He was right in that at least. It wasn’t a good life for a child. And yet he’d taken Montgomery.
Father leaned forward. He took my hand across the table. The hypnotist was gone, and he seemed only tired and old and lonely. “I was wrong, Juliet.” His long fingers consumed my small hands. “Now, what do you say to putting the past behind us?”
Puck hovered behind him, a dusty champagne bottle in his hands to celebrate our elegant meal. His scaly fingers unwrapped the foil, hesitating on pulling the cork until I spoke. Father’s eyes crackled with the promise of a life together, of a family again.
Alice handed me a champagne flute. The rim was chipped. Like my soup bowl and my brandy glass and all the beautiful, expensive dishware. Everything had a chip or crack. Nothing here was perfect, but it still worked.
I met Father’s gaze and nodded. Behind him, Puck popped the cork.
AFTER SUPPER, A COMFORTABLE silence settled over the room. The ticking of the clock seemed not nearly so harsh, and I rather enjoyed the small reminder of order.
Father smoked a cigar as he used to do, his gaze settling on the dark night beyond the compound walls. “Yes,” he reflected, “it’s good to have you here. A father should know his daughter. I’m starting to not even mind you so much, Prince.”
Edward didn’t laugh.
Father sent a small cloud of rich, earthy smoke toward the high ceiling. “Why don’t you play us a tune on the piano?” he asked me. “It’s been a long time since we’ve heard proper music, though Balthasar attempts a melody every now and then.”
Montgomery looked up from the table where he’d been rubbing a crack in the surface, no doubt thinking of how to fix it. I remembered on the ship he said he wanted to hear me play again. My heartstrings tightened.
“Of course.” I stood, hoping I looked more confident than I felt. We all retired to the sitting area. Montgomery leaned against the doorjamb, keeping his distance. The piano bench beckoned, and I sat on it hesitantly, as if afraid it might bite. I hadn’t played in years, and I vaguely wondered if I could rescind my agreement until I’d had time to practice.
I played a C-major chord.
“It’s out of tune, I’m afraid,” I said.
“For the life of me, I can’t tell,” Montgomery said. I shot him a look over my shoulder. He wasn’t helping.
I ran my fingers lightly over the keys. They were worn, so unlike the perfectly crafted piano we’d had on Belgrave Square. I’d taken lessons every week from a piano tutor. Mother said I would one day play for suitors, then my husband, and then teach my own children. But after Father left, the piano was the first thing sold.
There was a Chopin piece she used to play. Dissonant, with an odd melody like wind in the night. It was haunting, and it seemed suited to the island. I closed my eyes and laid my fingers on the keys, trying to remember the feel of the music. I played the first chord, adjusting for the stiffness of the keys. Humidity made the strings stick and the wood warp, but it was music nonetheless, and for this piece, somehow it fitted. And then the feeling came back to me, sitting next to my mother on the bench, watching her long fingers on the keys. Like a bird in an unlocked cage, music flew out of me.
I had forgotten what I loved about the piano. The precision of the notes and the mathematical intricacy of the notes and measures. It was like a complicated equation that you work out with your heart instead of pencil and paper. I concentrated on the keys, letting my mind clear. I played and played until the final bar, where I let the chord ring until the last trace of sound faded. My fingers slipped off the keys. Then I opened my eyes.
To my surprise, Alice and Balthasar and Puck stood around the table, halfway through clearing the dishes, with the queerest expressions on their faces. Tears glistened in Balthasar’s eyes. I realized they might never have heard proper music before.
Father stood and brought his hands together, slowly, and then the others took up the clapping as well. The room suddenly felt warmer. I’d finally done something to please him.
They all rushed me—Edward and Alice and the servants. They had so many questions. What was the piece, and where had I learned it? Would I play more? Would I teach Alice? I was used to being overlooked as just another maid. Their attention was overwhelming.
I caught Montgomery’s eye. He smiled at me like we shared some secret. And then I remembered why that piece out of all of them had come back to me. It had been his favorite. I’d found him at the bench one day, when we were children. His wax and polish brush were forgotten on the floor. I sat beside him and put his hands over mine so he could feel the movements of my fingers pressing the keys. I started to play a Vivaldi, but he shook his head. Not this one, he’d said. He’d wanted to play the one that sounded wrong.
The Chopin.
Montgomery looked away. He busied himself with a splinter in the doorframe.
“Lovely. Simply lovely.” Father gave a tight-lipped smile. Next to him, Balthasar brushed aside a tear. I suddenly felt crowded, as though they were pressing in. The rush of emotions was too much, drowning me. I slouched on the piano bench, desperate for a breath of air.
“Are you well?” Father asked. Suddenly the smile was gone, replaced by a physician’s cold determination. He felt my forehead.
“I’m just a little dizzy.”
But I might as well have been a cold body on the dissection table. He felt my wrist for my pulse. The morning’s pinprick flashed, red against the pale skin of my inner elbow. Redder than it should have been. Swollen.
“What’s this?” he barked.