“Congrats. Encore,” Kalla spoke drily. “You deserve it.”
“Oh, don’t be down. Even prima donnas have to fail at something.”
“I did not fail.” Glumly, she tossed her cards to the table. “Though I am without performers now, so excuse me for sulking.”
Canary’s sharp victory smile rounded in amusement. “Just because you didn’t win doesn’t mean you lose us. We’ve been dying to get back on that stage and see those judges weep.”
A spike of relief went through Kallia, bubbling into a laugh. “You’re obnoxious, you know that?”
“Couldn’t have you going all soft on me.” The girl shoved her good-naturedly in the arm before turning toward a Conqueror who’d tapped her on the shoulder. Kallia reached out to help gather the chaos of cards into order, only to find Ira pausing at the incomplete Court of Flames.
“Interesting,” the seamstress muttered, drawing the last card waiting in the main deck. The Crown Jewel, of course. She pushed it in Kallia’s direction to complete the set. The Court of Flames, at last.
“What?” Kallia said, unnerved by the storm of emotions flashing across the woman’s face. “What do they say?”
Before she could linger on the dark crowns of the royals, the intricate black lace-work flames bordering the sides, Ira swept the entire row back into her hand. “You were looking for the hand of the Alastors. That says enough.”
The master of the House watched night rise outside his window, over the Woods and past the glimmers of a cityscape that towered like blades above the forest.
Another day, another night.
For the past few days, he’d distracted himself by devising new tricks for the stage. With the wave of a finger, he conducted instruments to bend to the new, changing melodies in his head. He stole the shadows of objects and gave them new masters—a candle casting the shadow of a goblet, a stack of books showing that of a sword’s. He’d destroyed the grand chandelier hanging from his ceiling again and again, only to piece it back together in one snap many times over.
All to put off creating a new headliner.
The club had gone long enough without one. The people could only be amused by simple drinks, games, and memories for so long. She wasn’t returning, and there was no hope of that changing after his last visit. Her fury, the hatred with which she regarded him now. It burned all the ways she’d looked at him once, and the memory sliced at him every day since.
He’d waited long enough.
He needed a star.
An illusion.
How she would laugh, if she could see him now: designing someone to take her place, resorting to deception to keep his club afloat.
Or perhaps she would regret, if only a little.
Her joy hadn’t all been pretend.
Raking a hand through his hair, he paced over the broken glass covering his room. What had been real and what hadn’t no longer mattered. The one real person in his life was no longer beside him, and he knew what he had to do.
Grudgingly, the master delved deep into his memory, plucking a figure like a flower from a garden. A dancer like her, but from a long time ago. He couldn’t fully remember the face or how they’d met, and that was almost more preferable. He covered the blank slate with a mask, crafted her in his mind more easily than he could’ve imagined. No memories or thoughts, no emotions or bonds to cloud her purpose.
It was easy to build a performer like this, nothing more than the shadow of a person.
With a snap, the illusion vanished from his mind and took shape in the center of the room, a specter at first. A faded figure slowly gaining more color, more shape. More life.
Her bare feet solidified over the floor covered in glinting shards. The sea of broken crystals from the crashed chandelier he hadn’t bothered to clean up yet. And as she walked upon them, pointing and flexing her toes, she uttered no cry of pain. No blood, no skin torn to the bone. She was just as much a part of his game of destruction and creation as the chandelier was. Foolishly, fixing one thing made him believe he could fix everything.
A lie he often told himself, whenever he looked out to the gates of the city. Small and quiet in the distance, but he knew better. Each time he’d made his rare visits over the years, he couldn’t leave fast enough.