Walter blocked the officers’ path. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It’s okay,” Fred said. “They just want me to go down to the station for some further questioning.”
I completely released the hold on my senses and focused on Fred, trying to shut everything out but him. The lines around his wide eyes were tight and his mouth hung slightly open. His ragged breathing came out fast, his heartbeat a quick staccato.
Other input crashed into me, James’s loud breathing, the screeching of a music stand being scraped across the stage floor as the forensics team went about their work, the clashing scents from all the people in the building. I quickly stoppered my ability again.
Fred walked out of the hall with the detectives. He had been terrified, but I didn’t believe he was guilty.
Chapter 3
Bythetimewewere finally allowed to leave de Bourgh Hall, the sun was beginning to set. A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes as I drove down the winding lane to my home. Rosings Park was always beautiful at Christmastime, but it was especially gorgeous this year, as we’d hired Caroline Bingley to decorate for the season. The maple trees looked lovely wrapped in red ribbon, and glittery fairy lights lit up the drive. At the end of the lane, the trees gave way to a sweeping, snow covered lawn and my majestic home, Rosings Park. The house was perfectly symmetrical, with a crown of chimneys rising above the decorative trim gracing the roofline. Each of the high, arched windows held a giant wreath with enchanted candles inside that would glow all season, casting a warm light on the pale ashlar stone.
I pulled my Volvo into my garage bay and turned off the ignition, but I stayed in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, preparing myself with deep, circular breathing. My mamá was going to freak out when I told her about Paolo.
Warmth flooded me when I walked into the house. Maris, a brownie who had served my mother since before I was born, had prepared a butternut squash soup. The scent of cloves filled the air, as did the low murmur of voices. Mamá must be hosting again. As I shrugged out of my coat to hang it on the rack, my fingers caught on the rough wool. This wasn’t mine.
This coat was long and charcoal gray, but the material was wrong. This polyblend would be a nightmare to wear against my skin for long. In my shock, I must have grabbed someone else’s coat. I’d track down its owner later.
I stashed my violin in the music room, breathing in the scent of polished wood. The space might have been imperious with its ornate molding and high ceiling, but I’d cozied it up with an abundance of rugs, throw blankets, and decorative pillows. I was more at home in this room than in any other room in Rosings Park.
My fingers itched to pull my violin from its case. Playing music was the easiest way to calm my senses, and I was having a hard time putting a stopper on my abilities given the commotion of the afternoon.
But I left the music room, closed the door behind me, and headed down the garland-lined hall, past life-sized nutcracker soldiers who saluted me as I passed.
The living room was cozier than a lot of the rooms in Rosings Park, and I inhaled the lovely scent of pine as I entered. Couches surrounded a large fireplace, and a giant Christmas tree stood off to one side. Every room contained a tree during the holidays, even the kitchen and the bathrooms, though those were smaller and less ornate.
Mamá sat with regal stillness in an armchair by the fire. She was tall, even for a fae woman, and her height, combined with her ramrod posture, made an imposing impression. Her hair was a natural white-blonde, pulled up in an elegant twist.Though her face was unlined, nobody who had ever been pierced by those eyes would ever describe her as young.
Pastor Collins and his new wife, Charlotte, were seated on the couch, their hands twined together. "Anne, it's so nice to see you,” Collins said. “I was just telling Lady Catherine that the decorations at Rosings are rivaled only by her graceful daughter. My Charlotte has been doing a remarkable job decorating our home as well, following the excellent example here at Rosings."
Charlotte smiled, apparently used to his over-the-top flattery. "It is good to see you again, Anne.”
I ignored the dull ache in my head and sat next to the newlyweds. “It’s good to see you, too.” Mamá rang for a servant. Our butler, Mr. Jenkinson, appeared a moment later. “What can I get you, Lady Catherine?”
“Bring Anne an aspirin and a bottle of water.” She turned back to me. “Have you eaten, dear?”
“No.” I hadn’t been hungry, not with all the commotion of the investigation. “Something happened today at rehearsal,” I started, but she ignored me and turned back to Mr. Jenkinson.
“Bring Anne some supper as well.”
“I’d prefer to eat in the kitchen,” I said.
Mamá, stiffened, a tell-tale sign of her disapproval.
Mr. Jenkinson bowed slightly to Mamá. “I’ll be right back with a tray.”
I had the authority to make requests of any of the staff, but there was an unspoken rule that everybody understood: Lady Catherine’s word was command. And whenever her preferences clashed with mine, she won out every time.
“What are your plans for Christmas, Anne?” Charlotte asked.
“I’ll maketamaleswith myabuelothe week of Christmas, and Darcy and Georgiana will be here for dinner on Christmas Eve. How about you?”
Charlotte looked over at her new husband and a slight blush kissed her cheeks. “We’ll be starting some traditions of our own.”
“We are, of course, planning to come listen to your renowned orchestra’s performance,” Collins said.
A pang hit my chest as the memory of the murder came rushing back to me. “Thank you for your support,” I said. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and turned to my mother. “Paolo Mariano was killed today.”
