The lid is heavy, and I struggle to pull it open.
There’s not much in the trunk, except for what looks like a pile of old fabric. I pull it out, wrinkling my nose slightly at the stale, musty smell that comes with it. As I turn it over, I realise it’s a dress — one that looks like it came straight out of a Jane Austen film. It’s pale cream, floor-length and lacy, complete with corset, which makes the fabric heavy in my hands. I stand and hold it up against me.Definitely not my style.Plus, the bottom is dirty and torn.
As I go to fold the dress back inside the trunk, I notice something else resting at the bottom. It’s dark in colour, almost as dark as the bottom of the trunk itself, which is why I didn’t see it at first. But there are little, golden metal corners that glint in the weak light of the torch and catch my eye. Reaching down, I pull out a book. It’s made of a leather similar to the trunk, with a leather string binding it closed. Turning it over, I see that it’s embossed with three golden letters.
KVT. My initials.
Intrigued, I open the cover and fan through the yellowing pages. They’re filled with flowery, sloping cursive handwriting. Every few pages starts with a date, penned in on the top right-hand corner.
I realise it’s not a book, but a diary. And from the apparent age and the initials on the cover, I’m guessing it must have belonged to my namesake, the original Katrina Van Tassel. My father has told me about her before, his however-many-times great grandmother from the early 1800s. But I’ve never seen this diary or heard him mention it before. I wonder if he even knows it’s up here.
I skim through the pages again. It’s a fascinating glimpse into the past. My namesake, who lived in this very house all those hundreds of years ago. I can almost picture her walking the corridors in her long, lacy dress, a candle held out delicately in front of her.
I place the dress back in the trunk and carefully shut the lid. But I keep the diary with me.
Returning down the ladder to the upstairs landing, I have no idea what to do next.
It’s so strange being in a house that I hardly remember, with so much free time but absolutely nothing to do.
Still holding the diary, I make my way down the grand staircase, back to the ground floor. My hand rests on the smooth, cold wood of the banister. I remember my mother warning me to be careful on these wide, red-carpeted steps, which are so easy to trip on. I imagine my foot catching the edge of a stair, sliding over the worn carpet and tumbling down, down to the glossy floor below.
Thankfully, I reach the bottom of the stairs safely, and down here, the tiles of the entrance hall are cool under my socked feet.
Mid-step, I become aware of music. The faint strains of piano keys, halting and hesitant as if the player is unsure of their next move. In the quiet of Van Tassel Manor, the fractured melody carries through the stillness.
Curiosity quickens my steps as I go in search of the music. I follow the halting notes down the long, dark-panelled corridor, the sounds of the piano growing closer and clearer. Finally, I reach a door at the end of the hall. It’s slightly ajar, and a warm slice of light spills out through it.
I push the door open, and the music room reveals itself to me, unfolding like a memory. I pause, leaning against the door frame. I can almost see my mother sitting at the piano against the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows are framed by gauzy curtains that flutter in the breeze from the open panel, capturing dust motes dancing in the breeze. The walls are lined with shelves haphazardly stacked with sheet music and books on composition.
Although I’ve only actually met him a few times at family get-togethers over the years, I immediately recognise the boy sitting at the piano as my half-brother, Toby Van Tassel. Next to him, a man with dark hair and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows guides Toby’s hands gently.
“That’s it,” he says. “Don’t just play the notes, but feel the pauses between them as well.” His voice firm but encouraging.
As I move further into the room, Toby turns.
“Kat! When did you get here?” He jumps up from the bench and crosses the small room quickly to hug me. I stumble back under his enthusiasm as a surprised laugh escapes me.
“Only an hour or so ago. I’ve just been upstairs unpacking,” I reply, still smiling.
The man rises, leaning over to pick up a music book from the stand on top of the piano and the movement makes me look up. Toby notices my inquisitive glance and introduces us.
“This is Professor Crane, my music teacher.” He indicates the man standing by the piano. “I’ve only been learning since the start of the year, but the winter recital is coming up, so Professor Crane is giving me extra lessons at home.”
Our eyes meet for a moment, and I can feel him studying me. The light from the window cuts across his features, catching dark, piercing pupils.
Crane moves forward, extending his hand and I take it. His palm is warm and dry, and I feel a small electric buzz run through me when we touch. He’s tall and lean, his shirt showing off muscled arms.
“Ichabod Crane.” He lets go of my hand but doesn’t break eye contact. “You must be Katrina Van Tassel. Toby here has been telling me all about you, his big sister from the big city.” His voice is velvety, and I can still feel where his hand held mine. Like I’ve been scorched.
I feel myself blush under his gaze, and I wonder what Toby could possibly have told him.
“Professor? Do you work at the university with…” I start to ask.
He cuts me off. “Your father? Yes, I can’t seem to get away from you Van Tassels.” He chuckles at Toby’s look of playful offence.
I can’t help but notice that Ichabod looks very young for a professor, and I only just manage to stop myself from makingthe observation out loud. Instead, I gesture to the piano. “Do you make house calls for all of your students?” I raise my eyebrows.
He smirks. “Only the ones who have grand pianos lying around.”
