Prologue
The first note pierced the silence as the orchestra warmed up. First the strings, their mellow tones drawn out and haunting, followed by the chords of the piano and chimes. The audience filtered in, ladies dressed in fine gowns, their fingers and necks covered in the glitter of sparkling jewels. Lords escorted them—dressed in their best, each carrying a rose for their ladies—and yet some wore masks to hide their faces for what was to come.
I stepped farther back into the shadow of the black drapery, although no one would see me, hidden in my perch in the back of the theater. Lifting a spy glass to my good eye, I took in the stage and waited. A cocktail of scents wafted past me; the choking smoke of cigars mixed with the floral fragrance of perfume. No expense had been spared in the grand hall, decked with shades of crimson, curtains of velvet black and gold, shimmering crystals.
Hushed chatter filled the air as the audience took their seats, the hum of excitement potent as they waited to be seduced by the magic of the theater. Opening night was the highlight of the theater, a fresh performance with exotic dancers and throaty singers giving a parody of life. I cared naught for such amusement, but I needed one of them for my plans.
Shifting to a more comfortable position, I brushed at the mask biting into my skin. The faint itch of my scars reminded me that hiding my loneliness and pain was no longer an option. My patience had run dry, forcing me to act. My song was ready, all I needed to do was find a singer—a strong one—cast a spell, and the rest would fall into place.
Aside from whispered prayers, they’d forgotten me, the one who haunted the tower, who brought chaos and terror into their lives. I’d returned in secret to haunt their steps, to make them realize that all along, this place was mine. I was its master, and it was time to take my freedom.
The first song began, casting a hypnotic spell over the audience. They fell silent and the dancers swayed on the stage. One caught my eye, hair as dark as a raven with long limbs accenting graceful movements. She was too far away to see clearly, yet her movements made her stand out from the others. While she danced in sync to the music, her eyes darted about the stage, and she missed a step or two. I wondered what drew her attention, and why she was not as dedicated to the dance as the others. A heaviness pinched my chest and I sighed. If I were a normal human, like the lords and ladies who filled the hall, I’d go up to her after the performance, introduce myself and woo her.
But tonight my purpose transcended the mundane, and I needed a singer, not a dancer. Still, watching her eased the ragged edges of pain that plagued my soul and increased my resolve. I would move heaven and earth to earn a chance to live life, like the mortals.
1
Aria
It happened every evening, and tonight was no different. As the daylight faded to shades of twilight, the unearthly cry of an organ played with ardent passion. It filtered through my consciousness calling me to heed, to beckon to its mournful cry. My fingers moved, catching the cadence of the wordless song as though it were the wail of a creature in profound anguish, crying for what it suffered, yearning for solace just out of reach. It tugged on my heartstrings, as though the call were for me and me alone, as though I could answer it and bring it comfort.
Rising from the warmth of my bed, I padded across the cool stone floor, determined to locate the source of such heart-rending music. My black hair fell to my waist and swayed behind me as I approached the window and threw it open, heedless of the cool kiss of autumn and the whisper of twilight.
I’d lived in High Tower for only a year, and I was still growing used to the constant chill. All year long, the bayside town was covered in a dense layer of gray fog that hung above the rooftops, occasionally stretching ghostly fingers in warning against those who prayed for sunlight. Storms often rocked the harbor, flashes of lightning and booming thunder like nothing I’d ever heard before. It seemed as though High Tower was cursed by the gods to eternal gloom and grayness.
The storms matched my mood, for once, before High Tower, I’d been a young lady of wealth and status, living in a vibrant city with my father who was a wealthy merchant. I had everything money could buy, given to me by my doting father—stylish dresses, brilliant jewelry, a beautiful horse and private music lessons. Handsome suitors sought my hand for marriage and I had many lovely—if somewhat vapid—friends among the ladies of the city. Suddenly, everything went wrong. Trade goods were lost, debt piled up, and my wealth and status burned away like paper put to flame. The final blow was the death of my beloved father, leaving me homeless and destitute, until I’d come to High Tower.
The music that filled my dreams was my one solace, imbuing me with hope and the promise of a future, a chance to start over. My heart throbbed as the music filled me. I closed my eyes, lifted my arms, and felt it wrap around me, like the arms of a lover, a spirit behind the music who wanted to fill me with his presence, with his gift and only his.
“Are you real?” I whispered. “If so, come to me, send me a sign, teach me the music, your music of the night and I will sing, I will sing for you.”
The music faded. Heart pounding, I leaned out over the windowsill, trying to peer beyond the mist. High Tower was supposed to be a haven, but the thick gray mist made me feel trapped within a cocoon of mystery.
A sudden gust of wind sent a blast of harsh air through my thin nightgown, scattering the mist just enough to provide a glimpse of a black structure, shining oddly through the gray. A tower. A tremor of excitement coursed through me and I leaned further out the window, hoping to see more, but just as quickly as it had come, the mist moved, hiding it from view again.
Pressing my fingers to my mouth, I strained again. The tower! That’s where the music came from, the sorrowful melody I heard each evening. It was real.
A soft rap on the door reminded me it was almost time for the evening performance. “Come in,” I called over my shoulder, lingering hopefully by the window.
“Lord, it’s cold in here,” Samara, my maid, scolded as she slipped inside. Damp blonde curls clung to her forehead and her bonnet was askew, her face pink with exertion. “Lady Aria, what are you doing with the windows open?”
“I saw it.” I pulled the window shut and latched it. “The hidden tower on the shore.”
Samara set a tray of food on the vanity and crossed her arms, frowning. “You know it is bad luck to talk about the haunted tower.” She waved her hands to dispel the bad luck in the air.
I snorted and clasped my hands over my mouth, so not to offend. Samara had been my maid since my misfortune led me to the gates of High Tower Castle, the domain of my distant relative, Count Zorik, a handsome and enigmatic man who ran a thriving theater. As a way to replay the Count for saving me from the streets, I’d secured my spot with the dancers, although my heart called me to sing. Music stirred the passion in my soul although I’d been warned, time and time again, about the dangers of High Tower. It lulled pleasure seeking fools into complacency and swallowed them whole like a monster of the depth, drowning them in the delights of the flesh until they were too addicted to leave.
When I’d first arrived at High Tower, I’d quivered in fear, awed by the massive, sprawling castle which lay like a sleeping beast on the edge of Esrum Bay. A dark road twisted like a snake out of the slim trees, stunted by the gray mists and lack of sunlight, to the town. Even the coastal road was covered in shadows and long weeping trees until it reached the outskirts of High Tower where the sun began to shine again.
Tossing on my robe, I sat down at the vanity to eat my light meal. The cook had sent baked fish, seasoned with lemon and apples in a cinnamon sauce with potatoes on the side. The smell was heavenly.
“Samara,” I gave her a pointed look before spearing a potato on my fork. “I know you believe in the supernatural, but what do you imagine is so terrible up in the tower?”
Placing her hands on her hips, which made her petite figure look quite comical, she waved a finger at me. “Lady Aria—”
“It’s just Aria,” I corrected her for I did not deserve the title anymore. Samara was only a few years older, and we were more friends than lady and maid. Although I usually followed her advice, for she’d grown up in High Tower Castle and knew the superstitions of the town. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“How many times do I have to tell you to respect the spirits?” she quipped.
