Alexei, a brainwashed seventeen-year-old boy, was headed into a crowded theater with a loaded gun.
I, cupping my hand to catch the blood rushing from the throbbing wound on my head where Alexei pistol-whipped me, was sprinting down the steps to stop him.
My skull was pounding as much as my heart, as hard as my feet hitting the floor of the theater.
The lights were dimmed, and the sound of the ballet filled Masaniello Hall. Act Two of Le Papillon was underway. Even as I scanned the dark, crowded room for the shape of Alexei or Franziska, I couldn’t help but steal glances at what was unfolding onstage.
Emma was dancing, looking as radiant and unharmed as she had the night before. Apparently, they leave Farfalla unscathed and untainted until she touches the torch. Her butterfly back-up dancers, however, didn’t look so clean.
Great splotches of violet and blue bruising graced their exposed arms and legs, stark against their white costumes. Some had gashes, imprints of Hamza’s fingernails, scabbed over and tinged violet at the edges. They danced in a swirl around Farfalla and Prince Djalma, who also appeared unhurt, as he tries to steal a kiss. That, plus the pale indigo stage light that reflected brilliantly against the shine of Farfalla’s wings and scar tissue, provoked a despicable thought within me.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen.
My attention was jerked away from the hypnotic image as something else caught my eye. The smallest sliver of yellow light, down below the seating area, coming from a door being cracked open. A dark shadow slipped inside, and the door swung silently shut.
I moved as quickly and quietly as I could across the darkened back of the theater. Luckily, Hamza had just interrupted Farfalla’s and the Prince’s coy courtship, flying into yet another jealous rage. I knew the more bloodshed on display, the more the distracted the crowd.
Hamza wasn’t wearing the same dark make up she had been the night before. Instead, her eyes themselves had been blackened by the fists of the fairies. She had the same brilliant hematomas as the butterflies that still swirled around her. I could tell by the slight bend at her waist that she was favoring her right side, like she had a broken rib or two.
Still, she tore at the other dancers around her with as much fury and as little mercy as she had in Act One.
I had made it to the door.
Anxiety and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I pushed through the doorway. Backstage at Masaniello Hall was far plainer than the performance theater. Instead of crown molding and smooth marble, there was only a long, bright white hallway, like in a hospital. Or, an insane asylum.
I crept carefully down the corridor. There were a few rooms with open doors. In some, dancers were getting themselves ready to go on, chatting excitedly and dabbing make up over minor cuts and bruises.
From others came cries and whimpers of pain. Most likely, dancers that had been injured so badly that they were unable to continue performing. I tried not to look into those rooms.
There was no sign of Alexei, and that familiar sense of dread once again crept down my neck. I was running out of time. Hamza had already started her second fit onstage, which meant we weren’t very long at all from the big event.
I kept moving until I reached a turn in the hallway. Before I crossed the corner, however, the sound of a low, cold, menacing voice stopped me.
“How could you lose my daughter? She’s in a wheelchair for Christ’s sake.”
Franziska.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilde,” a softer, calmer male voice replied. “I’m sure she’s just in the restroom. I’ll find her at once.”
Mr. Wilde said nothing, and I scrambled to hide as I heard footsteps approaching. But there was nothing, no empty room to duck into, nothing to disguise myself. I wiped as much blood as I could off of my face and head. I held my breath and pressed myself flat against the wall as a man came into view.
He was large and imposing, and as he turned the corner, a frigid air came drifting with him. He had steely gray hair, a crisp suit, and as he passed, the aroma of conditioned wood and money hit my nostrils.
Franziska and Alexei’s father, sponsor of Madame Taglioni’s Ballet, proprietor of Masaniello Hall—and he didn’t even spare a second glance for the reporter in his midst.
Eventually he turned another corner, and once his footsteps faded, I peeked around the wall in front of me. The other man was one that I recognized—the tall, gaunt man, dressed all in black, that had wheeled Franziska out onto stage that first night.
“He’s gone.”
As I watched, the 49th Farfalla herself rolled out of a room behind him.
Up close, I could see her injuries even clearer. Her shining burn scars matched the flaming red of her dress, the sleeve of which hung hollow around the warped stump where her arm would have been. She raised the other gently to the man in front of her.
“Are they ready, my love?” she asked, in the same tinny voice I had heard the night before.
He took her hand and pressed her fingertips gently to his cheek. “They’re ready. One at the entrance, one backstage, two on each wall, and the origin under the stage floorboards.”
I furrowed my brow. The origin? What were they talking about?
Franziska smiled at the man, her parchment skin looking as though it might crumble where it creased.
“How close are we?” she asked
“They’ve just begun the last tableau. I’d give it about eight minutes until Farfalla’s fire lights the fuse.”
She gave a sigh of contentment. “It’s going to feel so good,” she said dreamily, as the man returned her grin.
“Watching it all burn.”
Oh. Oh.
I couldn’t feel the pain in my head anymore, as I turned and sprinted back down the hallway, the way I had come. I burst back out into the theater, but only momentarily attracted a few of the patron’s attention as I did.
The stage was so blood-soaked that I probably just looked like another performer. Hamza had struck again, the butterflies had retaliated, and now everyone was smiling and horrendous.
Eight minutes. Eight minutes until the entire place was destroyed. That was enough time for me to get back up the stairs, out of the shack, and maybe even part of the way down the street. There was no telling what potency of explosives Franziska used—but I knew she had the money and power to make this as devastating as she desired.
I was halfway to the door when she caught my eye again.
Farfalla, spinning and leaping around her prince on stage, the picture of grace and beauty. But I could still sense it—those brief moments where I could see Emma coming through. Uncertain. Afraid. Knowing full well that she was mere minutes away from being set ablaze.
And yet, unaware that tonight, it seemed everyone would share her fate.
My body moved without the consent of my mind. Although my brain had voted overwhelming for flight, there was still something deep within me that wanted to fight. Suddenly, I was back down the aisle, down to those first three rows of seating that no one ever sat in, since they wanted to only see the blood and ash, not to feel or taste it.
I peered under the stage, through the gap in the wood slats. I could see it—a small bundle of wires, a large brick of powder, some duct tape. And I knew four identical packages lined the exterior of this building.
My hands gripped the side of the stage. I hoisted myself up. A few of the dancers looked at me with alarm, but none stopped dancing. My shoes squelched on the blood and skin that had collected on the floorboards. Off to the side, I could see it, Madame Taglioni’s bright eyes, one green, one blue, glinting bright in the flicker of firelight—
She was lighting the torch.
A fairy brought it out, dancing lightly and carefully with this open flame. Farfalla was spinning, spinning, until her attention was caught by its blaze. I could see Emma hesitate, her feet moving slow and heavy, a slight tear tracking its way through the make-up and blood spray on her cheek—
And then, her hand was in mine, and we were running. I didn’t turn back to look at her expression, I only felt her legs move with mine as we fled. Murmurs flooded the crowd, talking so loudly that they couldn’t hear me when I yelled at them to run, to leave, before it was too late.
Then, a sharp pull, and Emma’s hand jerked me to a stop.
I turned to see Emma struggling, as a firm grip on her wing held her back.
Alexei.
His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and spittle dripped from his lips as he wrenched open his mouth and let out a guttural scream.
“YOU’RE. RUINING. THE. SHOW.”
He hungrily pulled on Emma’s wing, trying to drag her back towards the stage, but she didn’t even wince. Instead, the slack on her arm lessened. I heard the ripping of stitches and flesh, and suddenly, there was Alexei, standing, dumbstruck, one bloodied bright blue wing in his hand.
We watched him as he stared at it. Then, he fumbled in his pocket, and took out his pistol.
But he didn’t aim it at us.
Instead, he turned back towards the stage.
Franziska had come out of the door at the bottom, the tall man beside her. She saw her brother moments after he saw her.
Alexei didn’t aim. He only shot.
BOOM.
He missed his mark, but he didn’t miss entirely. Slowly, in center stage, the fairy who held the torch looked down at her chest. A new bloodstain flowered from the center, spreading across the white fabric. Her grip loosened on the flame she held—
We were upstairs and onto the street when the explosions started, but we were three blocks over when we heard the last one stop.
We panted on the street, I more than Emma. The pounding in my head was strong, and my heart fluttered in my chest. I felt faint.
It was late at night, and there were few people on the street. We stood in a lamp light, basked in the yellow glow that made Emma’s one remaining wing glow green.
“Thank you,” she said. Another soft tear rolled down her cheek.
My lips moved to form the shape of “you’re welcome,” but before I could, the clouds of darkness rolled in once more, and I was asleep.
I woke up a day later, alone in a hospital. I had a concussion, and a nasty gash that needed sewing up. But otherwise, I was fine.
I can only imagine Emma is too, wherever she is.
Masniello Hall is gone. The explosives that Franziska set turned the marble structure into a great underground furnace, baking its inhabitants before cracking into rubble. They say the entire side of Augustus had to be closed off, for the giant pit that formed out of that dusty old mystery street where everything began.
It’s impossible to account for who survived their final indulgence. Most were reduced to pale ash, swirling and dancing in a cloud, drifting up and over the wreckage before falling back down like July snow upon the pavement—a beautiful and terrible thing.
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Credits
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