after, except get as far away as possible. I’ve been so focused on just escaping that I haven’t thought about what might happen if we do succeed. I don’t even know how long my sisters will stick together, if at all.” She hadn’t considered that until the words slipped out, and a miserable throb in her chest accompanied it. “I guess I just imagine myself exploring, seeing the world and trying anything Malcolm never gave me a chance to do. Swimming in the ocean. Standing in a snowfall for no other reason than to taste the snowflakes. Riding a train heading somewhere I’ve chosen to go. But dancing?”

Emberlyn shook her head. It had been so long since dancing had been hers. Since she had stepped willingly out onto a stage. She wasn’t even sure if the joy that had once coursed through her as she twirled and spun for no one but herself would be there anymore. She didn’t know if the passion that had once set her soul alight would now throw out so much as an ember. Her heart was too hardened. Too cold to ever melt. Heading back to the stage of her own free will might be like realizing a best friend had become a stranger, too painful to ever look upon, let alone embrace of her own volition.

“I don’t think I will,” she finally admitted. She felt Étienne move, his fingers on her bodice shifting ever so slightly.

“You won’t?” he asked, voice full of surprise. “But isn’t that everything you ever wanted—to dance as yourself again?”

Emberlyn smiled sadly. Though most of her memories of her life before Malcolm had been bleached away, she could recall memories of the stage, even if they were surrounded by a thick, whispering fog that threatened to consume them completely if she stopped fighting to keep them alive. The first time she watched a show. The first time she stood upon the stage, looking out at what seemed like an endless audience and the shivers in her heart that came with it. She felt that joy in its purest form before it was poisoned.

“I don’t think it will ever be the same,” she replied, her voice heavy. “I think all love for it was stolen long ago.”

Étienne didn’t answer and only shifted from foot to foot. Emberlyn’s words weighed heavily between them, as if wrapping them both in a thick cloak neither tried to shrug off. They simply accepted the weight and stared down at the empty auditorium, as the platform they stood upon gently swayed.

“I don’t know if I’d even remember how. I’ve forgotten so much,” Emberlyn finally whispered, grief clawing up her throat. She tilted her head to look down at her wrist. Alone, with Étienne in the darkest hidden parts of the theater, she felt safe to slip her Florisa bracelet on again. Étienne watched as Emberlyn rubbed her thumb over it. “I remember so little. Like if I was even any good in the first place. I just…I just don’t remember that part of me. I remember how much I loved it but not…not my place within it. Not what I could do or even what my talents were.”

“Tell me about your bracelet,” he said softly as he watched her play with it. Emberlyn swallowed.

“I don’t know much about it. Only it has a name etched on the inside, Florisa. I don’t know who it is, who they were to me. But I suppose it was someone I once loved, if I took it with me when I joined Malcolm’s troupe.” Emberlyn sighed. “I hope one day I can find out who they are.”

“I do too.” Étienne’s hand squeezed where it rested on her hip, sending fire racing through her body, so at odds with the sadness rocking in her chest. “And of course you were good, Emberlyn. The fact that Malcolm was so interested in you proves that, even if you can’t remember it.”

Emberlyn cringed. “I suppose.”

“If you wanted to dance when you’re free, I think you could. You’d take the world by storm; I’m sure of it.” He whispered something else in his own language.

Emberlyn couldn’t help the smile that rose to her lips unbidden.

“You’re right. I am incredible.”

Étienne let out a laugh that widened Emberlyn’s smile.

“You understood that, then?” he asked.

“I seem to be picking up my favorite words, here and there.” She nudged him teasingly.

“So what else would you like to do for work?” Étienne asked when his laughter had faded.

Emberlyn shook her head. “God knows. There’s so much opportunity out there. So many paths to follow. Perhaps…I don’t know, work with animals? Jia is always talking about running a dog sanctuary. Perhaps I could do something similar.”

“I could see you as a goat herder.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help the atrocious snort that burst out of her chest at Étienne’s words. “Goat herder? I’m sorry? Do I look like a goat herder?”

Étienne’s cheeky grin beamed out of the dark at her.

“I just mean something outdoors. Somewhere where you can breathe in the fresh air of the mountains day in, day out. No more dusty corridors for you, if you don’t want them. Only falling snow and spring water, a wild wind to whip through your hair. A fireplace to sit and sip your tea beside after a hard day’s work.”

Emberlyn cocked her head. “Actually, that sounds wonderful.”

Her breath stilted when Étienne’s hand came up to touch her cheek, her every thought fleeing her mind at the sensation. She didn’t dare turn to look at him, her stomach tight at the thought of what she might find.

“I see you somewhere exquisite, limned in sunlight,” he said, his voice low and enticing. “Happy and carefree, with only the schedule of the sunset and sunrise to command you and an entire wide world to play in. You deserve that.”

Emberlyn swallowed, fighting the sudden urge to cry that pressed against her eyelids. Never could she have imagined such beautiful things for herself. And here Étienne was, ensuring that hope took root in her heart while gazing at her like she was a wonder, and he a witness bowled over by her mere existence.

“What about you?” Emberlyn managed to croak out.

“Hm?” Étienne asked, and when Emberlyn turned to look at him, she realized with a tightening throat that he had been busy examining her smile, his fingers still tentatively brushing the curve of her cheek.

“Would you dance again if you could?”

He shrugged, slowly lowering his hand, much to Emberlyn’s disappointment. “I don’t know. I do understand what you mean, though. Sometimes it feels like…too long since I have been free. So much has changed in the past few years. I’ve changed.”

They lapsed into silence, lost in their own thoughts, their bodies somehow both comfortable yet stiff beside each other. After what seemed like an eternity, Étienne slid his other hand down from her waist and reached for her palm, squeezing it gently. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back. It’s late.”

Their hands locked, and together, they returned to the living world. The Marionette and the creature of dust and smoke. He led her to the sliding mirror of her room. The moonlight pierced through her window while he kept to the darkness, waiting as Emberlyn stepped back into her room.

“Emberlyn,” he said. She turned to face him, the sheen in her eyes plain by the silvery glow of the light. “Tomorrow, at the ball, leave when the clock strikes nine. Come to your room. I want to take you somewhere.”

Emberlyn’s heart clenched. She nodded.

“I will,” she said, and watched the mirror slide closed with the strange feeling that everything had changed.

That where before she had been unraveling, now she had unraveled completely.

Twenty-Six

One Perfect Moment

For the first time as a Marionette, Emberlyn didn’t feel suffocated by the glitz and noise of a ball. Hundreds of finely dressed social elite clutched elegant champagne flutes, bubbles resting in their tinkling laughter. The smell of roasted meat danced among the clouds of perfume, tangoing with the scent of fresh pine from the Noeltide trees that reached for the ceiling. The decorations threw out shattered light from the chandeliers, lighting every corner, dispelling every shadow.

Emberlyn saw it all like glimpses of a scene suspended in droplets of water. She didn’t wish every second away like she normally did. Instead, she savored them.

She savored every plucked powdered pastry and sweet treat in delicate paper wrappers pinched from a table fit to bursting—Malcolm wouldn’t dare snatch them out her hand in front of so many. She watched her sisters dance with suitors whose open admiration flickered like fire in their eyes. She walked through the crowd in a gown of ice blue, as delicate and fearsome as a speared icicle defying the winter sun.

When she spotted Malcolm, his cheeks red from overdrinking and his balance unsteady as he twirled a woman across the dance floor, she felt no anger. A silent peace settled into her heart as she stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched him stumble over women’s skirts.

This ball was to be his last. His last night of dancing, of merrymaking, of flinging himself wildly into the arms of women hoping to be the next object of his attention. Though there was still so far to go, there were still so many risks to take, so many unknown factors that could rip their plans apart, in that moment, Emberlyn was sure. Tomorrow, he would die. Their plan would work.

It had to.

She sipped her champagne and closed her eyes as the fizz prickled against her tongue, lighting a fire in her belly. Her limbs relaxed, and she sank into the music as she would a cloud.

Emberlyn had listened to the songs from the moment the orchestra had kicked into the swell of their first piece, as she browsed the cocoa-powder-dusted chocolates, her fingers twirling over them. When the clock struck nine, her heart twinged. She licked the sugar from her fingers and turned, making for the double doors of gold and frosted glass, and left the laughter of the ball behind her. It was time to be whisked away into the night. Into the shadows, where she felt the most comfortable. The safest.

She didn’t even ask Malcolm’s permission to leave this time.

She made for her room, humming as she went. Her body felt as light as the bubbles inside her belly, and a smile grew on her face as she thought of Étienne waiting for her. She opened the door of her room and, once inside, leaned back against it as a content sigh escaped her lips.

Something pale resting on her pillow caught Emberlyn’s eye. A note, tied with string to the stem of a white rose.

She gathered the note and the rose gently in her hands. The note shimmered slightly, the card thick and expensive. She squinted as she read the words written in an elegant black-ink scrawl.

Follow the rose petals. É.

Emberlyn clutched it to her chest for a moment before she cast her gaze around the floor. Finding nothing, she let herself back out into the corridor and stared deeper into the darkness.

A white rose petal lay crumpled on the floor, as if it had simply been trodden on by the heel of someone’s shoe. Completely inconspicuous if you weren’t looking for it.

Emberlyn moved toward it, smiling when she noticed another in the distance, and then another. She followed the delicate trail until she came across a wrought iron staircase, the petals leading up to a door she hadn’t noticed before. She climbed, pushing into an unfamiliar corridor.

The final petal awaited her just before a closed door at the very top of another staircase. Emberlyn paused to catch her breath, her thighs aching with the strain of climbing so high.

Once she was ready, she straightened and opened the door, stepping into the thick of night.

Emberlyn gasped as she found herself on the rooftop of Le Théâtre de Feu. The sky was oddly lit in a glum pink as snowflakes scattered heavily about her, the moon and its piercing light completely swallowed by swollen snow clouds. An icy wind nipped at her cheeks and brought blood rushing to the surface. The toes of her shoes buried themselves in the thick layer of snow already laid.

“You made it.” Emberlyn’s heart fluttered at the sound of his voice. She turned and grinned when she found him standing on the ledge of the roof. His smile seemed to light up the world. The needlelike Fiera Tower loomed behind him like a silent monster emerging from a foggy ocean.

He twirled a white rose in his hands, his face illuminated by the bright snow, solid without the direct light. She’d never seen him so clearly, and the sight of him made her breath catch. His gaze never left her face, tracing over her lips like the touch of a thumb brushing against them. Emberlyn laughed, taking her by surprise. She had forgotten what it sounded like.

“Where on earth did you get those roses?”

Étienne’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he raised the one in his hand to his nose. “Let’s just say Mademoiselle Fournier is surprised to find the bouquet of her favorite flowers seemingly shrinking on occasion.”

Emberlyn laughed again and stepped through the snow, her ice-blue ball gown trailing behind her. Snowflakes clung to her lashes, and the cold pinched at her cheeks. Étienne held out his hand and helped Emberlyn onto the ledge beside him. She stood at the top of the world, on the edge of Parlizia, as it was slowly buried in white.

Étienne wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her steady, the touch making her chest seize, warmth fizzling through her belly. The front of her shoes hung over the street far below. The icy wind whipped through her hair and left her breathless. She gripped the head of a gargoyle for more balance, the frosted stone instantly numbing her hand. But she was too busy staring at the glistening, pearl-white streets of Parlizia to notice.

Electric light and flickering candles in windows dotted the farthest reaches of the shadowy buildings. The faint shiver of music from the ball far below them floated through the night. A lullaby to sing the city to sleep.

Shadowed couples strolled hand in hand, laughing, moving through the snowfall like wraiths. In a distant building, a young woman brushed her hair by candlelight, and then someone appeared from behind to kiss her on the top of her head.

“Wow,” Emberlyn breathed, her voice forming a thick fog about her head. “It’s beautiful.”

Étienne’s arms around her tightened, his chin nestling into the space between her collarbone and neck. His warm breath tickled in a way that made Emberlyn barely suppress a shudder. A shudder she lost the fight against when his fingertips brushed up the nape of her neck, circling her ear as he tucked the rose he held into her hair.

“I wanted you to see this,” he said. “I come up here when the moon is hidden and I’m wrapped in my self-pity.”

Emberlyn snorted, and he jostled her with a matching laugh.

“I like to remind myself just how endless this city is. How big the world is beyond it. I’m such a small piece of the puzzle.” Étienne took a deep breath. “I find it comforting, actually. To know that the world will keep turning when I’m gone. That somehow, someway, everything will be all right in the end, even if I’m not there to see it. Everyone and everything has a story to live through. I’m thankful I lived a story at all.”

His words made a strange weight settle in her stomach. The sense of endless finality. Of something incomprehensible that felt profound and everlasting.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’m glad I met you in what might be the final chapters.”

Emberlyn’s heart twisted as Étienne’s arms loosened and he turned her to face him. Their breaths entwined and danced away into the air together as Emberlyn stared into his molten eyes. A single dark curl rested on the bridge of his nose. She reached up to brush it aside.

“It might not be,” she said hoarsely.

“Will you dance with me, Emberlyn?” His question was a breath against her cheek.

“What?” Her stomach plummeted in slow motion.

“Dance with me.” Étienne’s mouth drew up into a half smile as the notes of the ball beneath them spilled into the biting air. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me last night. That all your love for dancing has been stolen. Lost, because of him.” He spat the last word and shook his head. He dropped his gaze and toyed with her hand. “Dancing is what you were born to do. It’s what you built your dreams on before the choice was taken from you. Like me, it’s just who you are, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you.”

Emberlyn opened her mouth to respond, but he interjected. “We don’t know what will happen after closing night. If any of us will survive to see the next sunrise, though God—I hope you do. But, before then, just in case, I…I want to…You should get to dance one last time, if you want to. As you. As Emberlyn—not as somebody’s Marionette.”

Emberlyn swallowed down the thick lump that rose in her throat as snowflakes continued to fall. Her limbs suddenly felt weak, as if she had downed another glass of champagne. A longing she recognized but had pushed far, far below her surface swelled in between her breathless gasps as the cold stole away her voice.

“I don’t know if I remember how,” she finally admitted, her voice small. After all, Malcolm had been the one directing her every movement. Étienne took a step away from her. He carefully balanced on the ledge with a refined grace, with the sheer drop to the snowy street on one side. He stood, perfectly poised, a dancer waiting to begin his showcase. The thick clouds sat heavy and gray behind him.

“You’ll feel it in your bones,” he whispered. He held his hand out. “It’s in you. It always has been.”

Emberlyn hesitated. Her nervous gaze locked on to his offered hand. His soft gaze didn’t leave her. Trembling from both the cold and anxiety, she stepped toward Étienne and took it.

The Marionette and the boy of dust and smoke danced on the ledge, gentle footsteps marked in the snow as they entwined, parted, bent. Emberlyn barely felt the cold as she was consumed by a pure bliss, pirouetting with her hand held tightly in Étienne’s. The swell of the orchestra beneath their feet filled the air in a beautiful symphony as if written just for them.

The memory of dancing with Étienne’s shadow was swallowed in the unbridled joy of being held in the real Étienne’s solid arms.

Her body was hers once more. Every single step—chosen, wanted, deliberate. She climbed heights with Étienne she hadn’t crested in years. Her heart unlocked, and despite the cold on her skin, the ice inside her melted into a roaring, endless ocean. Unstoppable and loud and a force to be reckoned with.

She became Emberlyn again.

When the song murmured to a close, Étienne stepped back and bowed low, his cloak dusting the snow gathered on the ledge they stood upon. Emberlyn, her cheeks ruddy from the thrill, dipped into a curtsy.

“See?” Étienne said softly, breaking the muffled silence of this snowy world. “You never truly lost yourself. Malcolm will never be able to take that part away from you.”

Emberlyn nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. But then she noticed another rose tucked into his buttonhole. Her mind changed pace as a memory buried by the disarray of her days returned, her forehead creasing as the wind picked up around them, the cold of the night barely grazing the heat of elation that warmed her skin.

“Étienne,” she said quietly. “I have to ask. That flower. Was it you who left one on my bed that night…the night…”

Emberlyn couldn’t finish her sentence, but she didn’t need to. Étienne knew exactly what she was trying to say. His smile vanished, and he nodded.

“I know what that vile man did to you. I was following him that night, and by the time I got to the mirror in your room—” His hands curled into fists as he closed his eyes. When they opened again, Emberlyn nearly gasped from the rage that stirred within. The despair. “He had just left, and you were so…so crumpled. Just lying there, awake and waiting to heal.” He relaxed his fingers and took up one of her hands. “Eventually you fell asleep, though, so yes, I carried you back to your bed and cooled your forehead. When you woke up later and started wandering the halls, you came so close to catching me then.”

“Why didn’t you let me?” she whispered.

“I didn’t want to frighten you. You’d been through enough that night, so I left the flower on your pillow to tell you that you aren’t alone. That you had someone at your side, even if you couldn’t see them.”

A small, hot tear finally slipped down Emberlyn’s cheek. Étienne stepped forward. He held Emberlyn’s face in his hand, his thumb, firm yet soft, running over her cheekbone. Suddenly, he chuckled.

“You were so insistent on hunting me down that night. Though I suppose it was my fault, for getting so close to you.” His face split into a wide, beaming grin. “I couldn’t help it; I wanted to get close. I would say I was a fool, but in the end, I’m glad you cornered me in the prop cellar, brandishing that candlestick like a woman unhinged.”

Emberlyn couldn’t help but tip her head back and laugh. Étienne’s eyes lit up with the sound.

“I thought you were intolerable,” she admitted.

“And I thought you were insufferable,” Étienne retorted, his voice low.

She stared up into his burning gaze, her heart thundering against her ribs. The smell—his smell—of dust and smoke, curled gently around them.

His smile faded, and Emberlyn’s did, too, a ghost to mimic the expression on Étienne’s face. His molten eyes were now positively glowing, roving slowly over Emberlyn’s neck, her mouth. She could feel where they touched her like a physical sensation, her skin prickling and shivering with delight wherever they grazed her. And God, she wanted him to touch her. Truly touch her.

It was as though he could read the desire in her eyes. Read it, and understand it.

His lips brushed against hers in that same moment. The answer to the question she left unspoken between them. Shy at first, then crushing. Desperate. The hand cradling her face tightened as the other lifted to clasp her nape.

Emberlyn sighed against his mouth as her heart shuddered, rising inside her chest to meet his. His hand slid from her cheek, down her throat, wrapping around her. He pulled her in closer, erasing any illusions of space that still existed between them.

It still wasn’t enough for Emberlyn. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in tight and keeping his mouth on hers. His chest pressed against her, his warmth impossible and tantalizing as it seeped through her thin bodice. She feared she would melt against him like a snowflake disappearing under a spring thaw, but Emberlyn welcomed that thought if it meant—

Étienne wrenched away, staggering back.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered breathlessly. “I…I couldn’t help myself.”

Fire flared in the pit of Emberlyn’s belly. “I still can’t help myself,” she said hoarsely, and closed the distance between them in two quick steps.

Where before there was fire, now there was an inferno. Dust and flame entwining to extinguish each other, breathe fresh life into the other. They pulled each other closer, their mouths moving, tasting, until they knew each other by the shape of their lips. Their hands searched, hungry, finding hard muscle and damned knotted bodice strings that ached to be undone and sending a shudder running down Emberlyn’s spine at the thought of what could be.

Finally, they broke away. Emberlyn wasn’t sure who moved first, but they didn’t go far. Étienne pressed his forehead against hers as their chests heaved in breathless gasps. They drank in the real world once more after what felt like an age spent among one of their own making.

Emberlyn shook her head, her lips moving, but her voice had vanished. The pair simply stared at each other, suddenly shy, as they slowly untangled.

She cleared her throat, shaking her head to try to dispel the memory and grabbed for something to say, something to distract herself from the way he was looking at her. Anything to distract herself from the memory of his warm lips against hers, the fingers playing on the ties of her bodice only moments ago. Unbidden, her mind flashed back to the time Étienne had pulled her through the wardrobe, how she had demanded he undo her dress so she could breathe. How, recently, his fingers had lingered against her skin in breathless brushes when he had helped her tie her Faust costume. Her cheeks reddened further at the thought of the lost opportunities.

Étienne watched her lips like he wanted to drink her in.

“You said you were following him that night,” she finally managed. “Why?”

His expression darkened so intensely, she wished she could take the question back. Just as she thought he wasn’t going to respond at all, he took a deep breath.

“I was going to kill him,” he answered, elongating the space between them as he spoke as if that could help distance him from his words. The feel of his lips on hers was starting to fade. “I was going to set his room on fire and lock the door, so he would suffer as I had.”

His eyes dropped as he spoke, as his hand reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a box of matches and began turning it over in his hands. He looked up again, a different sort of ferocity staring back at Emberlyn as he turned the box again and again. “I hadn’t seen any of the Marionettes yet. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see whose lives I was risking. But then I saw you and…and…I just couldn’t do it. You were…you were someone real. I couldn’t hurt you to satisfy my own desire to escape this existence.” Emberlyn stepped toward him but paused when Étienne stepped back, his chin dipped in shame. “So instead, I simply watched you, trying to work out what to do, if I should speak to you.” He shook his head. “But as I said, you cornered me and the rest is history.”

Emberlyn smiled mournfully. He had held himself back from killing Malcolm, knowing something could happen to her, to her sisters. After years of existing as no more than a creature of shadows—alone, wandering—he had sacrificed his own desire to give her and her sisters a chance to have a say in their own fate.

The melody from the ball spilled out into the streets once more, filling the air around them. Emberlyn met Étienne’s glimmering eyes through the snowfall as he pocketed his matches and extended his hand to her.

“Shall we, mademoiselle?” he asked. She took it, without fear this time. She felt the heat from his body as he gathered her into him again, both hands clutched tightly as they began to sway to the melancholy tune. Emberlyn didn’t look away from him for a moment and hoped that they would never be torn apart.

Where would he go, at the end of it all? Would he continue on with his life as if it had never paused, or forge a new one? Could she persuade him to go with her, wherever she set her sights? Or was that a baseless dream borne of her hopeless belief that this connection, this…shared fate, meant more than it really did?

Or perhaps, when it was over, they could reignite their sleeping dreams together?

“What will you do?” she whispered as the night grew heavier around them. “When you are free?”

Étienne frowned down at her as if he didn’t understand the question.

“Where will you go?” Emberlyn tried again.

He did drop his gaze then, his shoulders drooping in a sigh. “Emberlyn…”

“You could come with me?” she offered, a thrill twisting in her stomach as she said the words, wrestling with the hope that sparked in her heart. But grief began to swim in Étienne’s eyes.

“No,” she muttered. “Don’t say it. Please don’t.”

“Believe me, Emberlyn, I wouldn’t say no to that. Really. But I…I don’t expect to survive this. Malcolm…my body…Before you told me about the shadow—my shadow—the only thing I hoped for upon his death was release. Unless I somehow retrieve my shadow, I don’t know how I can exist. I honestly don’t know what will happen next.” Emberlyn’s chest tightened to breaking point as Étienne shook his head again. “But I’m ready for that, if that’s what is to happen.”

“But…” Emberlyn started slowly. “What if? What if you do survive?”

Étienne peered down at her curiously. Emberlyn had never been one for optimism; that much was clear. But in this moment, optimism was all she could bear to nurture. The helpless hoping that everything would turn out just as they desired.

Étienne brought Emberlyn’s hand up to rest on his heart, tipping his head in closer as he did so. Emberlyn brought her face up to meet his, closing her eyes as he gently placed a kiss on the tip of her nose, smiling at the feeling of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

“Then of course, I will go with you,” he murmured as he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I don’t think it’s worth pretending I’m anything but all yours, Emberlyn. From the moment I saw you, you captured me entirely. So whether you choose to return to the stage or we make for the mountains like we talked about, I will be beside you, always. If you’ll have me.”

Emberlyn smiled as a tear broke free. “I’m all yours, too, Étienne,” she said into the hollow of his neck. “Of course I’ll have you.”

His hand curled tighter around her palm, the beat of his heart beneath the pressure skipping for a moment as Emberlyn spoke. She felt his lips grow into a smile against her forehead and knew he was glowing just as she was. That they were both burning with a hope so hot, it could melt the very city around them.

“But for now, this is enough. You are enough. Dancing here because we want to. Because we can. Just one more perfect moment.”

Emberlyn nodded, swallowing away the tightness in her throat, tears burning in her eyes. She leaned her head against his chest as his arms surrounded her. She listened to the pulse of his beating, alive heart and breathed in his scent of shadows and darkness.

The pulse was so strong. He was strong. How could he do anything but survive Malcolm’s curse? Emberlyn knew she shouldn’t entertain the idea, that there were already too many maybes and what-ifs that she couldn’t possibly foresee the answers to—her own life, her own freedom, still danced on a knife’s edge, after all—but she let her mind wander.

She let herself imagine Étienne’s shadow stitching itself back together with his bodily counterpart, making him whole again. No longer would he need to be a thing of darkness and shadows.

Étienne could live.

They could leave this city behind for the mountains together, damn it. Or perhaps stay, make their mark on it, conquer it, not let what happened here crush their hearts any longer by owning Parlizia. She might not feel like she had to run away anymore. She could own the monster that plagued her heart rather than trying to outrun it.

Days feasting on delicacies in patisseries, wandering the streets hand in hand at nighttime with starlight watching their every footstep, because they could, not because they had to.

She hadn’t known him long, the real Étienne who swayed with her to the dewdrops of song coming from the ballroom. But it felt like an entire lifetime. Two creatures of darkness and anger, sewing back together the tears in their hearts the world had ripped through them, pulled together by the invisible strings of fate like they were always meant to meet. Like they were always meant to collide.

She knew everything she needed to know about him, and somehow nothing at all, delicious secrets and quirks she could unravel over the years. The potential of all they could have, all they could explore, making her heart sing with desire. With pure, unbridled want.

If only he survived this.

If only they both survived this.

Emberlyn cast her gaze over the rooftops of Parlizia once more, the melody shaking, skimming, dancing through the snowflakes.

She would be ready. Whatever was coming, she, her sisters, Étienne…they would all be ready for it.

She closed her eyes and let herself dance.

Twenty-Seven

The Puppet Master

He kept to the shadows of the secret passageway as they said their goodbyes. Before the mirror slid shut, they stared at each other intently, grief and bliss and peace passing between their expressions in one somersault. Then Emberlyn was alone with only her reflection and a feeling she couldn’t quite pick apart aching in her chest.

Her pale blue gown was drenched through at the bottom, her hair dampened with snow and twisting into uncontrolled tails. Her cheeks were flushed red, her lips numb, throbbing from the ghost of Étienne’s passionate kiss. She lifted her ice-cold fingers to touch them, felt them shape a smile. Her fingertips shook.

She had wholly, and totally, fallen in love with Étienne. She felt the truth of it deep in her bones. Heard it whispered in every beat of her heart, every shock of nerves or hope that sliced her belly like a knife. Her smile turned into a grin she couldn’t hold back, and as she looked at her reflection, Emberlyn thought she had never looked so alive. So happy.

But then, her eye caught on something else in the mirror. Emberlyn dropped her hand as her heart flew to her mouth, her happiness plummeting all at once as she spun on her heel.

A hurricane had torn through her room. Her bedsheets had been pulled apart and tossed to the floor, the drawer of her nightstand pulled out and the items inside smashed against the wall. The bedroom door yawned open, the corridor beyond flickering with only a feeble light to fend off the dark. Adrenaline danced alongside the curse in her veins. Only one thought entered her mind, chasing away all others.

Malcolm. His bitter cologne still lingered.

Emberlyn stepped forward, a hiss of shock ripping from her throat when glass crunched under her foot, shattering the quiet. Malcolm had been looking for her. Hesitantly, she stepped into the corridor, her head whipping in both directions.

But he was not lurking outside her room, ready to grab her. The corridor was empty.

Her sisters. She needed to find them. If Malcolm was looking for her, Gabrielle must have told him what Emberlyn did.

She cursed out loud. It had been so much to risk, such a delicate part of their plan to hope that Gabrielle would stay quiet, but they hadn’t had a choice. Emberlyn had been certain she would, that she would fear the fury in Emberlyn’s gaze, but it hadn’t been enough. Gabrielle had still gone to him.

She had to warn the Marionettes. If Malcolm knew what Emberlyn had done, how she had frightened Gabrielle and manipulated a loophole, they would have to throw their plans out and kill him. Now, before he could get to Emberlyn.

Their time had run out.

She took off at a jog, rushing headfirst into the darkness as her heels echoed against the flagstone floor, her damp gown whipping out behind her.

Please, she thought in between her battered breaths, let me get to them first. Please let this all be all right.

The music from the ball had stopped long ago, so she raced toward the Marionettes’ dormitory first and slammed through the door without knocking.

“Sisters, Malcolm—” She cut herself short when she took in the rows of empty beds, each neatly made and not touched since that morning. Their belongings were folded and tucked away, with no sign of the storm that had ripped through her own room.

Relief coursed through Emberlyn, though it was quickly replaced with a fresh wave of intense fear. Malcolm may not have torn through their room in fury, looking for Emberlyn, but where were they? Where was he?

She ran again, her mind racing just as fast as she entered the foyer of Le Théâtre de Feu. The vast hall was empty, corners bathed in shadows and the last notes of the ball haunting the air like ghosts who couldn’t move on. The doors were locked tight against the raging snowstorm outside.

Emberlyn sprinted across the foyer toward the ballroom, no longer caring about stealth or measured behavior. She just moved as fast as her legs could carry her, searching for her sisters, gasping for breath as her lungs squeezed.

The ballroom was empty. She expected as much, but the panic in her heart had carried her there first, just in case. The auditorium, too, loomed large and abandoned, the stage empty and shivering with dust. She turned from the doorway, chest aching, panic bubbling up her throat, mind spinning so fast she staggered as she went. She was running out of places to search.

“Please,” she begged the emptiness, though she knew she would not be answered. She slowed to a stop outside the Marionettes’ dressing room. She stared at the door handle as her heart thundered through the very marrow of her bones.

Her sisters were inside. She could feel it. She knew it. But something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Like an electric tension, a string pulled taut, a held breath. She stood with her panic settling inside her like heavy rocks. With a steadying breath, she worked the handle. She swung the door open.

Her stomach plummeted when she saw what was waiting for her, reflected endlessly in the room full of mirrors.

“Ah, finally.” Malcolm’s slow drawl greeted her ears, her body shrinking in on itself when the infinite weight of pure fury trained on to her. “I was starting to wonder when you’d come for them. We can begin now.”

Twenty-Eight

The Untangling

Emberlyn’s eyes flicked away from Malcolm and landed on her sisters. Seven terror-filled faces were turned toward her, their shoulders hunched but with no noticeable wounds. The dressing-table chairs had been pushed aside, and they huddled in a group on the floor, leaning away from Malcolm. Makeup and tears streaked down their cheeks, black kohl and rosy rouge. She heard breathless gasps, as if they were trying not to cry. Malcolm loomed over them, gesturing toward Emberlyn.

“Close the door behind you,” he said, “and join the others on the floor.”

Emberlyn, too stunned to do anything else, obeyed. As she crossed the room, so did the many reflections of herself. The mirror directly ahead revealed her empty expression. Concealed. She’d grown so used to hiding her emotions from Malcolm that even now there was little of her true self on display.

Emberlyn cringed as she passed Malcolm and the scent of wine hit the back of her throat. She lowered herself beside Aleida. The moment her legs were curled up underneath her, the scent of her sisters’ sweet perfumes—spritzed remnants of the ball—replaced the smell of Malcolm’s sour breath. Aleida grasped Emberlyn’s hand. Heart thundering against her ribs, she squeezed back and watched Malcolm wearily.

“Something extraordinarily interesting was said to me this evening.” Despite the cheeriness of his voice, Emberlyn recognized the hints of malice underneath. Indeed, the glint in his eyes showed he was barely containing his anger. She squeezed Aleida’s hand tighter. “It would seem that young Gabrielle Marseille is no longer interested in joining the Marionettes.”

No, was all Emberlyn could think as the world turned cold. She chanced a glance at Aleida, but she, like the other girls, stared at Malcolm with thinly veiled terror.

“I paid her a visit seeing as I had not yet had an answer,” he continued, that dark undertone strengthening as his voice lowered. “And she refused me. Nobody has ever refused me.”

Emberlyn’s only reaction was a quick blink. So Gabrielle had not gone to Malcolm to complain. Malcolm had gone after her. The thought made her feel sick.

Malcolm stopped pacing then, and his eyes locked onto Emberlyn’s. A chill swept through her at the expression on his face, and her sisters shuffled closer, as if there were any hope in saving Emberlyn from his fury.

Emberlyn had left her knife behind. Left herself completely defenseless. She, foolishly, had meant to collect it after her time with Étienne. She’d believed that for a few blissful hours, it wouldn’t need to rest within the folds of her dress, ready to be pulled out at a moment’s notice. She had left it hidden in her room, and by Malcolm’s careful speech, she imagined it had somehow evaded his notice when he’d torn through it. She could only hope, as she kept her expression blank, that one of her sisters hadn’t been as idiotic as she had and still carried the weapons they had collected since their conversation in the dressing room.

“I know you did something to turn her away, Emberlyn,” he said calmly. She wished he would yell. It would make it easier to defy him. “To be honest, I rather expected you wouldn’t sell the troupe to her like I asked.” He took a quick step forward, and the girls all flinched. “But imagine my surprise when I learned you not only failed me, but you somehow managed to share enough that it has put her off completely.”

Panic broke through the carefully arranged expression on Emberlyn’s face. No matter what their previous plans had been, it had to end tonight. If one of the Marionettes didn’t get to him first, she wouldn’t survive the night. By the look in his eye, she was certain.

“But that’s not all.” Malcolm paced, the brief relief of the broken eye contact almost enough to make Emberlyn slump against Aleida. But she stayed sitting upright, back straight, ignoring the shuddering curse inside her rapidly pumping blood. A quick glance at her sisters coaxed a sweet sting of relief—she saw hands poised, ready to grab for their concealed weapons should Malcolm move to attack Emberlyn.

“When I could not find you, dearest Emberlyn, I paid a visit to the others. And what should I find but a knife, lying out on one of their beds? And seven girls rushing to conceal it?” he said, his gaze unfocused as if thinking hard.

No. Emberlyn’s hands started to shake. Please, no. She glanced at her sisters and caught Miriam’s mortified gaze. She must have left the knife out while undressing.

“So I went back to your room, Emberlyn, and tore it apart.” He gestured with his head to something by his feet, something Emberlyn hadn’t noticed before. She felt his sharp gaze on her as he watched the realization, the horror take over her expression. Her body went almost limp at the sight of her knife and the pipe she had taken so long ago from the prop cellar resting against his expensive shoes. Emberlyn was wrong—he had found her secrets. How could she have been so foolish?

“Something tells me, however, that there is more for me to worry about than just the two of you concealing weapons.” Malcolm stopped and faced the huddled Marionettes. “I have a feeling, in fact, that it is most, if not all of you, doing the same. I’m not an old man, exactly, but I’ve lived long enough to know that resistance is an ugly thing. It breeds. It festers if left alone. It’s something I’ve lived time and time again. Ignorant young women who can’t tell when the world is being handed to them on a platter. And when one has the courage to step out of line, typically, the others all follow suit, as if these half-witted women truly believe there is safety to be had in numbers.

“Tell me. Am I right?” He scanned their faces, watching as eyes darted away, as heads bowed. “Well?” he snapped, making them jump. He stepped closer, his nose wrinkling in a snarl. “Am I right?”

His words met a thick silence, heavy with fear.

Malcolm tilted his head. “How disappointing.” His gaze trained on Aleida.

She lurched to her feet with a gasp of surprise. Emberlyn jumped as Aleida’s hand was torn from hers. She watched with wide eyes as Aleida staggered into the middle of the room, her rumpled image thrown onto the mirrors lining the walls. Emberlyn could see every angle of her fear. Aleida came to a standstill with her back pulled so straight, it looked as though the thin strings wrapped around her limbs meant to yank her right off the floor. Emberlyn jerked forward, but someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. Rosalyn shook her head when Emberlyn turned to give her a wild stare.

Malcolm growled like the warning of a feral animal. “You girls are plotting against me. I’ve seen this all before.”

Emberlyn strained against Rosalyn’s grip, her fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. She ground her teeth as anger and fear warred with each other in her heart. She felt helpless. She felt scared as she watched her best friend lose control to a monster.

Aleida’s hand reached down the front of her dress. Her arms quaked as if trying to fight the curse controlling her limbs.

But she couldn’t win. None of them ever could against him. She withdrew the knife she had carried since the Marionettes agreed to take Malcolm’s life.

“See? Another.” Malcolm let out a sigh as his eyes traveled the length of the blade clutched in Aleida’s hand. “You were all nothing when I found you. You all had these huge, unachievable dreams, worthy of people a thousand times better than you. But I made them happen for you.

“I took you pathetic excuses for dancers and turned you into an international spectacle. And this is how you repay me?” His soft laugh was suddenly the most dangerous thing in the room. A sound made worse when it cut off abruptly. His face slackened, his eyes suddenly glazing over, and he spoke as if only to himself.

“What is it that I am doing wrong, to create such disobedience? These girls seem almost feral. The previous lot, untamable. And Aurelie…” Malcolm shook his head, a hint of sadness pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Oh, Aurelie. It’s like her disobedience lives on, even now. If only they all had just listened to me.”

Emberlyn didn’t have time to consider the weight behind that unfamiliar name as Malcolm snapped out of his dreamlike state in a heartbeat, expression pulled back into a snarl.

“What exactly are you planning?” When none of them answered, he roared, “Answer me!”

Jia let out a racking sob. It was the only sound that punctuated the silence as Malcolm waited for an answer.

He smiled wryly. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Before Emberlyn could draw breath, Aleida’s knife turned and swung directly for her eyes. Her body shuddered, and her throat worked to let out a scream that Malcolm’s curse stamped out in the same moment. The Marionettes let out a collective shriek. Emberlyn made to jump to her feet, but her body was wrenched back, a suffocating weight pinning her down as her curse flared into life.

The knife stopped only millimeters short of piercing Aleida’s right eye. The point of it teased her eyelashes. A muffled groan rumbled in her throat, caught behind sealed lips, as Emberlyn could do nothing but stare, helpless. The knife in Aleida’s hand shook, the blade nicking the soft crease beside her eye, and a small bead of blood began to glide down her cheek.

“Please, Malcolm! Stop!” Jia howled, but he didn’t pay her any attention.

“You already know how to stop this, my pets,” Malcolm said, his jubilant voice almost dripping with enjoyment, though his expression was wild. “I’m waiting.”

Emberlyn’s foolishness struck her like a blow to the gut. They never stood a chance. Escape was never within their grasp.

It was an odd mirror image of what had happened to the first Marionettes. When Esme had confessed in a desperate attempt to keep them from further harm—how it had been the death of all of them. Would confessing now still bring them the same fate as their lost sisters? Aleida’s face glistened with tears. They streamed down her face as her shoulders shook in defiance of Malcolm’s curse.

“How about now?” Malcolm asked. Emberlyn’s stomach heaved as he forced Aleida to lower the knife to her throat. The blade bit into the skin, a thin line of red appearing. “If I bury this knife in deep enough, she can’t heal. Darling Aleida will be awake for every ounce of pain, every drop of blood, every ragged breath. Until I say so.”

Emberlyn’s eyes spilled over with tears until they blurred her vision. She looked to her sisters for guidance, for help, but they had nothing to offer in their own terror.

Aleida made a choking noise as the knife pushed against her throat by her own trembling hand, a trickle of blood escaping, stopping as the wound tried to heal, but gushing again when it was driven deeper.

Emberlyn couldn’t let Aleida die like this. She took a deep breath and screamed the words before she had another chance to consider them.

“It was all me!”

An entire eternity unraveled among them. Aleida with the knife still pressing into her flesh, the girls behind her quiet, and Malcolm. His expression made her skin crawl. He was a man possessed with his own superiority, his satisfaction, power—with victory.

Relief coursed through Emberlyn when the knife clattered to the floor. Aleida’s legs buckled, and the weight of the curse eased in time for Emberlyn to catch her in her arms. Then the Marionettes wrapped themselves around Aleida, the open wound in her throat quickly healing as she lay in Rosalyn’s lap, chest heaving. Malcolm stepped toward Emberlyn.

“It was me,” Emberlyn said with a shaking voice as Malcolm stalked forward, keeping his attention on her alone. “All of it—scaring away Gabrielle, carrying the weapons to hurt you with—me. They didn’t want any part of it, I swear. On my life.” Her life was worth so little now anyway—sacrificed the moment she had stood up. Emberlyn forced herself to look Malcolm in the eye. “They didn’t know how to say no to me. It is entirely my fault. I was the only one planning to hurt you, and I forced the others to join me.”

For a beat, Malcolm simply stood staring at Emberlyn, his expression an odd mix of snarling rage and grim disappointment. Emberlyn stared, watching the emotions flit across his face, as if he had already known it was Emberlyn but had hoped it wasn’t true. As what his lead Marionette had intended sank in. The reality of another of his leads aiming for his throat.

Then his features hardened, and Malcolm stepped even closer. “You were going to let her die, weren’t you, Emberlyn?” he said softly, ignoring Emberlyn’s confession. Her curse flared into life as she was brought up from the floor to stand before him. She cringed as he placed his hand on her face, tilting her chin up to look at him. Genuine regret swam there, disappointment, but his anger took precedence. “You are a spoiled, selfish little princess, after all.”

Emberlyn jerked at his words as guilt rumbled through her. It quickly heated into fear when Malcolm suddenly stilled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out…

Her stomach dropped. It was her bracelet. Florisa.

He dangled it in front of her, his hand still on her chin, forcing her to look. “You’ve been disobedient from the very start, haven’t you? I found it in your room when I was looking for you. You knew I did not allow such personal effects from your little lives before, and yet you kept hold of this anyway. It’s such a disappointment. You could have been great. There was so much more to achieve, Emberlyn, but you’ve ruined it all.”

Without breaking eye contact with her, he twisted the bracelet. It gave easily, snapping into two perfect halves, before he simply allowed it to drop from his hands and clatter to the floor. Emberlyn let out a cry of dismay, but it was quickly silenced by the curse.

Malcolm watched her for a moment more, before he dropped his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Tomorrow night, you will all perform for me one. More. Time. The best performance of your miserable little lives. And then, once we say our tearful goodbyes to this theater and this city, I will kill you all, one by one.” Emberlyn’s heart stuttered. She felt her head drain of blood, leaving her dizzy. “My patience has run out.”

As Emberlyn’s chest seemed to shatter, Malcolm leaned in closer, his grip on her face tightening painfully as the smell of his sour breath overwhelmed her.

“I am going to kill them all, and you, sweet Emberlyn, will watch what you have caused. I want you begging, and I want to deny you every single request you make for their lives until I take yours too. There is nothing you can do now, dearest Emberlyn—my princess. You will crumble just like every other silly girl who dared defy me, immediately forgotten like dust on a breeze.”

He released her and stood as he cut his connection to Emberlyn, and she collapsed to the floor. The Marionettes let out a cacophony of choked noises as Emberlyn’s mind reeled, every muscle in her body tense, anger and hate and fear shuddering through her.

“I am so disappointed that this life was not enough for you,” he said to the room, looking at each of them. “But no matter. I’ve started again once; I can do it again.” Malcolm turned away, moving toward the door. He paused. “And if any of you try anything—try to speak to someone else again, I will pick one of you at random to hurt much worse than I already have—and make the rest of you watch.”

As he turned away again, she didn’t even think.

Emberlyn lunged for the knife on the floor. The warmth of the handle—Aleida’s dying warmth—lit a fire in her heart as her skin made contact. She brought it up in one sweeping arc.

And leaped.

Malcolm’s fist connected with her jaw before she could bring the point of the knife down anywhere that mattered.

Flashbulbs of searing pain exploded in her mind as she went sprawling. The hands of her sisters caught her before she could fall too heavily to the floor. With the breath knocked out of her, she stared in shock at the ceiling as her head spun and the realization of her failure—her botched last chance—crumpled her heart like a sheet of paper.

“Smile, ladies.” Malcolm watched them with a twinkle in his eyes as their lips stretched into vulgar grins, though despair and grief gripped their chests. Malcolm’s derisive laugh rattled through her skull as he closed the door of the dressing room behind him.

Twenty-Nine

The Taste of Freedom

Emberlyn couldn’t bear to face the girls she had just sentenced to death. Couldn’t handle listening to their anguished moans, their heartbreaking sobs as their last chance of escape fled their flimsy grasps. All that waited for them was the cold embrace of death. Malcolm knew they planned to kill him—he would never leave them an opportunity to do so again.

The Marionettes were going to die because Emberlyn had dragged them into this mess. Now there was no hope. No way out.

Emberlyn untangled herself from her grieving sisters, gathered up the broken halves of her bracelet, and left. Her body felt vacant, as if her soul was no longer pinned to her bones. She walked back to her room to await their end alone. Her sisters didn’t need her with them. She’d done enough already.

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to find Étienne waiting in the shadows across from her bed. He didn’t speak as she closed the door, as she dropped the two halves of her bracelet onto her nightstand and pressed her forehead against the wood, taking deep, shaky breaths.

“You heard?” she asked, her eyes closed.

Étienne seemed to know what she meant. “I came straight back to warn you after I heard someone talking about how Gabrielle had turned him down, but your room was like this. I couldn’t find him, or you. The only thing I could think of was to come back here and hope that you would too.”

A seed of gratitude in her stomach fought to grow against the wildness of her grief and anguish. She didn’t want to be alone. Her sisters didn’t need her there, but she couldn’t face what she had done truly alone.

Étienne shuffled closer. “What happened, Ember?”

The sound of Aleida’s nickname for her pierced her heart. Before she could stop herself, her body went weak, untamed howls tearing out of her throat. Étienne raced to catch her as she dropped, hissing as the moonlight slashed his skin. Then his arms were around her. Warm breath against her neck, lips against her ear as he softly hushed her. The cold from the floor swept into her bones. But it was nothing compared with the pain blitzing through her chest. She twisted into him and let herself be held, releasing every last tear and anguished moan building up inside her.

When the worst of her sobs had subsided, Étienne gathered Emberlyn in his arms and carried her to her bed. He laid her down, pulling the sheets up to her chin. She lay on her side, staring at the wall as Étienne rested his hand on her shoulder. His fingers softly stroked her skin, leaving haunting trails of warmth in their wake.

“What happened?” he asked again.

Finally, she spoke, her voice raw with grief. “Can you keep holding me?”

After a moment’s pause, Étienne curled up behind her, squeezing onto the few spare inches of the bed. His arm went around her waist, holding her against him, his face lost in the waves of her hair.

Emberlyn closed her eyes, letting the feeling of Étienne’s tight embrace calm her pounding heart. She focused on the heat of his body against hers. The warm, rhythmic breath seeping across the nape of her neck, to help her find her voice again.

“I really thought we had a chance to do something.”

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as new tears formed. Étienne said nothing. He simply pulled her in tighter, until the breath was squeezed out of her lungs. But she didn’t complain. She deserved the pain. Étienne’s own breath was ragged.

“He knew we were planning his death.” She swiped an angry hand over her wet cheek. “God, I’m so stupid. Of course he was immediately suspicious. This is exactly what the other Marionettes did. How could I have been so hopeful? I’ve killed them all. My sisters are going to die, and it’s all my fault!”

Étienne ran his hand down Emberlyn’s shoulder. “No, it’s not your fault,” he murmured. “You did the right thing by telling them, and by scaring Gabrielle away. You did everything you could to protect them all and saved a soul in the process.”

“It is my fault. It’s all my fault,” she choked out between sobs. “I should have been brave and killed him when I had the chance. I shouldn’t have let you stop me—should have just done it and not worried about what the others might want.” Emberlyn buried her face farther into her sheets so her voice came out muffled. “If I had, it would all be over. We might already be free by now.”

“What exactly did Malcolm say?” Étienne asked, his voice a pillar of calm in the storm.

Emberlyn braced herself against the new tidal wave of agony crashing through her body. “He’s going to kill us tomorrow. After the curtains fall on closing night.”

“What?” Étienne’s voice was small. Like he couldn’t believe history was repeating itself—wouldn’t believe it.

Her voice was steady as a numbness settled through her. “It’s over, Étienne. It’s all over.”

As Étienne drew breath to argue, footsteps sounded in the corridor—distant at first, but growing louder with each beat.

“Get behind the mirror!” Emberlyn hissed, struggling to untangle herself from Étienne’s embrace. She jumped to her feet as Étienne stumbled to the floor. His furious gaze bore down on her when he pulled himself up to his full height.

“I swear, if he hurts you—”

“Mirror!” Emberlyn spat, and with vast effort, she found the concealed catch and pulled aside the sliding mirror, pushing him inside the passage just as a knock sounded at her door. The thunderous expression she saw on Étienne’s face before the mirror slid closed was enough to make her heart beat harder as she turned to face her bedroom door.

“Who is it?” she called, her voice cracking.

“Can I come in?” Malcolm asked, his voice oddly heavy. Emberlyn wrapped her arms around herself as her fear seemed to pull muscle from bone, cold adrenaline shooting through her veins.

She couldn’t help but plead. “Please, Malcolm.” More tears than she knew she could contain spilled down her cheeks. “You’ve done enough. Leave me alone, I beg of you.”

She was met with a stony silence, nothing but the thundering of her pulse and her shaky breath to break it. She braced for the sudden flare of her curse, her body lurching forward to welcome in the vile monster. But instead, there was only the shuffling of feet and a heavy sigh.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Emberlyn, despite what you think of me. It doesn’t bring me any pleasure. I’d be lying if I said you didn’t hold a special place in my heart. My leads always do.”

Genevieve’s name flashed into Emberlyn’s mind as her spine crawled, leaving her disoriented. But still, at the uncertain tone of Malcolm’s voice, she stepped closer to the door.

“What do you want?” she asked with more ferocity than she meant to. There was another pause, but he didn’t crash his way in. He didn’t call his curse forth to do it for him. She heard him heave another sigh, like he was struggling to work out what to say. Emberlyn’s fear gripped her throat. She didn’t know what to expect, what was coming. She’d never known Malcolm to behave like this in all her years as his puppet.

“I want to know what you want,” he said finally.

Emberlyn stared at the door. Had she heard him correctly?

“What?” she croaked, her voice ravaged and cracked and too quiet in her ears. But Malcolm heard her.

“What do you want, Emberlyn? What about this life isn’t enough, for you to want to hurt me so? You’re not the first, and I simply don’t understand why this repeats itself so often. Help me understand.”

Emberlyn’s muscles quivered as confusion and fear warred with each other through her veins. Was this a trick? Was he dancing her into another trap? She shook her head. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t possibly hurt her any more than he already had.

She opened her mouth and told him the unabridged truth for the first time.

“I want to leave,” she spat. “I want to go somewhere far away and never see you ever again.”

Emberlyn waited as silence fell. She pictured him standing out in the shadowed corridor, shuffling from foot to foot outside her door as he processed her words.

“But why?”

“Because I hate this. I hate you. I hate everything you’ve taken from me, and I hate that you seem to have absolutely no idea what you’ve done to me. What you’ve done to my sisters for your own gain. I hate that I can’t remember who I am or where I’m from, who I loved and what I cared about. I hate that I’ve had to watch my sisters crumble into nothing while you simply look for the next girl to replace them. Our lives are worthless to you, and you’ve trodden on all of them under the guise of giving us stardom.”

Emberlyn took a deep breath as her body trembled—but it was like a floodgate had opened, and no rain or thunder or earthquake could deter her now.

“But worst of all, I hate what hating you has made me become. I hate every heinous thought I have ever had, the murderous desire that’s overwhelmed my conscience. I hate the cold, bitter parts that now make up my soul, when I would have been so much more for having never known you. And that no matter what happens, no matter when the end is coming, that I will never be able to forget you because of the chasms of hate you have cracked open inside me and shaped me with for whatever time I have left.”

Emberlyn’s chest heaved as the tidal wave of words that had come pouring out of her mouth finally subsided. She tensed, her teeth grinding painfully as she waited for her curse to flare. For the door to burst open and to feel the agony of a fist connecting with bone. She glanced toward the mirror, wondering how long it would take Étienne to cross the room to come to her aid.

But…Malcolm didn’t use his curse. Emberlyn curled her hands into fists, testing her control over her body. He hadn’t claimed her with his strings. Why?

Instead, Malcolm cleared his throat, his light tone at odds with the sensation of an approaching storm rolling through Emberlyn’s room.

“Still, for all the hurt, I have given you so much more to gain. But if that’s how you feel, then fine. Though God knows why you’d prefer an empty life over everything I’ve given you,” he growled, a strange noise that eventually twisted into a sigh. “But putting that aside…I’ve decided to offer you everything you want. A ticket to freedom.”

Emberlyn’s tears stopped flowing, confusion penetrating her thick veil of grief and fear. “What?” she could barely utter.

“I…” Malcolm paused. “I have decided to forgive your slight against me. I will remove your gift—harmlessly—and I will let you go free. Free to live the life of your choosing.”

Emberlyn’s ears strained to pick up tones of sarcasm, of malicious intent, playing his words over and over in her head. But she found none.

Malcolm…would let her go? Just let her leave? It was simple. Too simple. And knowing Malcolm, she refused to believe that was it.

“At what cost?” Emberlyn spat out, her voice suddenly dark, riddled with the tension that came before a thunderstorm.

Malcolm only chuckled at her words, setting the hairs on Emberlyn’s arms on end.

“Always so savvy,” he said, the oily tone making her stomach turn. “Nobody can fool you for a moment. Very well, then. I do have one condition. I will let you leave, but only if you tell Gabrielle you were trying to frighten her away. That you couldn’t bear the thought of sharing the stage with another so closely your equal—perhaps even your superior—and behaved poorly. Persuade her to become my new Marionette.”

Emberlyn’s blood turned to ice. Gabrielle’s life in exchange for hers? Her soul for Emberlyn’s?

“And then you’d let me go?”

“I promise.”

Too simple.

“How can I trust you will? How can I believe that you won’t kill me the moment you have Gabrielle in your clutches?”

The air took on a heavy quality, like a flame smothered with a blanket.

“You think so little of me. Why would you not think I’m telling the truth?”

Emberlyn’s shoulders tightened. “When do you ever?”

Malcolm’s scoff was almost powerful enough to punch through the door. “How can I prove myself to you? What truth do you want, Emberlyn?”

Emberlyn thought for only a moment, before a bitter smile rose to her lips. “Who is Aurelie?”

Malcolm paused. “Aurelie?” His voice was hesitant. Emberlyn stepped forward, closer to the door, ready to push for what she wanted. The way he had said her name in the dressing room, the fact this person was even a thought in his mind at a moment like that…She must have been important. If this were to be her last day, she at least wanted to understand why. How the man who had destroyed her life came to be, why he made the choices he did.

“You said her name. In the dressing room. Who was she, to be so important that her name would grace your breath in that moment?”

Emberlyn pulled herself tall as silence greeted her. She stared at the door, as if challenging the man who waited behind it to brush away her question.

“If I tell you this, something I have never spoken about before, will you believe me then? Will you finally understand that I am an honest man and bring me the girl?”

“Yes,” Emberlyn said, though she refused to give her word and was glad Malcolm could not see her expression. Her lie was etched into her every feature. She would promise this man nothing.

He paused for a moment longer, before his words unwound among a tone heavy with bitterness.

“Aurelie was my world. My love. But we were so young, and we had barely scratched the surface of who we were. I understood that we deserved all the power we could possibly grab from this world, to live the lives we deserved—the money, the success the world owed us…I’d wanted to be a troupe manager my entire life, wanted everything that came with it. But…Aurelie disapproved of my methods. I tried and tried to get her to understand, to join me, to accept the process and the events that had to unfold to build our perfect lives together, but…she refused. No matter what I did, I could not get her to understand. I could not get her to do as I needed.”

Emberlyn’s horror was tangible—a rotten scent floating in on the shadows as her mind whirred, connecting the snippets of information she had gleaned in the past few weeks. The curse was built out of pure selfishness. Of Malcolm putting himself and his unquenchable desire for power before someone he loved dearly. The curse was built by…by…

“She was the first one you killed, wasn’t she?” Emberlyn asked, her voice soft.

Malcolm’s responding echo was equally as soft. A thousand times sadder. “I wish every day that it did not have to happen like that. But she refused to listen to me.”

“So you thought that was worth her death?” Emberlyn choked out.

“As I keep saying, Emberlyn”—Malcolm’s voice regained a harsh quality that had Emberlyn backing away from the door—“ignorant young women can never tell when the world is being handed to them. It’s not my fault she couldn’t understand what I was offering.”

She heard him shuffle his feet and clear his throat. “I have been honest now. I have been upfront. Do you believe my offer? Will you accept it and persuade Gabrielle?”

“I—I—” Emberlyn’s head was reeling.

“Like I said, I don’t enjoy hurting you. I simply have to. If you do this one last thing for me, I won’t have to hurt you.”

Emberlyn swallowed down the pain that had wound its way up from her heart and stifled a sob. “What about my sisters?”

“No, Emberlyn.” Malcolm’s words were a knife to the heart. Emberlyn clutched at her chest as they formed in the air. “Only you. I am offering you this last chance to help me rebuild the Marionettes in return for your freedom. With Gabrielle, I can return to New Kora and begin again. Your sisters I can no longer trust, seeing as they so willingly followed your lead. They’re a danger to me now.”

Emberlyn stared at the door in horror, her stomach churning with revulsion. If Malcolm was telling the truth, she could have freedom from this life, freedom from Malcolm. Unpursued, safe from the curse. But…in return for Gabrielle’s life. In return for allowing Malcolm to continue his path of hurt and destruction. Living while knowing the sisters she loved had lost everything.

No. She couldn’t abandon them to their deaths. Couldn’t possibly be responsible for ruining Gabrielle’s life.

“No,” she whispered, though even she could barely hear it in the stillness of her room, the words so weak. Unconvincing.

“Gabrielle is invited to attend the closing-night performance. Persuade her then, and I will let you leave. Bring Gabrielle to the dressing room, and you can walk away from it all unharmed. I won’t make you watch what I am going to do to the others. I will remove your gift, and you can leave the theater and never see me again.” Malcolm paused, and Emberlyn sensed the dangerous turn before he spoke again. “If you don’t…well, my previous promise still stands, and I will simply begin again without your help.”

Malcolm’s footsteps sounded as he marched away down the hallway until they disappeared completely. She felt dizzy from the speed her thoughts whirled around her mind, weak from the new knowledge that sat heavily inside her.

It was only the scrape of the mirror sliding open that brought Emberlyn crashing back down to the present, the fleeting taste of freedom on her tongue snatched away for another moment longer.

She whirled to face Étienne as he climbed out of the shadows, his face blank yet solemn as he scanned hers. His throat fluttered as he swallowed. His scent of dust and smoke was almost too much to bear.

“We can still save this, somehow,” he growled. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, shaking with barely restrained fury. “We can still do this. Still get him.”

Emberlyn took a moment to process his words, left dazed in Malcolm’s wake. When she had sorted them in her head, she shook her head incredulously. Helplessness flooded her body as she opened her mouth to speak.

“We can’t, Étienne.”

Étienne stepped forward.

“I can go now and work something out. I can try to kill him myself if you don’t mind handing over that pleasure to me.”

Emberlyn felt there was nothing she could do but break down and cry. Étienne’s words were empty. They were meaningless. Malcolm would never allow himself to be caught off guard again. All she had was his offer. His terrible, unfathomable offer. The rest was nothing but false hope and dead wishes.

“We can’t,” she repeated through the sorrow that tore open her throat.

They stared at each other across the darkened room, the air between them fluttering, haunted by the thousands of words that flitted through their minds but were not spoken. Étienne’s features hardened. His eyes darkened.

“You’re thinking of accepting his offer.” He said it as a statement. He watched Emberlyn with imploring eyes that begged her to tell him he was wrong.

“No, of course not.” Emberlyn shook her head, though the words tasted wrong as they rolled off her tongue. Not fully true. “How could I?”

But whatever Étienne saw on her face was unconvincing, and he made a noise that sounded something like a roar, his hands reaching up to tear at his hair. “You can’t. Emberlyn, you simply can’t. Not after everything we’ve done, how close we are to the end. You can’t give up. Not on me, not on your sisters. Not on your soul.”

“Étienne, I’m not! It’s just…it’s just…”

It was just, it was harder than she’d imagined to turn her back on the life she should have had. To throw the hope for freedom that had shaped her thoughts for so long out of her heart, despite how terrible the cost.

Freedom, but in exchange for Gabrielle’s life. In exchange for abandoning her sisters to their fates.

Finally, Étienne lowered his hands. His shoulders drooped. He seemed to fold in on himself.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Emberlyn stared hard at the floor, the grains in the wood blurred by the sheen of tears that filled her eyes. She felt them carve their hot paths down her cheeks as the reality of what Malcolm was offering sank further and further into her bones. Into the very marrow of her being.

“I want you to live, Emberlyn. Believe me, I do. I want you to have what you want most in the world, more than anything. But I never thought it would be like this. I never thought it would be at the cost of someone else. An innocent girl’s life.”

“Étienne,” Emberlyn said feebly as her tears overflowed. Through her blurred vision, she watched Étienne’s harsh expression splinter. His rage dissipated, replaced with a quiet kind of grief. She allowed her tears to fall as Étienne closed the gap between them. Gently, his hands cupped her cheeks, his thumb soothingly wiping her tears away. Emberlyn closed her eyes as sorrow overcame her and felt herself pulled into his embrace.

She didn’t feel like herself anymore, as she nestled deep against his chest and let her sobs overcome her once more. Like the fire that fueled everything she said and did, that fueled her very survival, had been stamped out. And who was she, if not surviving by fire? By rage and hatred-fueled infernos?

Étienne pulled away but took her hands instead. Gently, he guided Emberlyn to her bed, where she gratefully collapsed. He curled up beside her, his arms encircling her once again as he pulled her closer until he was resting his chin on the top of her head. He didn’t try to quiet her as Emberlyn cried. Simply allowed her to feel. Let her tears soak through the front of his shirt as he held her together.

When the worst of her sobs had subsided, Étienne spoke again.

“I want you to know. It’s not your fault this happened, Emberlyn. It’s mine.” Emberlyn’s heart twisted, but she stayed silent as she burrowed against him, her brows furrowing. “There was an article about Malcolm and his Marionettes, and I couldn’t resist. Couldn’t let it go. I knew Mademoiselle Fournier would write to him if she knew how popular he’d become in New Kora, so I left the paper on her desk. And she did exactly as I hoped. Asked him to bring his famous dance troupe back to Le Théâtre de Feu, where I could finally get my hands on him. So I could finally get the revenge I longed for after so many years of waiting in the dark. But I never expected…I never expected you.”

He broke off, shaking his head as his words failed him, the movement jostling her. Emberlyn’s face cracked into a new mask of grief, and she tilted her head until they were nose to nose, breath to breath.

“I could never blame you for that,” she said softly.

“What I’m trying to say, is: You and your sisters are here because of me. If I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be here. You might have lived for longer.”

Emberlyn shook her head. “I would have lived in terror, as I always had. I could never resent meeting you, Étienne, nor resent the fact that our fates collided. I think we were always meant to meet. I think I always felt something more when it came to you, like it was something beyond either of our control. And as much as it destroys me to know we failed, the fact that we met at all will be my comfort at the very end.”

Emberlyn watched as a tear of his own slipped down Étienne’s cheek. They lay there together, entwined by body and soul, the collective warmth of their shared heat cocooning them as one.

“Emberlyn, I…” Étienne began. “I think I might lo—”

But Emberlyn raised her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips.

“It would break me to hear you say that now,” she said with a choke. “But I know. I feel the same.”

Étienne fell silent. Neither spoke as they simply gazed at each other, letting their hands explore the other’s skin. The curve of a cheek, the ridge of a collarbone.

The restless night wore on as Emberlyn and Étienne stayed wrapped in each other’s embrace, awaiting the deathly heralding of morning’s first light.

Act Three

Thirty

The Beginning of the Close

Though Emberlyn had hoped beyond hope that daylight would never come, its vicious light was soon threatening to burst through her window. She and Étienne had spent the hours wrapped in the cloak of night, allowing their hands to learn the shape of the other, letting each other kiss their tears away. Covering their ears against the clock tower chimes that beat out the steady march of the gloom. It felt final, and Emberlyn didn’t ever want it to end knowing that these were to be their last moments. But end it did, and Étienne had to take his leave the moment the dawn light began to trace shapes along Emberlyn’s bedroom floor. Their clasped hands were the last to separate as he disappeared into the space beyond the mirror, leaving Emberlyn feeling hollow.

She felt like a wraith, drifting through a world she no longer belonged to as she awaited her final performance. A confusing, endless existence of shadows and muffled sound she couldn’t piece together well enough to make sense of. The daytime felt like a dream she couldn’t awake from, as she went through the motions without being present within her own body. As if the curse were controlling her every move, when she knew it was not. She had simply slipped too deep inside her own mind, peering out at the world through someone else’s eyes. Emberlyn couldn’t bear to look at the grief-stricken expressions on every sister’s face, concealed with the smiles Malcolm forced them to perform as they waited out the wintery sunshine for the relentless blanket of night to call curtain on the Marionettes’ last living day. Every moment slipping past brought her ever closer to her impossible decision.

One way or another, her sisters were going to die tonight. And Emberlyn would join them—unless she was prepared to betray them all. If she had it in her to hand over an innocent soul to save her own.

That selfish Emberlyn, the one who had grown in the dark spots of her soul, hadn’t quite let her give up on that tantalizing offer of escape.

The air was electric with an excitement that didn’t traverse her soul of stone as she moved to the wings of the stage. A thick, palpable air of chatter, laughter, sour wine breath, and the rustle of expensive outfits filled the auditorium of Le Théâtre de Feu. The tickets for closing night had sold out at extortionate prices. The elite of Parlizia had fought to be in attendance for the Marionettes’ final show in the city.

She could hear the movement of the audience beyond the heavy curtain, writhing like a heap of maggots burrowing into a corpse. Her sisters stood apart, each of them turned in on themselves to find solace in their own minds—the shadowed, hidden parts where the horror of their world couldn’t reach them. They stood in their sparkling finery while their minds waltzed with a darkness they had once dared hope to escape. Their hearts beyond broken to the point where it seemed senseless to even try to step back out into the light.

Emberlyn couldn’t bear to look at the graveyard of dreams in their eyes. The drooped shoulders that spoke of giving up. She couldn’t bear it, because it was a mirror reflection of her, how she felt. The despair that consumed her.

She hadn’t yet decided what she was to do. She couldn’t face thinking about it. Both possibilities, both futures laid out before her, were unbearable. Emberlyn was far too beaten down, far too battered and bruised, to clear her head for long enough to even begin to think up a new plan. She had already failed so many times before.

One path meant living in freedom, but with a regret so heavy, she couldn’t see how it wouldn’t shatter her spine, puncture her lungs, and leave her forever gasping. She would have to pirouette her sisters into certain death, steal a life to replace her, and for that, she would be damned to travel alone with their ghosts forever haunting her. Abandoning Étienne to wander the corridors alone eternally. Could she ever really be free, knowing her love was forever trapped?

But wouldn’t doing the right thing simply mean following them all into death? What would be the point of suffering too? Though…wasn’t it better to follow them into death if it meant saving Gabrielle?

Was there any way to survive this without damning herself, one way or the other?

If she refused Malcolm’s offer, at least she would save what little goodness she had in her heart—but to do so meant the end of everything.

“Ready to go out with a bang, Marionettes?” Malcolm strode into the wings as Emberlyn turned listlessly to regard him. Emberlyn felt nothing but revulsion when he cut through the rush of activity in the wings and made straight for her. She stood, shoulders squared, eyes locked on to his. If these were to be among her last moments, either alive or as a trapped girl, she wanted to face them bravely.

Malcolm stopped a pace away from Emberlyn. The scent of his spiced cologne covered his wine breath. His eyes shone with malice. With victory. Emberlyn didn’t flinch as he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, so busy tracing the warring emotions in his eyes. She fought against her fury as the rough warmth of his skin touched hers.

“You look a sight, dear Emberlyn,” he crowed. His eyes dropped to take in her dress—flame red and shimmering like a fire bursting into life.

Emberlyn didn’t know Malcolm had changed her role until the seamstress had produced the costume in front of her, and she had climbed into it without a word of protest. It sparkled, tulle streaming as she moved in the reds and oranges of a fierce solar storm.

Mephistopheles. Emberlyn was to take the role Étienne’s shadow usually held. Tonight, for her final performance, she was to become the monstrosity who led Faust to his downfall.

Malcolm’s message was clear. Emberlyn didn’t have to be the one dragged to hell by the choices she had made. Emberlyn could escape her damnation, if only she allowed herself to take the chance. She could escape the years of dancing to Malcolm’s whim, unharmed, while the others suffered.

Emberlyn looked at Malcolm as if staring straight through him, into the darkest reaches of his soul.

“Showtime, my lovely,” he whispered. He gave her a smirk that set vipers hissing and writhing in her stomach, before he turned from Emberlyn and, without even a moment’s glance at her sisters, began to climb the ladder to the platform above the stage.

“Positions!” a voice called through the wings. Emberlyn, too, didn’t look at her sisters as they moved. She couldn’t. Only when Aleida stumbled on into first position, her exhausted body hugged by the pale dress of Faust that Emberlyn usually donned, did Emberlyn look up. The shine of the electric light caught the glimmer of tears on Aleida’s cheeks.

The silence beyond the curtain swelled to a breaking point. Aleida’s body trembled under the curse, and Emberlyn’s heart broke as the orchestra’s instruments began to sing, piercing the silence and unleashing a torrent of applause that thundered through her chest.

It joined the weight that already sat there. The one she knew meant that Étienne’s heavy gaze was on her, watching the final dance of the Marionettes, and the weight of it broke her heart.

Emberlyn stared at the floor, trying to separate herself from the overwhelming thunder of music, the rush of people around her, and found herself trapped inside unbearable thoughts instead. Gripped in Malcolm’s curse, her sisters sprung onstage with wet cheeks, brushing past her as they performed sissonnes until they reached Aleida’s side. Emberlyn wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to hold her disintegrating insides together.

Her sisters—the devils come to tease Faust before Mephistopheles arrived—performed piqué turns around Aleida as her arms extended to the rafters Étienne haunted. Her lips were twisted into a vulgar smile, but her eyes shone with the promise of more tears. Every step she took brought them all closer to their true ending. Every second that slipped past, a second of their lives lost.

The Marionettes paused. The curse inside Emberlyn reared its head.

The divine beauty dressed in fire made her entrance to seal Faust’s fate.

Applause welcomed her as alien feet stepped gently onto the stage. Her sisters’ fear-filled gazes locked onto hers, and they retreated to the edge, leaving Aleida standing alone. Emberlyn extended her hand toward her.

Faust and the demon began to dance.

The yawning darkness of the auditorium spun as Emberlyn pirouetted. The hush heavy as a thousand eyes drank her in, each gaze a needle point through her skin. They watched in awe as Mephistopheles seemed to flicker like a raging fire in a hearth. They sat on the edge of their seats as she stepped toward Faust, before performing a chaîné away. Stepped closer, feinted back again. Emberlyn reached out for her best friend, her sister, though it was like watching from somewhere outside her own body.

Aleida reached back out to her and slowly, as the music swelled, as tension shimmered through the theater, her fingers readied themselves to lace through Emberlyn’s. Prepared to sign away her life.

Emberlyn stared into Aleida’s eyes as the music reached its peak—as it lifted and crashed like a tsunami against the shore, rivaling the thunder of her heart. They were empty. They looked through Emberlyn, light from the auditorium flickering in their dark depths.

She was gone. Resigned to her fate.

Emberlyn’s curse writhed, twisting, hot under her skin as it guided her hand, as it stretched every muscle and led her by Malcolm’s strings.

Emberlyn’s heart suddenly twisted.

No.

The thought cut through her mind as sharp as a blade as she stared into the empty eyes of her best friend. The dying eyes.

NO.

Emberlyn looked at her outreached hand. The mere centimeters trembling between her and Aleida’s fingertips. A sudden rage, so pure and hot it seemed to burn everything that made up Emberlyn, roared through her body. A torrent of fire scorched her from the inside, from heart to fingertips, to every point of every hair.

He couldn’t do this to them. Malcolm couldn’t do this to them.

Emberlyn couldn’t let him take her sisters. She couldn’t walk away—wouldn’t walk away. She would put herself between them and fight until her very last breath.

She wouldn’t sign Gabrielle’s life away when it could be saved, nor would she condemn Aleida, her sisters, to their end, alone.

She would walk with them all into the last of the dying light.

“NO!” The fire erupted from her body as her voice rang out.

Her mind was made up, her resolve as strong as a wall of diamond. For the first time since becoming a Marionette, Emberlyn honestly, truly, put her sisters before herself. Claimed nothing but pure, unequivocal loyalty, her heart barren of anything but selfless desires.

If they didn’t all have freedom, then she would not have it either.

With every burning fear, every guilty, hidden thought, every second ever lived shaking in fear, she tore her hand away from Aleida and threw everything she had against the curse wrapped around her body. Felt for its edges and hacked.

And…something snapped.

Emberlyn staggered backward, landing in an ungraceful heap on the stage. Pain coursed through her as the snap echoed through her body. Her curse hissed inside her, flinching as if struck.

Her chest heaved. She stared at Aleida, whose eyes were no longer vacant, her body frozen as the curse held her still. They shone with shock as the crowd behind Emberlyn began to murmur, glued to the collapsed Marionette.

Emberlyn held her shaking hand out in front of her, staring at it as if she had never seen it before. The strings of the curse had frayed, mangled into fragments. The shape of their ghosts hung limp from her wrist, fading as she watched.

Until they disappeared into nothing.

She had broken free of her curse.

Thirty-One

Follow Me into the Fire

The world seemed to slow, stilted and shaking like a breath held underwater, too afraid to let go of for fear of drowning. The audience had fallen silent, as if they could sense there was more here than simply a fallen dancer. If anything, the way Emberlyn’s wild eyes traced over her hands would have given it away.

The moment she had fully rejected Malcolm’s offer in her mind—accepted the existence of her darker self and thanked it for its protection, but ultimately turned her back on that version of who she was—the curse had weakened.

And in Emberlyn’s whirring mind, it made sense. The curse was built on pure selfishness, and Malcolm had destroyed someone he loved for the gain of his power. Perhaps Emberlyn’s decision to turn away from his offer, the incredible strength and selflessness it took to turn her back on a freedom dangled in front of her very nose, a desire that had all but consumed her entire existence as a Marionette, had weakened the dark binds of the curse. Enough for Emberlyn’s strength, her fury, to barrel through.

Enough for her to snap the strings of Malcolm’s control.

But Emberlyn had only a moment to stare at the frayed strings, to revel in the freedom and look up to see Étienne leaning over the barrier to see better, before the darkness curdled and took over once more. Her body lurched to its feet without her permission as her curse reared back up, renewing its grip as the strings mended and tightened back around her with a fresh force. The music, which had shattered in a cacophony of missed chords at Emberlyn’s fall, kicked back up with a flourish.

Emberlyn’s arms stretched out above her, her leg arcing elegantly to point a toe at the rafters. She hissed, a scream blocked in her throat, as she began to spin once more. Rage, guilt, fury, everything she had ever felt in her life as a Marionette, bubbled back up to the surface.

But Emberlyn had stolen back some control—she could sense its weakness now, like a fractured bone that hadn’t quite healed—and she fought to split it in pieces once more.

As the force danced her across the stage toward Aleida’s outstretched fingertips, Emberlyn threw every ounce of her will against it and yanked herself away. Emberlyn tripped over her feet as her body jerked and went sprawling, her arms flinging out wildly as if fighting invisible enemies in a vicious battle between the weakening curse and her raging will.

She’d found the very edge of Malcolm’s power. The last barrier between Emberlyn’s unending fury and freedom. She’d tasted it, that brief pause as her curse had reeled, dizzy from her explosive anger. Tasted it, and demanded to know more. Her chest seemed to turn to flame as she kicked and fought, her body writhing, clawing at the threads that bound her to her cage.

And then, her voice broke free from the choking pressure in her throat, a thunderous thing that rose above the orchestra and rang clear and true through the auditorium, falling upon those who watched, transfixed by the hurricane in a girl’s form ripping through the stage.

“It’s weak! Fight it!” she screamed to the Marionettes.

The curse reared up frantically, attempting to regain control, but Emberlyn let the white-hot anger snarl against it. She flung herself across the stage, twisting and flinging, falling to her knees and throwing herself to her feet again as she tried to sever the last grip of control wrapped around her body. The sound of Malcolm’s shouts of horror from his position on his Puppet Master’s platform punctuated her every move.

Aleida began to jerk and writhe across the floor, Malcolm’s hold on his puppets weakening by the moment as the fractures began to grow. Her fists flew, limbs flying like those of a rag doll thrown carelessly about. The audience began to stand as the girls dressed as demons creeping out from the wings began to thrash, too, arms spinning, angry snarls and screams tearing from their throats as the desire for revenge, for freedom, to do everything they could to save themselves from their deaths that night, consumed everything else. The orchestra dropped their instruments and rose to watch the chaos with wide-open mouths.

Shouts of confusion sounded in the auditorium as patrons jumped to their feet. They called for something to be done. Shouts of “They’ve gone mad!” echoed through the auditorium. Emberlyn continued to flail, her thoughts only on throwing off the last of Malcolm’s strings. Of crushing the curse under her furious foot, of finding him and wrapping her hands around his damn throat. The curse shrank back as she fought, as she gained inches of control, only to scream as it grabbed the reins again and sent lashings of heat flooding her veins. A constant war of power that Emberlyn didn’t know who would win.

But she wouldn’t stop fighting until someone did.

She turned her wild gaze to the box above when the breath went out of her lungs. Malcolm, watching the chaos below his feet, tightened his grip around his lead’s throat. He bared his teeth at her as he struggled to hold on to his control, as he watched the flailing, fighting dancers in panic. By the expression on his face, she knew he was trying to crush her. To collapse her rib cage, stop her heart and stop the madness. She was expendable to him now, no matter what he’d promised. His lips peeled back in a snarl Emberlyn couldn’t hear as she dropped, hands clawing at her neck, back arching and mouth open wide in a scream that couldn’t leave her body.

But she didn’t look away from him. She let her hatred for him saturate her expression, let it contort her features into something unholy. Let him know she was done.

That she was going to kill him if she got to him.

Too busy matching Emberlyn’s hate-filled gaze with one of his own, Malcolm didn’t notice the boy hidden in the shadows moving rapidly overhead. He didn’t see the feeble light of a struck match that stole Emberlyn’s attention, the catching whispers of a burning inferno, until the flames had engulfed the rafters.

The fire caught quickly. First, the flames consumed the heavy curtain folded into the ceiling, until it raged fierce and uncontrolled. Smoke began to bellow as the first screams pierced the air. The audience turned and collided with one another as they scrabbled for the exits, chased by the tendrils of smoke and the whisper of a heat grabbing hold.

Emberlyn choked on a scream as a figure of dust and smoke leaped from the burning rafters into Malcolm’s box.

Her chest heaved as Malcolm’s connection with her was cut off, his attention clawed away from Emberlyn. She raked in a lungful of searing hot air, relief at having control over her limbs once more flooding through her. She stared wildly around as her sisters, too, rose to their feet, their curses broken, hair in disarray and faces brushed with soot. They turned their dazed faces to Emberlyn for guidance.

“Get out!” she yelled, pointing to the exit. “He’s too weak to stop you!”

Her sisters grabbed at each other’s hands and made for the stairs that fed into the aisles. Grace hesitated with Jia’s hand in hers as her wild eyes turned on Emberlyn. But Emberlyn snarled at her to go, and the pair sprinted across the stage.

Emberlyn turned away and fixed her eyes on the box above as her lungs heaved and stung, her teeth bared in fury. “Étienne!” she called, trying to spot him in the box above but seeing only flailing limbs.

Emberlyn took a step forward, haloed by raging fire, her hands clenched into tight fists. She had a life to take before the fire consumed her, if Étienne didn’t get there first. Wanted to take it with her bare hands. For herself, for Esme, for Heather, Grace, Aleida, for all her sisters. For Étienne, Genevieve, Aurelie, and anyone else who’d ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with Malcolm Manrow, their names consumed by his trail of destruction.

She was more hatred than human. More inferno than girl.

And she was going to burn him down.

She took another staggering step.

But her stomach dropped as a figure, as Étienne, was flung from the box. A scream she didn’t register as her own rang through the theater as he fell into the roaring flames below, the sound of splintering wood groaning around the auditorium.

“No! Étienne!”

Heart racing and an anguished moan tearing out of her throat, Emberlyn made to rush forward, to find her boy made of dust and save him just as he had her, in so many different ways. But a force like a train collided with her body. Breathless, she cast her gaze back up to the box to find Malcolm’s enraged eyes locked onto hers, a vicious grin growing.

Fury, revenge, hatred—all the dark things of the world bored through her. But that only made the heat inside her bellow even more. Emberlyn roared. She threw herself against the curse. But with Malcolm’s power concentrated only on her, fueled by his spite, her body defied her. Emberlyn lurched, staggered. She was spun on the spot as her hot fury mauled the curse in her veins. The curse responded only by striking to wound, caught in a deadly dance of flashing claws and tearing teeth.

But then the curtain collapsed, spraying vicious embers.

And the Puppet Master’s platform came down with it.

Thirty-Two

The Final Sacrifice

The theater was blotted out by the smoke as the Puppet Master’s platform collapsed into the stage Emberlyn stood upon, a thundering cacophony of sound filling the auditorium. The connection snapped once more, and Emberlyn threw herself away from the impact as shards of shattered wood flew across the stage. She covered her head as they rained down on her, gritting her teeth against the slicing pain.

When the shower of splinters had ended, Emberlyn brought her head up. She stared at the pile of broken wood, her head reeling as the fire’s tendrils licked at the structure, tasting it, before starting to swallow it. Slowly, fighting the dizziness that had overcome her, Emberlyn stood, her cuts and grazes starting to heal.

She stared at her knitting skin. How was Malcolm’s curse still holding on to her? He couldn’t have survived that. The Puppet Master was mere man—even if the curse held him together, too, surely it couldn’t have saved him from that. But she didn’t have the time to consider if his life had been snuffed out, because Étienne was in there. She shook her head to try to clear it and raced toward the inferno, ready to somehow tear it apart with her own hands to find the boy who was meant to follow her wherever she went next.

She ran with her hand outstretched, as the flames licked at her palms and she gripped the closest wooden beam, the full fury of the heat chewing her skin. But she wouldn’t be deterred, she needed to save—

Emberlyn screamed as the flaming wood erupted. She fell back, her body sharply colliding with the stage as a monster burst from the wreckage. She gasped, the smoke searing her lungs as she stared, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. As Malcolm, his Puppet Master garb torn and burned, hanging from him like rags from a dead body, his skin scoured, turned his attention on his lead Marionette sprawled on the floor before him. He bellowed his rage.

Emberlyn held her arm outstretched as if to defend herself and cried out as the strings returned with a vengeance. The cry turned into a scream as she was yanked to her feet, as Malcolm stepped out of the inferno with his hungry gaze on her, and her only. Her body writhed, every limb shaking as she threw her full force against the curse, resisting it, but still he made her pirouette. Still, she twisted, twirling on the hard tops of her shoes toward the roaring flames that were building around the edges of the stage, the fire growing quickly as it consumed all in its path, teasing with the promise of taking more as it lurched toward the center.

Something above her head snapped. Sandbags plummeted to the stage around her, sending tremors through the wood as she fought, as the raging flames spat shadows snaking through the theater.

She fought with all she had, desperately gazing around to try to spot Étienne, to see if he had made it out, but it was a losing game. Étienne did not appear, and Malcolm danced her closer and closer to the growing inferno.

Emberlyn screamed, fighting against the steady piqué turns she performed across the stage, but she could barely move against Malcolm’s wrath, against the full force of his power trained solely on her. Her eyes darted helplessly across the auditorium that spun and blurred past, but her sisters had disappeared beyond the wall of smoke. With Étienne lost to the flames, there was nobody left to help her.

Emberlyn sobbed, lurching as her anger melted into desperation, clawing helplessly against the curse, her will weakening with every forced spin. The heat grew, burning in her lungs, the smoke so thick it gnawed at her eyes. The smell of burning wood and fabric coupled with the stench of burning hair as she whirled closer and closer.

This was it. This was how it ended. And her curse would make sure she felt every last second of it, until she shattered.

She let out a final heartbreaking sob as the heat licked at her skin, tasting her before its jaws clamped around its next meal. She closed her eyes and tried to sink into herself. Tried to find the silent gaps in her mind for a final snatch at peace in these last, burning moments.

I’m so sorry, she thought, to anyone who might listen. For everything.

But as the flames opened their jaws to consume her whole, her eyes snapped open.

No, a new thought came.

“NO!”

She fought against the curse with a passion she didn’t know her mortal body could contain. Malcolm let out an animalistic howl as Emberlyn refused to succumb. As she bared her teeth and revealed canines that set the curse to cowering. She fought against it with a renewed strength, fingertips burying inside the fractures and tearing, inching herself away from the fire as Malcolm stared in disbelief.

“You are nothing!” Emberlyn heard him scream over the howling flames, his voice as rough as sandpaper. “I made you what you are, and I will take everything away!”

But Emberlyn only fought harder. She twisted and growled and kicked and screamed, until the distance had closed between her and the man who had once been her master. Her hell. His jaw dropped as she pushed against his barriers, bending them to her will, until she reached through them and grabbed what little remained of his Puppet Master clothes.

Her sisters had made it out, and if she could just hold him, just end him, they might be able to get away for good. Étienne was gone, likely dead, and she could already feel the weight of her grief for the loss of the other side to her dark soul, buried beneath the mountain of anger that filled her entire being. Because if he couldn’t live, at least she could get the revenge he’d wanted so desperately. At least Emberlyn could make things right.

At least Emberlyn could destroy the one who had made them all suffer.

Malcolm didn’t move, too stunned to react as the burning girl leaned in toward him and hissed through gritted teeth.

“If I’m going into the inferno, you’re coming with me.”

With that, she lurched, diving for the flames with the Puppet Master tight in her grip. Malcolm resisted, his arms flailing. He fought with everything he had as Emberlyn pulled him toward the fire, desperate to watch him burn.

She fought back, grappling, doing everything she could to keep her grip. But then his fist came swinging round and pounded into the side of Emberlyn’s head. Her vision spiraled; her mouth opened in the shape of a gasp that couldn’t make its way out of her throat. Her body twisted as she went sprawling, stars colliding before her as she landed against the stage with a crash—the little of it that had not yet been devoured. Before her mind could piece itself back together, before she could get back to her feet, she felt the heavy weight of Malcolm’s knees pressing into her chest. She felt the strings wrap around her weak body and pin her arms to her sides.

“Enough!” the monster pinning her down roared. Emberlyn gazed up at the blood-streaked face, at the burning skin, the stench of smoke and seared hair threatening to choke her. He leaned in toward her, his voice low and growling as he said it again. “Enough. Enough of this. You’ve ruined all that I am. And so, darling Emberlyn, I am going to take all that you are.”

Emberlyn fought against her restraints, but it was too much. It was too heavy. She stared, despair cracking through her face as Malcolm leaned down.

“You already have,” Emberlyn spat out. But Malcolm ignored her, instead, allowing his words to whisper against her ear.

“This might hurt, my beautiful princess.”

The last thing Emberlyn remembered was the sight of the monster, framed by the fire, lurching for her throat.

Thirty-Three

Home

Malcolm was wrong. It didn’t hurt.

Somewhere in the darkness of whatever was left of Emberlyn’s mind, she knew what was happening. She knew her curse was being torn from her body like skin ripped from a carcass. She knew her life was fading.

But…no, it didn’t hurt. It was a relief. It felt like sinking into a warm bath after years filled with a coldness that could snap bones. It was the numbing of an intense pain in your chest you didn’t know was there until it had been soothed.

It was all your pain leaving, allowing you room to breathe.

Emberlyn closed her eyes and drifted as her soul was torn from her body. Defenseless. Hopeless. Emberlyn faded, the stage disappearing. The fire and destruction, Malcolm’s blood-streaked face and snarling eyes, the smell of smoke and wood and burning things—it all faded. Became nothing as Emberlyn’s mind turned its back on reality.

Scattered memories danced past, piecing back together in time for her to grab them before she died. She watched as if she were an anonymous face in a crowd basking in the performance of memories long forgotten as they appeared to help ease her into the permanent silence.

A town house surrounded by ribbons of chimney smoke against a melting dusk sky. A silent street in a quiet town shaking with a ripple of crisp red leaves. The smell of salt and the sound of laughter in the air as she walked with friends, their faces slowly sharpening into clarity as they carried a picnic to the seafront with an elation that only being young and free could offer.

Her bedroom. A ginger cat curled against her chest, its fur giving off an earthy scent that spoke of exploration, a warm purr rattling through her ribs.

Her mother, with hair as red as her own and a voice that sounded like the ocean rolling in a warm breeze, beaming down at Emberlyn as she taught her daughter how to pirouette. Her father, his ragged beard scratching her cheek, spinning her in the air until she was dizzy and laughing, until she ran out of breath.

She had a sister. Florisa. She remembered her now, her bracelet on her wrist, not yet given to Emberlyn. She flung an egg at Florisa to get her out of the kitchen, an aura of sisterly irritation settling around the memory that Emberlyn wished she could feel again.

Somewhere in the darkness, her heart fractured as she remembered the life she had lost. She was sure she heard it shatter in the distance, like glass breaking at the other end of a corridor, as memories Malcolm had stolen came twirling back to perform for her one final time.

Her family. Her friends. Her life.

But she didn’t try to fight out of the shadowed haze that engulfed her. Because slowly, her memories were replaced with new visions.

Rosalyn curled in an armchair with a bundle cradled in her arms. Aleida’s head tipped back and open in laughter as she played with her younger siblings. Miriam in a ridiculously large hat on a train spitting smoke. Anushka standing in the Square of Moscrat, gazing up at a formidable turreted palace with tears in her eyes. Ida tiptoeing through a line of children in costume as she taught them how to extend their arms and point their toes, the woman she had danced with at the ball, which felt like a lifetime ago, watching on with a twinkle in her eye. Jia surrounded by the wagging tails of the dogs in her sanctuary. Grace’s ferocious stare captivating the audience that could do nothing but adore her, reclaiming the stage as her own.

Emberlyn was giving it all back. She was giving them a chance to live those dreams. She had been selfish, but now, she could undo everything.

It didn’t matter she could no longer live. It was because of her that her sisters might get to live again, because here was their master, succumbing to the flames with her.

And really, that was all that mattered. Really that, above everything, was what brought Emberlyn’s heart peace as the visions, the memories, began to blur.

As she began to feel the sensation of falling backward into darkness.

Falling.

Falling…

“Emberlyn!”

The voice sounded far away.

“Emberlyn, NO!”

Her eyes snapped open, and a gasp of breath so violent it arched her back, tore from her body. The memories that had drifted around her like falling snowflakes began to melt away, until so suddenly, she was tugged back into herself. Back to the form of the crumpled girl dying upon the burning stage. She stared at the fractured ceiling above her, the fire spinning overhead, her lungs instantly heaving against the smoke. As slowly, the chill that had consumed her was replaced with intense, overwhelming heat, until it screamed at her to move. Until it demanded she wake up with a force she could no longer ignore.

Her body shaking, she groaned and rolled onto her side. The theater rotated as her head spun. She froze. She went still as realization set in. She let out a hopeless, desperate cry as Aleida, staggering, got to her feet.

She had come back to find Emberlyn and thrown herself at the Puppet Master, who, fury contorting his flame-bitten features, began to rise up behind her.

Thirty-Four

Fools That Will Laugh on Earth Must Weep in Hell

“Aleida—behind you!” Emberlyn tried to scream, but her voice was cut off by a hacking cough that gripped her lungs. Sweat beaded along Aleida’s forehead as she stepped toward Emberlyn, her body stooped and heavy, her curse close to claiming her. Malcolm pulled himself up to his full height, unfathomably furious eyes focused on Aleida.

Emberlyn could only point and watch with a breaking heart as Aleida turned, holding her hands up in defense as Malcolm stalked toward her, unflinching as the tendrils of flame bit at his skin.

“No!” Emberlyn croaked. She tried to stand, to defend Aleida, but her useless body collapsed. She tried to scream as Malcolm reached out.

A figure dived through the fire as quick as a bullet and collided with him. In a grapple of snarls and clawing fingernails, the Puppet Master landed heavily, knocked to the ground away from Aleida. The stage cracked like a thunderbolt striking a tree.

“Étienne!” Emberlyn choked when her mind caught up with her and she recognized the figure. He was alive! Hope rushed through her chest at the sight of her love, the boy who was fighting until the very end with her. But her relief quickly turned to horror when she realized what she could hear beneath the howling fire.

Étienne’s screams.

His skin shivered into dust, every inch melting into twisting smoke and shadows where the light from the flames lunged for his body. But still, he fought. Still, he clung to Malcolm, writhing and snatching him again when his hands melted to dust and back again, as his burning gaze melted onto Emberlyn’s.

“Get out!” he yelled, as he grappled with the howling monster in his grasp. Emberlyn hesitated, stepping forward, reaching for him, desperate to help. But Étienne let out a new scream, his skin seeming to tear apart as he pushed the writhing Malcolm to the floor of the stage. “Go, Emberlyn! Get out!”

Emberlyn’s chest heaved with a sob, recoiling, but she knew she had to listen. Knew he was battling with everything he had to save her, that his love for her took precedence over everything. She had to escape—for him. She heaved her aching body upright and lurched forward to grab Aleida’s wrist.

Emberlyn pulled her, spinning on the spot to find a gap, any gap, in the towering wall of thundering flames.

“There!” she shouted. An opening where the flames hadn’t yet collided grappled with the edge of the stage, the ghostly image of the auditorium flickering beyond it. Emberlyn and Aleida rushed toward the shrinking gap as another resounding crack sang above their heads. Wood and sandbags and forgotten scenery collapsed from above.

Fractures shivered through the weakening wood, the stage growling beneath the girls’ feet as larger planks began to drop to the floor in unison. The rafters gave way at last.

“Go!” Emberlyn screamed.

She dragged Aleida toward the closing gap in the wall of fire. Together, the girls leaped through to safety as the stage gave one last thundering shudder and collapsed, taking Malcolm and Étienne down with it with one final, guttural roar.

Emberlyn landed in the aisle, stumbling for a moment, a scream tearing from her throat as she heard her boy of darkness fall. But Aleida’s grip pulled her back to her feet again. The fire and heat screamed around her, the whole auditorium quaking as the stage met the ground below. The flames climbed ever higher, as if raging with confidence. Their smoky tendrils reached for the ceiling as Aleida and Emberlyn staggered up the aisle toward the exit, dodging the pieces of falling masonry that exploded around them like dropped bombs.

Something above their heads snapped with a sound that reverberated around the auditorium.

“Look out!” Emberlyn screamed. She threw herself into Aleida, sending them both somersaulting into the rows of seats as the grand chandelier above broke free. Emberlyn only had time to catch a glimpse of the thousands of beads and crystals cascading in a violent waterfall before she rolled beneath the chairs. Her arms shielded her head not a moment too soon.

The chandelier hit the floor of the auditorium with the sound of trains crashing together at full speed. The tremor shook the floor beneath Emberlyn as a spray of glittering glass collapsed over their heads in a vicious rain. The telltale bellow of new fire erupting roared through the theater as the flames licked along the seats.

Emberlyn pushed herself to her knees when the chandelier had settled. The fiery skeleton of something once so grand was now bathed in chaos, its pearls and crystals shattered.

Emberlyn scrabbled to her feet, grabbing Aleida’s hand once more. “Come on!” she choked out.

She hauled Aleida up and pulled her along the aisle toward the exit, staggering as their lungs threatened to give out, as Emberlyn’s vision spun, begging her to lie down. To finally rest, to let the fire take her. But she refused. They ran through the fire with their hands entwined.

Faust and Mephistopheles broke through the exit doors, escaping the furious hell that sought to claim them both. Thick smoke hung in the corridors they battled through, easing only as they reached the foyer, the double doors to the street beyond gaping open before them.

Hand in hand, Emberlyn and Aleida burst out into the biting snowfall of the night.

Thirty-Five

The Curtain Falls

Voices screamed their names as Emberlyn and Aleida collapsed through the doors, their bodies not giving in until they had crossed the theater’s marble canopy and stumbled down the front steps, chased by the pluming smoke.

The snow and cutting cold of the night air instantly gnawed through Emberlyn’s costume to tear at her skin. There was something beautifully feral in the way it clawed at her. Her mind spun as hands grabbed at her, as something warm was wrapped around her shaking shoulders and she was pulled into someone’s silk-covered chest. Someone else sobbed hysterically in the air above her head. Voices raised and dipped with the wind. A hum of chatter beyond the theater’s steps filled the air. Patrons gathered in the street watched in awe as firefighters wrestled with hoses and pumps, preparing to calm the fire that raged behind Emberlyn.

Disoriented, Emberlyn blinked and tried to make sense of her surroundings, as her lungs heaved painfully.

She focused on the faces closest to her. Grace and Ida. Both speaking, tears running down their cheeks as snow gathered in their eyelashes. Heavy green blankets were wrapped around their shoulders. Her other sisters were all beyond them, crouching to get as close to Emberlyn as possible, hugging Aleida and crying with the sheer relief of finding them both alive. Damaged, but alive.

Emberlyn found her cheeks were wet, too, the tears carving paths through the soot. “You shouldn’t have stopped,” she managed to choke out, her lungs squeezing painfully with the effort. “You should all have run as far as you possibly could.” Her body was desperate to fold in on itself. The air was a strange combination of smoke and crisp winter freshness.

“We thought you were right behind us!” Rosalyn snapped, her voice breaking with emotion as she pressed her forehead against Emberlyn’s. “Did you think we were going to leave you behind? Don’t be an idiot! How the hell could we?”

Emberlyn opened her mouth to tell her sisters what happened when her body contorted with a shiver of pain. An electric pulse that ripped through her. Her back arched, and she gasped as her sisters hissed in pain too. As the snow drifted around them, they jolted, their breaths puffing, and then…

Lightness.

That was the only way Emberlyn could describe it. Like stone weights she hadn’t noticed were dragging her down had lifted. Like the darkness that writhed through her veins had blinked out, disappearing in the space of a drawn breath, in the moment the sun touches the horizon on a quiet dawn. Her head spun with disorientation, before she focused on her sisters and saw them staring wildly around too.

Miriam’s voice shook. “What was that?”

Emberlyn couldn’t help the sharp laugh that sandpapered her throat, and with warmth and relief and tears trembling in her voice, she faced her sisters. She looked at each of them as she answered.

“Malcolm is dead,” she said. Her chest wanted to crumple with the weight of hearing it said out loud, but she held herself straight, a smile budding on her lips as she said it again. “Malcolm Manrow is dead. It’s over.” A smile grew on Emberlyn’s face. “We survived. We’re free.”

Her sisters stared at each other, as if looking for confirmation that it was real in the expressions laced with soot and tears. By the way their mouths fell open as they searched inside themselves, finding their limbs, their blood, so beautifully uninfected with Malcolm’s darkness, they knew it to be true. They wrapped their arms around each other, pulling each other close, trying to find comfort.

Emberlyn stole her attention away from her sisters as realization dropped like a weight in her body. She twisted in the snow as she turned to peer into the mouth of the theater. Étienne still hadn’t emerged, and Emberlyn’s panic was reaching a fever pitch. Without warning, she clambered to her feet, her body half collapsing as she demanded her feet carry her forward. Staggering, she took her first few steps toward the burning theater before frenzied hands grabbed at her.

“What are you doing?” she heard Grace cry at her shoulder. Emberlyn tried to shake her sisters off and force another step.

“Étienne is still in there. I left him, I—I have to go back!”

“No, Emberlyn, it’s too dangerous!” Aleida sobbed.

She growled as the hands around her tightened, fighting them off with what little strength she could muster, her every muscle aching beyond comprehension. “You don’t understand,” she sobbed. “If the curse is lifted, he could be whole again. He could be real again. If he makes it out, he’ll survive this!”

Frantic, limping footsteps sounded in the foyer, and Emberlyn froze. She stared with her heart pounding, her chest aching, as a figure cloaked in darkness emerged, framed by smoke and fire. He paused in the threshold, eyes scanning.

Emberlyn breathed his name in a sob. “Étienne.”

His eyes caught hers and didn’t let go.

Relief and fear and exhilaration passed between them as her sisters whispered his name in disbelief. Étienne was stooped, his arms wrapped around his torso as if injured, blood pouring from a head wound. But still, he smiled. Still, he was whole.

“He’s alive. He made it out.” Her heart lifted with the corners of her mouth, a sob rattling through her chest at that smile. He had survived the fire somehow. Survived Malcolm’s death too.

Emberlyn struggled to stand, her burning lungs protesting.

Now she and Étienne could be together.

She and Étienne could face the world, hand in hand, leaving this damned theater behind. Snowflakes on their tongues. Feet in the shallows of a lapping ocean. His smile limned in sunlight as they made their home in the mountains, his lingering gaze on hers, thumb brushing her lips. She staggered forward, ignoring the protests of her sisters as she tripped and stumbled toward him. She reached out her hand as he approached the doorway of the theater, a smile forming on her lips as his eyes lit up.

They could have it. They could have it all. Emberlyn let out another relieved cry as he stepped out of Le Théâtre de Feu and placed his foot onto the marble platform.

He stopped. Emberlyn did, too, her smile fading as Étienne’s expression darkened. His eyes flickered away from Emberlyn to the sky.

“No,” she whispered. Her stomach plummeted before her mind had fully processed what was happening. Before it had noticed the moonbeams scattered along his face.

His skin melting into dust and smoke.

He moved back swiftly, back into the safety of the theater and out of the light of the moon. But his skin kept swirling, fading. He looked down at himself, frowning, pulling his hands away from his stomach.

Revealing the fatal wound punched through it as panic overcame Emberlyn’s relief.

Without Malcolm’s curse to piece him back together, with his body so battered, so wounded, Étienne began to fade into ash.

The exhilaration Emberlyn had felt only moments before melted into anguish. A low moan escaped her lips. Étienne’s molten eyes dropped back to hers as his skin bubbled and flaked, regret and fear burning inside them.

“No, Étienne! You can’t! You can’t leave me!” she screamed, and she raced forward. To do what, she didn’t know, but something. To hold him so he couldn’t drift apart. To let the sheer weight of her grief and anger force him into something whole, to mend his injuries. Whatever it was, he couldn’t leave her alone in this world. The twin to her dark soul couldn’t die.

Étienne only gave her a last smile as he watched Emberlyn struggle toward him, as fast as her burning lungs would allow, her fingertips outstretched to grab hold of him.

“Dance again, Emberlyn,” she heard him say as he was blown away with the wind, and Emberlyn fell to her knees, left grappling with nothing but smoke and dust.

Emberlyn stared at the spot where Étienne had stood, her hands lifted as if in prayer. She could do nothing as the world behind her silenced, becoming witness to her loss, her arms automatically wrapping around her torso to hold herself together. A strange noise wound its way out of her throat as she slumped, her mind forcing her back to the last night they shared together. How he had nearly given voice to the truth left unspoken between them, but that she hadn’t let him say. Couldn’t bear to hear him say in that moment.

“I love you, too,” she whispered to the night.

She knelt on the marble canopy as the snow fell mournfully around her.

Epilogue

The Opening Act

Emberlyn wasn’t sure if she could cross the threshold into Le Théâtre de Feu ever again. She stood, frozen, mere feet from the spot Étienne had crumbled to dust all those weeks ago.

She had tried to harden herself to it. To the memory of falling to her knees in front of the theater as Étienne became one with the night. The heavy stone of grief, unlike anything she had felt before as half of her soul floated away into nothing, dropping into her stomach, threatening to drag her through the floor and down, down, into the darkest pits. She hadn’t even felt the arms of her sisters that had wrapped round her, held her as she howled.

But she’d learned of ways to cope. Had been able to keep the loss at bay as her new future laid itself down, piece by piece, before her. Despite the pain of it all, despite the agony of Emberlyn’s love for Étienne, she believed he was somehow happy. He was somehow at peace, and perhaps had even found the mountains Emberlyn had pictured the both of them escaping to one day. She had always hoped that there was something more beyond death, after all.

With Malcolm dead, with his curse severed, the world became a possibility again. Life became a possibility again, when she was ready to face it. All the choices for a young girl with a hunger for something, anything, were presented to Emberlyn. It was terrifying. It was overwhelming.

It was exhilarating. When she was ready, she knew she would live for both herself and the boy who never got his second chance. Live for the love that had been her strength in her darkest hour.

Mademoiselle Fournier had sworn her protection to the former Marionettes. With the curse destroyed, the Marionettes could tell her the full truth, but none of them did. None of them wanted to—never expected to be believed, anyway. They said as much as they needed to, to ensure Malcolm’s reputation was devoured by the flames he had given his earthly body over to. “Manrow” became a curse within the theater community—a villainous figure whose name was whispered only to condemn.

Mademoiselle Fournier gave the former Marionettes a home to hide in, beds to fight their nightmares away in, and safety as the memories from their previous lives came cautiously dancing back. She threw herself into providing as much as she could for the traumatized girls who she knew had lost everything.

Slowly, their memories returned. Grace remembered who her mother was, where she had once lived, and was keen to get back to New Kora in the hope she would remember how to get to her home city. The others, too, began to piece together their former lives, until they knew it was time to return to New Kora to discover their lost paths. Emberlyn herself had begun to remember more—the red hair that ran in her family. Her sister, Florisa, and how Emberlyn adored her. She, like the others, was keen to find them once more. Dreamed so often of reuniting with the family she finally remembered, who she loved dearly. Who she knew would be desperate to see her again.

The girls agreed to stick together for the time being. To make the journey back to their old theater in New Kora, try to locate their families’ contact details. They knew Malcolm would have them somewhere—addresses for the letters he used to make them write convincing their families all was well. Then they would part ways to follow their own memories and retrace their steps until they found their homes again.

The thought of leaving each other was devastating. But it was right. These girls’ paths should never have crossed, never would have if not for the darkness that had once bound them together. They agreed, however, that they would meet again on the steps of Malcolm’s theater, a year on from the moment they parted ways. Exchange addresses and stories and see how they had all flourished.

But first, Emberlyn’s path led her here—back to the slowly rebuilding shell of the desolate theater, empty of life and laughter. Haunted with memories of fear and devastation.

Emberlyn stood still, unable to move. The doors of the theater yawned open before her as she stared at them, heart hammering against her chest. She felt weighed down by the layers of glistening snow that crept over her shoes and up her ankles, the cold gnawing at her.

A hand entwined with hers and squeezed.

“Ready?” Aleida asked. Emberlyn broke her gaze from the double doors and looked at her best friend.

With the curse no longer rotting away inside her, attempting to snap bones and gnaw on flesh, Aleida had flourished. Her eyes were bright and no longer ringed with sickly shadows, her skin healthy. She walked straighter, taller, belonging to herself in a way Emberlyn had never seen before.

Emberlyn smiled at Aleida and nodded. Together, they crossed the threshold and walked into the marble shine of Le Théâtre de Feu.

It was like looking at an old photograph—nothing quite in its place. A mismatched copy of what it once had been. The vast foyer wore a mask to mimic its earlier sumptuous self. It seemed to watch them mutely, its shoulders drooped with a heavy weight as its core fell apart, no recognition in its gaze. It was still beautiful, in the way that broken, abandoned buildings that had once been so much to so many often were.

People’s heads turned to track them as the girls moved into the auditorium and began their slow walk down the aisle, but nobody stopped to question them. Mademoiselle Fournier had made sure they wouldn’t be denied access. That they could do what they needed to do, undisturbed. Emberlyn ignored the eyes that followed her. The curious gazes of those who had all read the news articles about what had happened to her—to all the Marionettes, though of course they didn’t know the full truth.

The stage had been rebuilt first. It was a darker shade of wood than it had been, and a new drape—purple and gold—was tucked up into the newly constructed rafters. Most of the seats had been removed, the places where they’d stood still empty, so the auditorium seemed vaster and emptier than ever before. The chandelier had not yet been replaced, and decorators suspended by harnesses were busy covering up the burns scorched along the ceiling with fresh paint in pastel hues.

Emberlyn swallowed and set her sight on the stage.

Her stomach writhed and her heart twisted, cold adrenaline pumping through veins that sometimes felt so gloriously free of dark magic. Though she wanted to turn and run, she wanted to do this even more. She wanted to do this for herself.

And for Étienne.

Emberlyn climbed the steps and moved to the center of the stage. The construction workers instantly scattered, leaving her with the stage all to herself. Aleida paused at the base of the steps and stared up at Emberlyn with a mixture of pride and grief. Emberlyn turned to face the empty space where an audience had once watched her dance against her will.

She wriggled her fingertips. Completely hers. She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders.

She felt it. That pull. That shuddering something inside her body. She swallowed, her body shaking as a familiar sensation grew—a whisper that became a roar.

Étienne’s last words ran through her mind.

Dance again, Emberlyn.

The auditorium transformed before her in her mind’s eye. Her day gown extended, becoming a glorious costume of gem-colored tulle and peacock feathers, her hair braided into a crown atop her head to show the slopes of her neck. The audience appeared, anonymous faces erupting into applause and cheers as Emberlyn extended her arms, balanced on the balls of her feet, bowed her body in a graceful arc as the lights went low. As the audience silenced.

Pure bliss and joy and bitter thrill ran through her veins as the audience watched with bated breath for the brilliant Emberlyn to begin her show, upon the rebuilt stage of Le Théâtre de Feu.

No longer a princess, but something so much more.

Despite everything, despite the dark threads of grief that still twisted in her veins, an ember of passion and love for her dream remained. Though it had been buried by the ash of fear and hatred, a flicker of a flame still thrived. And now, it caught.

It burned.

Dance again, Emberlyn.

“This is for you, my love.” Emberlyn raised her arms, opening her eyes again to stare out at the empty auditorium.

She let that fire of passion burn, threading through every inch of her body. The love, the hope, the bravery to keep going despite all she had endured, all she had thought sacrificed, lost to the ash of her life burned down.

But nothing was ever truly lost if she did not want it to be so, and it was time to reclaim.

“And this is for me, too,” she whispered.

With that, she began.

Acknowledgments

Girls of Dark Divine was a novel many years in the making. It began early in 2021 during the UK’s second lockdown, handwritten by candlelight on long nights with little else to do. It was the first book I gave myself permission to write without worrying whether other people would read it, allowing myself to lean into this dark, angry voice that seemed to spill through Emberlyn.

The fact that you, a reader I probably don’t know, are even reading these words is a feeling I will never get over. So my first thanks go to you: Wherever you are, and however you stumbled across this book of mine, thank you!

Next, thank you to Mum. There was never any question that I would dedicate my first book to you. From buying my first notebook when I was six, when I decided I wanted to be an author (which I bet you don’t remember), to eagerly reading everything I’ve ever written, you’ve been there from the start in so many different ways and cheered me on the whole time.

Thank you to Dad, who is the reason I am a reader. If I hadn’t grown up a witness to your love for reading, I wouldn’t have spent my childhood with my nose in a book.

My thanks to my husband. I knew you were a good one when you pulled a book out of your coat pocket on our first date. I mean, who does that??? I loved it and I love you. Thank you for letting me steal a whole room for my books to live in!

To my agent, Alice Sutherland-Hawes—signing with you was an absolute dream. I’m glad you couldn’t see all the terrible celebratory dancing I did. Thank you for loving my book, for being the first to put Girls of Dark Divine out there into the world, and for being such a voracious champion for Emberlyn.

To my US editor at Delacorte Press, Kelsey Horton. Thank you for everything you’ve done. I always knew Emberlyn was in such good hands with you, and I am still so chuffed you wanted to work with me. Thank you also to everyone else at Delacorte who works behind the scenes so tirelessly to bring Girls of Dark Divine into the world, especially to jacket designer Trisha Previte, interior designer Michelle Canoni, copy editor Colleen Fellingham, managing editor Tamar Schwartz, and production manager Tim Terhune. Thanks also to Jensine Eckwall for the beautiful and intricate map.

My UK editor at Usborne, Alice Moloney. Your enthusiasm for my story throughout the various drafts always blew me away. I was so delighted to have such a brilliant editor giving Emberlyn a home in the UK. Thank you also to Becky Walker for your input in the last stages, as well as to everyone else who helped bring the book to life life; Rebecca Hill, Charlotte James, Gareth Collinson, Will Steele, Sarah Cronin, Hannah Reardon-Stewart, Jess Feichtlbauer, Fritha Lindqvist, and Sylvia Gaitas.

To the wonderful Elle Tesch, supremely talented author and mentor extraordinaire. I am low-key terrified of social media, but I am so thankful that through the power of the internet, you and I met. You were my first yes, the first to make me believe that I might have finally cracked it, and with your incredible support, I did! Thank you for naming one of the new characters you suggested and that I definitely needed, and for being there every step of the way. I cannot wait to see what else you do.

There are so, so many more people I have to thank; for everyone who developed a mentorship program that allowed people like me to get one step closer to their dream, and to all those who took the time to provide me with feedback at any point, my endless thanks. To anyone who asked to read my book, asked about its publication journey, and was excited to see Girls of Dark Divine out in the wild, thank you! These small moments of enthusiasm mean the world to me.

To my cats, you’re the cutest. Please stop digging up the carpets. Love you both.

Lastly, another big thank you again to you, reader. I can’t wait to share my future stories with you.

About the Author

E. V. Woods is the debut author of Girls of Dark Divine. She is a UK-based author who has been in love with writing since she was six years old. She graduated from the University of Birmingham with a degree in English Literature with Creative Writing and worked in marketing for several years. She lives close to the countryside with her husband and two adorable rescue cats.

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