Starswept Page 12

  Despite all the questions he’s answered in the past week, I still know so little about him. He’s deft at distracting me with tales of Adryil history and culture. Come to think of it, I don’t even know why he visits so often.

  I stop. “Why do you keep returning? I’m glad you do, but… if it’s Papilio you came for, well, you’ve already seen everything.”

  Dámiul continues walking, then stops with his back to me. “I come for you.”

  He must mean that he comes to continue teaching me to block telepathy. I approach him. “Why is it so important that I learn to block Adryil powers?”

  “Because I can’t stand the thought of someone erasing who you are and using you as a puppet.” He turns to face me, an intense look in his eyes. “I care about you, Iris, more than I meant to, and probably more than I should.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “What?”

  “Every time I see you, I remember why it was worthwhile to break into Papilio. I contacted you for the school of Artists, but now, each time I visit, I leave remembering just you.” His expression grows pensive. “The moment you touched the Zexa device, it opened a telepathic bridge between us, and the more time I spent with you, the more I sensed it… there’s something wondrous about you. I keep asking the Creator: ‘Why her?’ If you’d been anyone else, my world would have turned on as I meant it to. But there’s something endlessly fascinating about you. I’ve never known anyone so passionate and untiring, even in the face of darkness and doubt. Though meeting you changed everything, I’m glad I did. I return, day after day, because you’re my sanctuary from the insane world I live in.”

  My heart pounds so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it. No one’s ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m all he can see. Still, I can’t help noticing his vagueness. “You mean the world you won’t tell me about?”

  “If there were a way to tell you without endangering you, I would confess everything.” Dámiul looks away. “I’ve already confessed too much.”

  Yet I’ve never felt more clueless.

  The Wind Ensemble’s bright song comes to an end. For several seconds, there’s only stillness. Then, a lonely clarinet melody rises, accompanied by a soft, steady beat.

  Not knowing what else to do, I place my clutch on a nearby table, then offer my hand to Dámiul. “Will you dance with me?”

  Dámiul knits his eyebrows. He places his holographic hand on mine, and I swear, I can feel the heat of his touch. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Neither did I, until tonight.” I attempt a playful smile. “But how hard can it be to step to a beat?”

  I raise my left hand to his shoulder, and he places his hand on my back. Entire galaxies lie between us, and yet I feel so close to him. Perhaps it’s because we’re connected on a level higher than the physical world around us. He’s seen my mind, seen me play, seen me at my worst. And yet, he says I’m his sanctuary.

  Everything about him—his presence, his words, his eyes—calls to me, and I’m helpless to resist.

  I don’t want to resist.

  I take a step, and he follows uncertainly. Usually so assured, for once he seems nervous. For the first time since I watched Security take him away, I see the vulnerability that lies within him. I’d forgotten that he’s just a teenager like me, and that perhaps the same confusion torments us both.

  We move slowly with the song, neither of us really leading. We couldn’t if we wanted to, I guess, since in reality, we’re both nothing but air.

  Yet, he’s so much more to me.

  He was the one who taught me to look within myself for that kernel of truth that’s always there. The often subtle but ultimately undeniable instinct that tells me what I know is true. It tells me that no, my feelings for him are not just the fantasies of a hopeless romantic.

  Perhaps it’s the music, or the stars surrounding us, or the words he spoke to me, but I’m finally able to listen. It wasn’t only his face that captivated me the night he entered Papilio—it was what I sensed when he looked at me, and what I continue to see each time we meet. A heart that’s both kind and passionate, that’s not afraid of anything. The more I learn about him, the more I want to know. Perhaps, if I dared think it, I could even love him.

  I should stop hiding behind my fears and confess as he did. If he sees what I see, his response will tell me so. I draw closer to him and look into his hypnotic eyes. “I just realized I haven’t told you—I care about you, too. Every time you leave, a part of me dies a little, because I never know when—or if—you’ll come back. You’re such a mystery to me, and yet I feel like I know you, and I can’t stand the thought of you disappearing.”

  Dámiul places his hand on my face, his eyes never leaving mine. He leans in, and our foreheads almost touch. For a moment, I forget that he’s not really here. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you. If I could return…” His expression fills with sorrow, and he turns away. “I think we both dream of the impossible.”

  Despite the heaviness in my heart, a smile creeps onto my lips. No, I’m not imagining things. I can tell from his words and expressions that, in another life, he might come to love me as well. It shouldn’t matter since, as he said, we both dream of the impossible. Ours is a tale that can only end in tragedy. He’s forbidden from returning, and I’ll probably never leave. Even if I make it to his world, he won’t be there anymore. Circumstances and realities separate us, as much as the lightyears do.

  But not tonight.

  Just for tonight, my prince has come. When it’s over, he’ll disappear again, possibly forever. Which is what makes this moment all the more precious.

  His body may be a trick of light, but his mind, his heart, his soul—those parts that really matter—are here with me.

  “Just dance with me,” I whisper.

  And he does, without another word.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE TRAIN STATION LOOKS BLUE under the fading daylight. With my viola case strapped to my back and the garment bag containing my concert dress in my hand, I make my way into the low, flat building along with the other Papilians performing in the Spectacle.

  I barely notice them. Ever since the Wintertime Masquerade, I haven’t been able to take my mind off of Dámiul. No matter how many times I try to dismiss my useless longing, my heart won’t stop fluttering each time I remember the way he looked at me.

  I descend the staircase leading to the underground tracks, trying to bring my mind back to reality. It’s useless to pine, for I can never be with Dámiul. First of all, he’s on another planet, and I’ll likely never leave mine. Secondly, he’s Adryil, and I’m human. And thirdly… I can’t actually think of a thirdly. But the first two should be enough to keep my wandering mind from creating any more fantasies.

  Yet, the longing persists. The memory of his soft words makes my heart glow in a way I’ve never known before. I didn’t think it was possible to feel both so wonderful and so miserable at once.

  I stop at the bottom of the stairs. A crowd of Papilians waits on the wide platform by the tracks. Seeing Milo a few feet ahead of me, I approach him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  He glances at me. “Hey, Iris.”

  The silver bullet of a train shoots through the tunnel ahead, sending a cool gust howling through the station, and then draws to a halt. On each of the seven cars, a wide screen displays the name of an Art in vivid purple letters. The two Orchestra cars sit at the back, adjacent to the Ballet’s. Milo and I head toward them.

  Fresh excitement courses through me. I’m going to perform before thousands of Adryil and Earthling elites. Not just in the pit this time, but on a magnificent stage, where they can all see me. And this train is going to take me to that performance hall in Charlotte, a hundred miles east of here.

  Milo glances at me. “Excited?”

  “I can’t wait.” I adjust the viola case on my shoulder. “How about you?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” His eyebrows tilt with worry. �
�Just a little nervous.”

  “You’ll do great.”

  “What if I don’t?” He stops walking and faces me. “I’ve poured everything I’ve got into this performance, and if it’s not good enough… I don’t have it in me to do any better.”

  “Come on, Milo.” I give him an encouraging smile. “I’ve seen you at rehearsals, and I think you’re the best dancer at Papilio.”

  “You only say that because you’re my friend.” He continues down the platform. “I know I’m not as good as Nikolai. Ever since I took his old role, Mistress Duval keeps asking why I can’t be more like him.”

  I rush to keep up with his brisk pace. “That’s odd. Just a few weeks ago, she was asking him why he couldn’t be more like you.”

  Milo scowls. “That was only because he wasn’t practicing. I, on the other hand, have worked until I wanted to drop dead, and I still get nothing but criticism. Sometimes, I wish I’d never been promoted. Would have a better chance at being hired as a standout soloist than as a disappointing principal.”

  I recall how Alfred Winters aged out because he was merely good when he was supposed to be great, how he might have been better off remaining a section player. But I refuse to believe that could happen to Milo. “Directors are always hardest on their favorites. Mistress Duval wouldn’t have picked you if she didn’t believe in you. They’re going to love you out there.”

  Milo attempts a smile. “I hope so.”

  “Milo!” Sabina waves from one of the train’s doors. “Where are you going?”

  Realizing we’ve walked past the Ballet’s car, I stop. “How are things going with her?”

  “All right, I guess. I’ll see you backstage.” Milo heads toward Sabina, his expression no more enthusiastic than his flat tone was.

  My heart sinks. He seems so unhappy, and even finally winning Sabina over hasn’t changed that.

  Feeling helpless, I step into the first Orchestra car and enter the storage room. The rod for garment bags looks full. I shove the others aside to make room for mine and hang it up. After checking to make sure the edge with my name on it is facing out, I leave the storage room.

  An unwelcome voice assaults my ears the minute I step out. “Can you believe it?” Estelle shows Beka the holographic program projected from her watch. “They even included a note saying that I’m the first Papilian to perform ‘Butterfly’s Lament.’ Master Raucci says all the reviewers are excited to see me—I still can’t believe he’s letting me play it.”

  I grimace. If she hadn’t known I’d chosen the Lament for my audition, she wouldn’t have dared play it for Master Raucci. I’ve accepted that she stole my piece and sabotaged my instrument, but does she have to act so superior?

  Estelle catches my eye and steps in front of me. “What’re you looking at?”

  In no mood for a confrontation, I simply say, “Excuse me.”

  “You’re not still upset at me, are you?”

  Of course I am, but what good would yelling at her do? The competition is over, and I lost. All I can do is be more careful next time. So I settle for throwing her an icy glare and try to maneuver around her.

  She blocks me again, and her green gaze bores into mine, sparking with malice. “I’m the Principal Violist, and the solo was meant for me. You had no right to try to steal it with a stunt piece.”

  My mouth falls open. “I’m not the one who sabotaged someone’s instrument.” There are a thousand more things I could say to her, but I’m above that kind of arguing.

  I push past Estelle without another word, but I feel her gaze following as I continue through the train.

  If Milo’s still nervous, he doesn’t show it on the stage. Equally invisible is any hesitation he has toward his princess. His expression carries such longing as he kneels before Sabina, who stands en pointe before him with one leg raised behind her in an elegant arabesque, that he must still love her.

  I recognize the two-measure cue before the violas come in and turn back to Mistress Asif in time for my entrance. As much as I want to keep watching Milo, we’re coming up on the big finale. I follow the ebb and flow of Mistress Asif’s baton as the music rolls toward its climax. Behind her, the colorful, glowing eyes of the Adryil who fill most of the seats accent the shadows in the audience.

  Mistress Asif cues the cutoff. I turn back, eager to see Milo receive his applause. Since it’s the end of the Ballet’s segment, Nikolai runs on stage first. The audience cheers as he takes his bows. Then Sabina steps forward for hers, and the audience grows a little louder.

  Milo walks up center stage. To my dismay, the clapping softens to a polite spattering. He smiles, but I can see the disappointment in his eyes. I grit my teeth, wanting to shake each member of the audience, demanding, “What’s wrong with you?”

  Valeria runs on stage, and roars of approval greet her. I’ve always thought she danced like a dull imitation of the great ballerinas who came before her, with no personality of her own. But audiences are fickle, and they’re easily fooled by the kind of crowd-pleasing antics Valeria likes to pull. I don’t know enough about dance to judge Milo’s technique, but I found his performance far more captivating in its sincerity.

  Mistress Asif motions for us to leave the pit, and I exit with everyone else. I enter the backstage area. Seeing Milo ahead, I run to him.

  “Milo!”

  He doesn’t react, and I run faster.

  “Milo, wait!” I grab him by the shoulder.

  He shakes me off and keeps walking. “Leave me alone.”

  “You were fantastic. Really—”

  “What do you know?” He stops and faces me. “Everything is all fairytales with happy endings to you. I see things for what they are, and the fact is, I’m no good. I just wish I realized it before I wasted all that effort.”

  Stunned by his anger, I watch him walk away. I want desperately to cheer him up, to tell him that this audience is blind and that he’ll do better next time, but how can I talk to him when he seems determined to see the worst in everything?

  “Iris?”

  Hearing Dámiul’s voice in my head, I tear my eyes away from Milo’s retreating form. Maybe he’ll listen after taking some time to recover from tonight’s disappointment.

  “Give me a minute.” I go to the room where the instrument cases are stored. As I hoped, it’s deserted. “All right, it’s safe.”

  Dámiul’s hologram flickers on before me, and lines of light distort his image. For several seconds, he struggles to appear. This is strange—he’s never had trouble before. His hologram steadies, and my worry increases.

  Something’s terribly wrong. He looks haggard, pale, as if someone has drained the energy from him. His eyes have lost some of their luminosity, appearing a duller shade of blue.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I’m afraid I must, once again, apologize for being late.” Even his voice sounds weak.

  Worried, I put my hand on his holographic arm, hoping the illusion of my touch will comfort him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just tired.”

  Before I can respond, the door to the instrument room bursts open. Dámiul flickers out erratically.

  Beka, who stands in the door, gapes at the spot where he just stood. “What was that?”

  “What?” I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about, but any confusion she sees on my face is real. Dámiul’s always been quick to disappear before—what happened just now?

  Beka shakes her head. “Never mind. Master Raucci wants to see you in Office B. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “Just come with me.”

  Still holding my viola, I follow her toward the offices at the back of the backstage area. What’s going on?

  The door to Office B opens slightly. Beka waves her hand at it, gesturing at me to enter. I slip in through the narrow opening, giving her a puzzled look, but she says nothing. The door slams shut.

  “Good, you’re here.”

  I
hear Master Raucci’s voice and whirl. “Yes, sir?”

  A retching sound catches my attention. My eyes grow wide at the sight of Estelle curled up in the corner, shaking as she holds an opaque white bag to her mouth. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she struggles to breathe. What’s wrong with her?

  “Iris!” Master Raucci snaps his fingers in my face. “Do you still have ‘Butterfly’s Lament’ memorized?”

  “What?” I blink, not understanding.

  “As you can see, Estelle is in no shape to perform.” His voice is calm, but the way he taps his fingers against his arms betray his anxiety. “The audience was promised ‘Butterfly’s Lament.’ Do you have it memorized?”

  My eyes wander back to Estelle. She throws me a look of pure hatred, but can’t seem to speak between her sobs.

  He wants me to go on in her place. Alone in front of thousands. Even though I can’t believe what’s happening, I find myself nodding.

  “Good.” Master Raucci relaxes visibly. “You have five minutes before the Octet finishes, and then it’s time. Get ready.”

  “Y-Yes, sir.” Still stunned, I turn toward the door.

  “She’s behind this!” Estelle’s cry buzzes in my ears.

  I spin toward her. She seems ready to melt the flesh off my face with her glare.

  Master Raucci approaches her. “Now, now, Estelle. A panic attack—”

  “She did this to me!” Estelle points at me.

  “How dare you?” I clench my hand around my instrument, infuriated by the false accusation. “After everything you did, how dare you?”

  “Iris!” Master Raucci claps his hands. “Go!”

  I try to ignore Estelle’s hysterics as I leave the office. The door shuts behind me, blocking out her retching and sobbing.

  This is beyond insanity. Estelle, who’s always been so haughty, fell to pieces five minutes before her moment of triumph. How can that be? I’ve heard of it happening to others in the past, but I never imagined she’d join their numbers. All this time, was her arrogance a mask, hiding a desperate, terrified performer? If so, then she’s a spectacular actress. She must have fooled Master Raucci too, or he would have prepared an understudy. Instead, he turned to me—me—to take her place. I should be excited, but too much terror fills my heart. What if I ruin it? No one would hire the Artist who botched the most famous viola solo in the world.