She turned to Cat Noir. “Your bell,” she mouthed.
She looked at Cat Noir. “Together?”
Some silences aren’t empty. Some silences are full of everything you’re too afraid to say.
He raised both batons. “Now, little bug, you’ll watch your city forget music forever. Starting with him.” He pointed at Cat Noir.
“Okay, Tikki,” she whispered into her purse, watching Adrien Agreste across the stage. He was tuning a violin, the soft light catching the gold in his hair. “I’ve designed the set pieces, sewn the soloist’s gown, and memorized the entire score. But talking to him? Impossible.”
A single, low C.
He held out his hand. “Dance with me? The orchestra is playing a waltz. And I think you’ve earned it.”
“Right,” Marinette nodded, straightened her polka-dot bow tie, and marched forward. She made it three steps before her foot caught a sandbag. She pitched forward, arms flailing, and landed in a tangle of limbs directly at Adrien’s feet.
The resonance shattered the grey wave like glass. Sound crashed back into the theater—a thousand gasps, a sob, the frantic beat of a conductor’s heart. Maestro Mute screamed, a real scream, as his akumatized object—the metronome on his chest—cracked.
Of course.
Pain—but not physical. It was the pain of a song interrupted. A lullaby her mother once hummed. The first time she heard Adrien play. All of it, erased.