Sadness tugs at me as I identify why it feels familiar. The first place I saw that was this opulent was the Commodore Club, the headquarters of the Sons of Saint Druon. It was on a smaller scale to be sure, but it too was paneled in golds and red velvets. It too made me feel an aching sense of longing and the discomfort of knowing I didn’t belong. The last time I was there was the same day I killed Mrs. Vykotsky. I blink away the image of her face.

The orchestra hums to life. The lights dim. Oliver puts his hand on my knee and I settle, heavy, back into my chair.

The curtain whooshes open and the whole theater looses a breath. The opera begins with two men in a dark, dirty room. They sing a mournful song in Italian.

A woman knocks on their door, the burnt-out stub of a candle in her hand. She’s shivering under a threadbare shawl. She, too, sings something sad.

And I barely pay attention. All of my focus is on a singular point, the place where Oliver trails his fingers, featherlight, along the cream silk of my dress against my thigh.

His long fingers move in swirling patterns, delicate and distracting. It’s silly, how the brush of his thumb against the side of my knee has my breath catching in my throat.

Yesterday we could have been killed. We’re still risking our lives. What will happen when we close the veil or if Duke Mourrier finds us out?

Tonight could be all we have.

He takes my hand in his, but his fingers don’t stop moving. His thumb strokes the inside of my palm. His other hand reaches over to brush the back of my hand.

It’s been so long since I’ve been touched in the dark.

A blush rises in me.

If he stops touching me, I might cry.

He doesn’t.

Losing the spark of my magic has made me feel hollowed out, but Oliver’s hand on me makes me feel solid and real. It’s as if by touching me, he reminds me that I exist. I am a physical thing, worthy of kind hands and attention.

I can’t quite follow the story. I’m too distracted by Oliver’s touch.

The shivering woman from the beginning of the opera marries a rich man and strides across the stage dressed in a fine gown. She dies a horrible death not long after. I’m the only one in the theater who has to stifle a laugh. Art so does love to punish women who dare to rise above their station. I suppose the world does too.

I let the weight of Oliver’s hands brush away my darker thoughts.