Chapter 1
OntheafternoonofPaolo Mariano’s murder, I heard the drops of blood hit the stage before the body did. My fae gift of greatly enhanced senses was a curse as often as it was a blessing. Sort of like being the daughter of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
The former meant I experienced sight, smell, sound, touch, and even taste ten times stronger than anyone around me. The latter meant I lived every moment with soul-crushing expectations. I was forever striving to present a polished appearance, interact with the “right people” while maintaining impeccable etiquette, and uphold our family’s reputation at all times—even when being pummeled by waves of sensation. This drove me to my room more times than I could count, leading to the rumor that I had a delicate constitution. I was just Anne, the quiet girl with little to contribute.
Except for my music.
Half an hour before the murder, I used my key to enter the concert hall, stomping heavy snow from my boots beforeentering the lobby. The tension in my shoulders melted away as I locked the door behind me. This building was my sanctuary, the place I didn’t have to worry about being a de Bourgh. I was just a musician, like everybody else.
I skirted around the magnificent Christmas tree at the center of the room, breathing in the crisp scent of the Douglas fir adorned with a thousand twinkling lights. The tree’s ornaments were all shaped like miniature musical instruments, each one enchanted to play its part inSleigh Ride. I hummed along with the music, my footsteps echoing through the grand lobby until I stopped in front of the poster advertising a concert for the Grey Doors.
Excitement zipped along my spine. They were my favorite band, big on the coast and getting bigger every week as their music was discovered by more and more people. And they were coming to Austen Heights, no doubt in part because their male lead singer, Ernesto Garcia, was from here.
I kissed the tips of my fingers and placed them gently over Ernesto’s full lips, as I’d done every day since they’d hung this poster. One month from now, I’d be at that concert, standing in the front row where I could lock eyes with him. I just had to convince my mamá.
I dragged myself away from Ernesto’s dark eyes and entered the rehearsal space behind the stage, hanging my snow-dusted coat on the rack as I entered. The backstage area consisted of a large rehearsal room, five smaller practice rooms, and the conductor’s office, where a sliver of light was currently shining through the cracked door. I peeked my head in to greet Fred. “Good morning!”
He dragged his pale green eyes away from the score in front of him. At twenty-eight, Fred was only a few years older than me—young to be the conductor of the Austen Heights Community Orchestra. He was tall and broad, with a pointy beard and thehoofed feet of a fawn. His hair was a gorgeous shade of auburn, though receding at a regrettable rate.
“Anne, I’m glad you’re early. I have something to ask you,” he said in his deep baritone.
I sat in the small plastic chair in front of his messy desk and watched as a small Bach figurine tapped his baton against the desk at 150 beats per minute. “Thanks, Johann, that’s enough,” Fred said.
Bach cast him a disapproving look before striking a majestic pose and freezing in that position.
Fred rubbed his hands together briskly, taking a deep breath, but hesitated before speaking. Why was he acting strangely?
I took the figurative stopper off of my power, hoping to read him better, and braced myself as a maelstrom of input crashed into me. With effort, I shut out the slight variation in warmth from different bulbs and focused on Fred, where an artery on the side of his head pulsed. His heart rate seemed normal. Did that mean he wasn’t nervous after all?
But there was a slight flush on his cheeks and neck. Maybe he felt a bit awkward about what he was going to ask me? The sound of water rushing through distant pipes and the scratch of the cashmere sweater against my skin stole my concentration, and I put the stopper back on my power so I wouldn’t get overstimulated.
Fred leaned back in his chair. “One of my hockey buddies came to meet up with me last night and caught the end of rehearsal. He wanted to know who the captivating singer was.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Usually I played second chair violin in the symphony, but for this concert I had also been offered a vocal part inO Holy Nightalongside the featured guest, even though my voice—and my personality—were no match for a renowned tenor like Paolo Mariano.
I thought back to how I had looked at the rehearsal. I’d worn comfortable black leggings and a red sweater, my long black hair pulled up into a ponytail. My skin was a sun-warmed bronze even in winter thanks to my father’s side of the family, the Mexican side, but I didn’t think I’d looked particularly good that night. I hadn’t even been wearing makeup.
The corner of Fred’s mouth quirked up. “He asked me if you were cool.”
“Oh? And what did you tell him?”
“That you’re decidedlynotcool, but in the best way.” He smiled to lessen his teasing.
I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s rich, coming from a guy wearing a T-shirt with a music pun on it.”
Fred raised his hands in mock surrender, showing off his shirt where a police officer pulled a burglar under an eighth rest. “I definitely never claimed to be cool. But anyway, he asked if you’d be okay with me giving him your number.”
I didn’t date much, not because I wasn’t interested, but because my mother was always meddling and trying to set me up with the sons of her pompous peers. What would she say if I went out with one of Fred’s friends? She probably wouldn’t forbid it, just imply that such a person was beneath me. She seemed to think that everyone was beneath us, except for her brother the king, and his heirs Darcy and Georgiana.
But I was tired of the stiff conversation and social posturing that had characterized most of my dating life. If Fred vouched for this guy, I was willing to give him a try.
“Sure, you can give him my number. What’s his name?”
Fred hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking. “Ernie. His name is Ernie Reyes.”
Just then, the door to the rehearsal room banged open and an argument spilled into the room right outside the office.
“—orchestra ismassiveand we can’t risk losing your sound in all the mix.”
