He walked down the corridors in a dream, dazed by the faded grandeur that surrounded him. It was cold and quiet, but for the little whispers that tugged at his elbows. He hugged himself in a futile attempt at making them go away. Notes of music were dancing through the crisp air.
Music. He had not heard music for time out of mind, not unless you counted the foul songs that the guards had often sung in the Grimoire. His mind skittered away from those memories. The music floated on the cold air and bounced off the age-blackened mirrors and the cracked moldings, and he followed it. He was looking for Benedick, but had become lost in the fathomless corridors. His feet echoed on the marble floors. In his memory there had been more people here. Now there were ghosts. Only ghosts.
He followed the music to the old quarters of Mesdames Tantes, which La Pauvre had taken as her own private realm once upon a time. Light poured out of one room, tinting the corridor with gold. The music poured out through a crack in the door. He pushed it open.
Two children sat at a piano, bathed in golden light from a myriad of candles, golden heads together. The girl wore blue, such a vivid blue that for a long moment he took her for a ghost. He stood there and watched them tapping on the piano keys, fingers slipping over warm ivory. The light bathed their features, glinting off hair and eyes.
He must have made some noise then, for the children stopped playing, the music fading and dying. They jumped up, staring.
“Christian!” the boy said. “How are you?”
He stared. The boy was familiar, but the girl was not. “Keep playing,” he found himself saying, still in a strange dreamy state. “Please, child.”
They glanced at each other, and the girl sat back down on the bench. The boy came round and gestured to an armchair near the fire.
“Please, sit down. You will be more comfortable sitting than standing in the doorway.”
Christian allowed himself to be maneuvered into the chair; it was soft and his joints crackled as he settled into it. The music began again, curling around the windows and bouncing off of the ceiling. He sleepily watched the girl’s hands playing over the keys. The music was unfamiliar to him, swift and light, but filled with love and longing. Then it changed and became more melancholy, the longing more pronounced than ever. It was sheer beauty. He closed his eyes and relaxed, and the music washed over him like a warm tide.
A long time later, when the raging snow outside had faded to a soft patter, he opened his eyes and fixed the children with a piercing gaze.
“I see blood in the streets, and an end of the terror. You are there, lad. A leader. A king of men. We will see great things from you. And from your queen.”
He closed his eyes. Dante and Imogen stared at him, the music forgotten as silence stretched between them.
*
You can pick up a copy of my book, Lost Ones, here.
No comments:
Post a Comment