Page 1 of The Kiss of the Nightingale
CHAPTER ONE
Broken Wings
FATHER’S RING SITS barren on my finger—hollow, empty. No jewel sparkles as I gaze at it, no magic singing in my blood. It’s as empty as our cash register, with its two silver francs and ten bronze pieces—barely enough to keep my sister and me fed for a fortnight. Our dress shop has definitely seen better days.
I lean on the wooden counter, hands covering my face. I have long learned staring at the door won’t magically bring in customers.
A deep cough from the back room makes my throat tighten.
“I’m fine!” Anaella calls with a hoarse voice.
This is the twelfth time my younger sister has coughed in the past five minutes.
I run to the sink and grab a chipped glass from the shelf. The water comes out cloudy, almost gray, but it’s the only thing I have to keep her throat from drying up.
“What on earth are you doing out of bed?” I say as soon as I step into the back room, finding my sister crouched at the desk.
“I said I’m fine, Cleo.” She rolls her eyes at me before another wave of coughing takes her.
I force the glass into her hand. “No, you’re not. You should be resting. ”
Anaella takes a timid sip, her face contorting at the bitter taste of our water. “I had a new design idea. Look.” She points to the desk, which is covered by an array of tiny drawings on thin sheets of paper.
I hold up the nearest one, tracing my fingers over the delicate watercolor strokes that paint a light chiffon ball gown. Like a garden in full bloom, the fabric weaves itself into endless velvety petals, covering the sweeping pink skirt. They circle all the way up to a tight off-the-shoulder corset adorned with golden beads that shimmer like dew in the morning sun. It’s everything Anaella and I can never be, contrasting our faded cotton dresses with the luxury and elegance only a fine lady could afford.
The edge of the drawing wrinkles under my grip. My sister has clearly been going over Father’s book again—seeing all of our late parents’ designs and notes always sparks her creativity. Sure enough, the old leather binding sticks out from under the scattered pages. Just looking at it makes my chest tighten.
“Imagine it in shades of ivory,” Anaella says. “I wanted it creamy with touches of gold, but . . . I ran out of paint.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, pushing down the lump in my throat.
“I was thinking . . . if we can make it and put it in the front window, we could—” Her words are swallowed by another rumbling cough, draining the color from her sunken cheeks. She quiets it with another sip of water. “We could attract more customers.”
If Father were here, he’d have agreed at once. But without him our dress shop is nothing but a shadow of its former glory, stacks of shoddy fabrics slowly gathering dust.
“This material isn’t cheap, Ann . . . not to mention the beads. Besides, I’m not skilled enough to sew something this complicated.”
Her face drops. “Cleo, you might not have inherited Papa’s Talent, but you are definitely good enough.”
It’s my turn to look away, eyes falling again to the ring on my finger. A simple band of gold with no flourishes, and an empty spot where a gem should have been embedded. It is that spot that makes my throat clench. A reminder of the promise our father broke when he died so suddenly, taking his Talent—five generations of honed tailoring skills—to the grave with him. On my sister’s finger sits an identical ring, only hers is adorned with a shining opal stone.
She catches me staring and covers her ring with her palm. That tiny gesture proves her words are a lie. Anaella never understood my fate. How could she? Our mother transferred her Design Talent to her before she passed. My sister never had to suffer the emptiness that comes with having none.
“You can’t keep the shop open just by doing those minimal alterations for customers. We need new dresses!” Anaella urges.
Her eyes are so full of determination and hope, I cannot bear to tell her that our cash register is empty, or that I don’t have any more of Mother’s jewels to sell. “Maybe we could buy materials later this month,” I lie.
She pushes away from the desk, a dainty hand outstretched, but before she can take a step her legs cave beneath her.
“Ann!” I catch her before she hits the ground.
It takes all my strength to drag her across the tiny room to her corner bed. Back when our parents were alive, we used to own the second floor above the shop, but now this stuffy back room, with its two beds and one desk, is all Anaella and I have to call home.
She groans as I put an extra pillow behind her head. A sickly yellow tint replaces the pink of her cheeks. Her once-flowing hair is dry and brittle, and the glint in her round brown eyes has dimmed. Anaella and I are almost identical, yet I always thought she was the beautiful one. Her wild energy used to light up every room like a fire, sparks luring everyone in. Seeing her broken like this tears my heart.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I murmur.
“I want to help,” Anaella says, before coughing again into her handkerchief. When she pulls her hand away blood splatters her chin, spots covering the old cloth. “I’m sorry . . . ”
“There is nothing to apologize for.” My lips tremble as I wipe her face. “Just rest for a while. We can talk about dresses when you feel better.”
She nods and closes her eyes as I tuck the covers around her and brush the hair from her face. Her forehead is burning.
Sitting on the floor by her side, I rest my head against the wall. She needs a doctor. A good one. One I can’t afford. Our cash register mocks me through the open doorway as though echoing the emptiness I feel inside.
Soon Anaella’s breathing turns heavier, the sleep taking away some of her pain. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make her better. Nothing I wouldn’t give. With a silent groan, I push myself from the floor and slip out of the room, hanging the “Closed” sign on our door, any dreams of customers long gone. I glance back once, my heart wrenching as Anaella coughs in her sleep, before stepping out onto the grim street.
The skies are deep blue with airy cotton clouds floating on the far horizon. Yet in the alley the air is stuffy, gray stone walls soaked with the stench of decay. Back in my childhood, the alley used to buzz with activity. I used to hold Father’s hand as we strolled through the maze of streets, listening to the countless stories the old walls of Lutèce kept hidden within: of love, jealousy, and the bravery of those who left a mark on this world. But once he was gone, so were the customers. And soon after the smaller shops closed down or moved, leaving the vacant buildings to rot. No. Father did not leave a mark on this world. Instead, his legacy was stripped down to a faded sign above a broken door and a barren ring—a useless piece of metal that can’t help me put food on the table.
Or perhaps . . . it can.
I freeze, trailing my thumb over the gold circle. A second later, I’m kicking the uneven paving stones, turning down another alley toward the main avenue.
Here the storefronts sparkle, the sun reflecting on their enviably spotless surfaces—a promise of the Talented crafts they hold. Customers rush between them like a swarm of bees, pollinating their cash registers from their deep, full pockets. Such glimmering luxury, yet it is merely a tantalizing taste of the riches hidden away in the Elite’s secluded domains across the river. After all, they would never live among tradespeople.
To my left, ladies in wide hats sip aromatic coffee over tables spread with crisp white cloths, chattering as they bite into freshly baked, sugar-coated pastries that make my empty stomach churn. To my right, a gentle-man helps his laughing daughter into a carriage, handing her a new pair of pink ballet shoes. But straight ahead, the open door to the pawnshop looms in darkness.
I take a deep breath, twisting the ring around my finger. No point in delaying the inevitable.
The pawnshop’s familiar musty scent hits me as soon as I cross the threshold. By now I know the stuffed shop well. Like many who lost a Talent to cruel fate, or who never attained one back when the mines still crackled with magic, I, too, quickly discovered that hard labor isn’t enough to survive in a world driven by inherited gifts. Upon Father’s death, most of our family’s possessions ended up on these dusty wooden shelves.
“Can I help you, Miss—? Oh, you again. What can I do for you today?” The broker shoves his glasses up his broken nose with one finger, not bothering to step away from the counter.
I push my shoulders back as I march toward the old man. “I’d like to sell my ring.”
The tiny topaz gem atop his eyebrow piercing twitches as he takes a magnifying glass from his pocket. “Wedding ring? Family heirloom?”
“No, but it’s solid gold.”
He nods, opening a callused palm.
For just a second, my hand closes into a fist, my ring suddenly heavier—imbued with priceless memories and promises that can never be bought back. Am I really ready to say goodbye?
“Well?” The broker eyes me impatiently .
The image of Anaella’s sunken cheeks fills my mind. Ready or not—I cannot let her down. Before I can change my mind, I take the ring off.
I bite the inside of my cheek as the broker examines it under his magnifying glass and places it on a bronze scale.
“I can give you one silver franc for it,” he says too quickly, even for one with his Analyzing Talent.
“What? It’s real gold!”
He sets the ring back on the counter. “Where’s the gem? No one wants half a ring.”
I clench my jaw against the sudden chatter of my teeth. This can’t be the worth of Father’s inheritance. This can’t be the worth of his memory.
“There has to be a mistake,” I mumble. “Check the weight again. Maybe you can melt it. Or—”
“Just because I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you a silver franc and a bronze piece. That’s the highest I’ll go.”
I snap the ring from the counter. “No deal.”
“You won’t get a better offer!” he yells after me, but I’m already rushing out the door.
Blood pumps in my ears, my breath coming short and fast. I shut my eyes and try to block the outside world. This was my last resort, the only thing I had left to give, and it’s not enough. Father left me with nothing—just a trinket with sentimental value, memories, and broken promises. The laughter around me rings too loud, the crowd is too thick, the sun too bright. I push between the shoppers, carriages, and horses, not stopping to catch my breath or to apologize for almost knocking a lady over. I need to breathe, to break out of the suffocating crowd.
I only slow down when I reach the bridge crossing the wide river to the other side of town—the better side of town. The cruel current lashes at the brick columns as if attempting to wash the sturdy intruders away. The same way it washed Father away so many months ago.
The river took much more than his life that day .
I shake the morbid thoughts from my mind. Green rooftops dot the horizon. Smoke spews out of round chimneys, the light gray wisps disappearing into the clear skies. And just like that, I’m a child again, carrying a wrapped, blue-layered silk dress in my arms, my cheeks flushed with excitement, as Father and I cross the gushing river.
“Remember, mon coeur, this is just one trip of many to come,” Father said, his eyes sparkling with pride. “This garment will be worn at the masquerade ball by the great soprano Mirella. In a few years, it will be you who sews her dresses.”
It was the first time Father had taken me to a meeting with a client, a reward for managing to make a corset on my own. I blink away the echo of his warm voice in my mind. I haven’t even noticed my feet carrying me to the other bank, longing to lose myself in the old memories, to numb the turmoil raging within.
On this side of the city, marble and gold rule the facades. Blossoming trees adorn each housefront, their foliage providing speckled shade over the wide-open street. There are even lazy swans gliding over a canal, full of grace and ease. A dull ache builds in my chest at the beauty of it all; it’s a part of a world that will never be mine.
Farther along the bank, a man in a fine black suit checks his pocket watch. “Mon amour, we’ll be late,” he calls down to a lady standing at the river edge, feeding the swans with a loaf of bread. Even from afar, the golden crust shines, and my mouth waters with the memory of glazed honey.
“Just a moment, dear. The performance doesn’t start until sunset.” The woman brushes a perfect blond lock from her face, the sheer fabric of her winged sleeves swaying in the light breeze.
“This is the last performance of the season,” the man insists. “I’d prefer to get there early to check our seats. You know it’ll be a full house.”
The lady laughs and throws the rest of the bread into the water. I gasp as the loaf sinks, taking my heart with it as birds attack it from all sides. That could have fed my sister and me for a week .
“It’s the same box we’ve had all season long. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she says, but goes to her husband’s side nonetheless.
I should turn back, return home and check on Anaella, but I can’t help following them. Perhaps it’s the grace of the lady’s movement, or the adoration in the gentleman’s eyes when he looks at his wife, reminding me of my parents. It’s as if watching the couple is a mirror to a world I’ve forgotten. I can see Mother in my head, wearing a pink gown, holding onto Father’s arm as he takes her to an opening night at the opera. She adored music—a passion Father shared as well. For a moment I can imagine myself alongside them, enjoying a glass of champagne before the performance, watching the stage together from velvet chairs as the curtains rise.
But these are not my parents. And I will never feel their love again, or share those luxuries.
I trail the couple as they whisper to each other all the way up the avenue to the main plaza. I freeze by the arched gates, standing under the winged horses and marble angels that guard the entrance. A cascading fountain carved with roses sits in the middle of the square, the water sparkling under the setting sun. But the beauty of the square dims next to the marvel just ahead. Lutèce’s opera house towers over the plaza, with columns supporting golden arches and stained-glass windows. Every nook is carved to perfection, a structural wonder conjured from a storybook.
Here the crowd is all in formal attire: delicate lace necklines upon velvet collars, flowing gowns with trains of chiffon, silky suits, and sparkling jewelry. So much jewelry. Diamond necklaces, gleaming sapphire rings, sumptuous pearl earrings, and encrusted crowns, so colorful and bright.
The precious stones are mesmerizing. The things I could do if I could get my hands on just one of them.
I wonder which of these gems store magic under their vibrant glow. My sister and I used to play a guessing game when we were young—a rose gem for a ballerina, an aquamarine one for a teacher, perhaps. Whichever Talents are among this crowd, there’s no doubt that they are the finest in all of Lutèce—not mere craft skills, but gifts honed by the upper class long before any tradesmen could even dream of holding a magical gem.
I shift from one foot to the other, shrinking under the criticizing eyes that fall on my faded brown cotton dress with its frayed hem. The bitter taste of shame coats my tongue as I turn away from the gathering at the opera house’s entrance. The couple has long since been lost in the crowd. There is nothing I wouldn’t give to be among them: respected, welcomed, even adored—all the things I can never be without a Talent.
The sun sets behind me, bathing the white streets with orange hues as I plunge back into the city, away from the plaza. The buildings here are farther apart, beautiful cottages with wide gardens. I follow the line of round balconies until my eyes fall on a carriage a few houses down. A coachman stands on the sidewalk, securing the reins of two white horses.
“Where is that butler when you need him?” a call comes from the grand house to the left where an old lady leans against a heavy entrance door. “Leave the damn mare and hold the door for me, you fool.”
The coachman pulls at the horses so suddenly they rear up on their back legs with all the force of untamed beasts. The carriage jerks forward as the startled young man grabs the reins only to fall to the ground. He hits the pavement, a cry of pain escaping him as he holds his elbow.
“Clumsy imbecile!” the lady shouts. “If I miss the show, it will come out of your salary.”
I rush forward, leaning down to examine his injury. “Are you hurt?”
He shakes his head and takes my hand to stand before hurrying to grab the horses.
“Sorry, my lady. It’s all my fault,” the coachman mumbles.
“I’ll help you with the door, my lady,” I say, and the coachman shoots me a grateful look.
The woman scans me from head to toe as I pass through the gates and approach the house, her gaze lingering on each stray hair and stain on my dress. Her beak-like nose wrinkles in disapproval, but she nods, and I climb the four stairs to her doorway. From her straight back and the finery of her silver robes, I can tell she is used to being respected and served at all times—never one to hold a door for herself, or even comb her own hair.
“At least your manners cover for your poor appearance, girl,” she says as I bow my head and hold the door, allowing her to stand with the poise fitting her status.
“Here.” She takes out a bronze piece from a small clutch and drops it in my hand. “Hurry up now!” she shouts at the coachman, who rushes to open the carriage for her. “Just close the door, girl, it will lock on its own.”
“Yes, my lady,” I utter, letting go of the heavy door. But as the woman looks away, I shove my foot between it and the frame.
A moment later, the horses trot up the street, disappearing around the corner. My body is frozen, a tingling sensation spreading down my limbs. The street is empty, only birds chirping as they settle in the tree branches for the night. What am I even doing? The door presses against my foot, but I linger at the threshold. Inside this house, there are riches beyond anything I could imagine. A single teaspoon here would be worth more than the shop has earned in the last month; easily payment for the best doctor in the city. When you have so much, would you notice if anything were gone?
With a shaky hand I pull the door, swiftly slipping inside. A peal of nervous laughter bursts from my lips when I take in the foyer. A massive chandelier hangs above, like an array of stars dropping yellow light on red-carpeted stairs.
Heart racing, I sneak up the massive staircase. The metal railing is cold to the touch and my knuckles turn white as I grab it, holding onto it like a lifeline. Yet even through my fear, I can tell the riches here are undeniable—a soaring ceiling with a painted dome, golden-framed portraits. Even the air smells opulent, a mixture of vanilla and roses .
But I have no time to stand and stare. An estate always has servants, and if anyone sees me, I’m ruined. I hasten up the stairs to the second-floor corridor. From the corner of my eye, I register a tightly trimmed garden outside the windows at the end of the hall. Mouth dry, I rush to the closest door and press my ear to it. All silent. With a quick glance to each side, I twist the handle.
The room is just as big as I expected—a massive chamber covered with mahogany wood panels, lush red curtains, and containing a canopy bed. A giant vanity dresser stands by the far wall, a glistening mirror above it reflecting the array of colored glass perfume bottles and expensive tinctures. Their rich scents draw me in as my feet sink into the softly carpeted floors.
My hands shake as I reach for a heart-shaped bottle and sniff the orange blossom aroma. I glance over my shoulder before pressing the round nozzle, the spray landing on my wrist in a delicate coat. The experience is intoxicating: the cool oil against my skin, the refreshing smell of flowers. It draws a sigh from my lips, making me reach out for another bottle—just as steps echo behind the door.
Cold spreads down my limbs, and I freeze. The steps fade, but the panic in my chest lingers—a reminder that I don’t have time to play around. Taking a deep breath, I open the drawers. I need to find something the lady wouldn’t miss. Something small, insignificant, but expensive enough to cover the cost of caring for Anaella.
I pause at the third drawer, hand hovering over a golden box. It’s round and heavy, engraved with the image of a songbird—a robin or a nightingale, perhaps. There is something enchanting about it, as if the bird might suddenly burst into song. Touching it alone feels like a crime. I lift the lid with trembling fingers and gasp. I’d been prepared for riches. This is something far beyond. The jewels are like rain beading a meadow, cascading onto one another as if fighting for a place at the top: gemstones and diamonds, sparkling from an endless sea of gold .
I close my eyes, twisting my ring. My ring . Once a promise for a bright future, now worth a silver franc that wouldn’t even get the cheapest doctor out of his chair. This is the only way to get the money I need. Shaking my head, I dig into the box of jewelry, trying to reach the bottom where the long-forgotten pieces are sure to be found.
My hand closes around what feels like an encrusted necklace.
“Come on . . .” I mumble as I wriggle my fingers to pull it out. It is stuffed so deep that other jewels get caught in its chain, but eventually I release it from their grasp, mouthing a silent yelp of victory. The chain is solid gold, with leaves of silver attached along the neckline. It’s simple yet elegant. But it is the stone that catches my eye—a tear-shaped ruby, sitting in a bed of silver flower petals. It’s warm to the touch, so reflective it almost glows.
“That isn’t yours,” a deep voice says behind me.
I turn at once, but my vision goes black as a rough sack covers my head, muffling my scream.