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.
I automatically return to the case storage area and begin tuning my instrument. My mind can’t seem to focus on anything other than the familiar, mechanical motions of plucking my strings and twisting the pegs.
Colored light flickers beside me, and I know it’s Dámiul’s hologram. My mind is too blank to react. I just draw my bow across the C and G strings, making sure they harmonize.
“What was that about?” he asks.
“I’m playing the Lament.” My two lower strings ring out in a perfect fifth. I move on to the middle ones. “I… I’m replacing Estelle.”
“That’s fantastic.” His face brightens.
“I-I don’t know if I can do it.” Another perfect fifth. I’m scarcely aware of what I’m doing as I move on to the last two strings.
“I’ve heard you play this song a dozen times. Believe me, you can.”
He sounds sincere, but his words don’t impact me. I continue tuning my instrument because it’s the only thing I know how to do. A high-pitched beep sounds over the comm, indicating that it’s time for the next act to take their places.
Which, in this case, means just me.
I approach the door, and it hits me: I’m about to walk on stage and play a legendary solo never before performed by a Papilian. Everyone’s anticipating a shattering performance from the great Estelle, and instead, they’re getting a section player who barely made it into the ensemble. My face goes cold, and I freeze, suddenly nauseous.
Dámiul reaches toward me. “Don’t be afraid. I know you can do this. And I’ll be there for you.”
I sense his touch on my shoulder and nod. Inhaling deeply, I walk toward the wings. Scared as I am, I can’t back out.
The audience is waiting.
I’m suddenly aware of the Zexa device in my skirt pocket, and I feel Dámiul’s presence follow me even though I can’t see him.
My breath shakes. If I’d come prepared, sparkling in a soloist’s gown instead of shrinking in my simple black concert dress, I might feel slightly better. The audience claps for the Octet. There are so many people, staggeringly many, and I’ve never even played for them outside the Pit. How can I face them alone?
I’m not alone. Dámiul’s with me, and I’m playing for him.
The Octet walks off, but I barely see them. This fear—I wonder if it’s anything close to how Butterfly felt when she learned her prince was dying.
The audience quiets. A soft beep from behind me tells me it’s time. I stride onto the stage, telling myself the story of Butterfly to distract myself from the thousands and thousands of eyes staring at me.
Once upon a time, there was a magic kingdom where people could transform into the animal closest to their souls. Butterfly was as beautiful and lively as her wings would suggest.
I stop center stage. The lights around me dim, and a watery spotlight surrounds me.
In a kingdom above the clouds, a prince looked down and was enchanted by the girl’s loveliness. He broke the laws of his kind to descend to Earth.
Like how Dámiul violated interstellar laws to enter Papilio. As I bring up my instrument, I catch the glimmer of a faint hologram in the wings and know it’s him.
They fell in love at once, but after three days, the prince’s strength began to fade. An old prophet told Butterfly that the prince had to return to his kingdom—or he would die.
That’s where the Lament begins. I think of Dámiul and how a part of me wants to cry each time he leaves, since I can never know for sure if he’ll return. I play the opening melody, pouring my longing into the strings.
The prince’s father sent his guards to bring his wayward son back. Butterfly watched, helpless, as they took her love away.
I recall how powerless I felt when Security dragged Dámiul out of the quad. Because of them, I’ll never feel the warmth of his touch. My chest tightens, and I dig my bow into the strings.
Every day, Butterfly looked to the clouds. She could see her prince’s face and knew he loved her still. But no matter how she cried, no matter how he fought the guards, he couldn’t return to her.
No matter how I dream, no matter how fierce his spirit, Dámiul will never return to me. If I tried to tell someone how much that hurts, my words would surely fail. So I let the melody speak for me, and I mean every mournful, sighing note.
One day, unable to stand the heartache, Butterfly transformed into her namesake creature and flew toward the clouds, determined to be with her prince again.
My fingers flutter up and down the strings. Around and around she flies, losing pieces of herself as she reaches for the impossible. The aching in my heart deepens. I can reach for Dámiul all I want, but my hands will only grasp empty air. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying, won’t keep acting like he’s here.
But he’s a ghost, and I’m playing make-believe. I almost want to laugh as I share in Butterfly’s madness. Why, Creator? Why send me someone I can never have?
She kept flying until her heart gave out. With her dying breath, she flapped her wings, soaring up in one final burst of energy.
My finger leaps up to the Lament’s final note on the highest string, and I hold it out as long as my bow will let me, letting its wail tell the world how I, too, reach in vain.
She fell to the ground, lifeless.
I lift my bow. Even the most valiant of efforts can’t last forever. I wait for the reverberations to die down and realize that my cheeks are wet.
I did it. I relax and look to the audience for a reaction.
Silence.
Clapping hands—one person, alone but enthusiastic. More join in, and the thunder spreads through the auditorium. I can hardly make out the “Bravas” of the Earthlings through the Adryil’s enthusiastic cries of “Toká!”
“Iris… you were amazing.” Dámiul’s breath of a voice feels warm in my head. I look to the wings, but he’s no longer visible. In his place, Master Raucci grins and applauds with the audience. Vera, here in holographic form, stands beside him, her face glowing with pride. Master Raucci must have called her at the last minute.
I bow. As delighted as I am that the audience appreciates me, I can’t erase the aching in my heart.
Enough, Iris. I’ve indulged my mythical tragedy, and it’s time to return to the real world.
Master Raucci motions for me to approach, and I leave the stage. As soon as I reach the wings, he spreads his arms. “Brava, Iris! Not since Katarin has an audience made a noise like that!”
“Thank you, sir.” My mind is still in a haze, dulling the joy I should feel.
Vera beams, almost sobbing with happiness. “That’s my Iris!”
I walk backstage. Several Orchestra members congratulate me, and I nod, attempting to look appropriately thrilled even though I’m still reeling.
“This was her plan!” Estelle’s shrill voice is audible even through the office’s thick walls. “She poisoned me!”
I ignore her and continue on my way. A sudden emptiness hollows my heart; Dámiul’s presence is gone. It’s more than the usual absence—it’s desolation. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye unless it was urgent, especially now. Something on Adrye must be pulling him away from me.
Butterfly’s lament may be over, but mine’s just beginning. If Dámiul really disappears this time, I may find myself crying to the stars, as Butterfly cried to the clouds.