She had never been given such a perfect gift.
She eased the bow free and balanced it in her hands. Her fingers slipped effortlessly into position, the weight of the bow a comfortable reminder of hours spent playing.
The cello sitting before her was easily the most beautiful instrument she’d ever seen, clearly crafted by a master. The gleaming surface was perfectly carved and pieced together. A thrill shot through her as she let her fingers wander over the smooth curves and planes of the polished wood.
She didn’t remember standing, but she was suddenly lowering herself to the edge of the chair, shifting the cello into position in front of her, tuning it until it sounded perfect to her ear. Then she was playing the first notes of one of her favorite pieces. Long, drawn-out pulls of her bow. The subtle rocking of her wrist as she pressed her fingertips against the strings. Low, resonant chords filled the room and her eyes fell closed. She bowed her head, letting everything she felt pour out of her and into her music. She was barely aware of the tears that leaked from her eyes. All she could do wasfeel.
One piece slid into the next. Some songs she played were slow and aching. Some were lovely and gut-wrenching. Others, passionate and furious. She poured out her grief at losing Argent. Her fury at the knights, Tam, and whoever was targeting Jayveh. Her pain at knowing her friends thought all empaths were monsters. Her fear of the bloodstone, and the uncertainty of the future. Her sorrow that Carver seemed intent on holding back from her. And the unrelenting terror that she would lose everyone she’d come to love.
She poured out every agony of her soul. Filled the room with everything she couldn’t verbalize, but could no longer bear to carry. The warm, deep notes enveloped her. Soothed her. The vibration of the strings under her fingers, the drag of the bow—it felt like a missing part of her had been restored, offering a comfort so deep it reached her very soul.
Once, she thought she sensed Berron standing on his balcony, listening. She hoped something in the music would reach him.
She was unaware of the passage of time, oblivious to the sun as it shifted across the room. She didn’t notice the ache in her fingertips, which were no longer used to playing so relentlessly against the strings.
Amryn lost herself in the music—and she found herself, too.
Chapter 32
Carver
Carverheardthemutedmusic before he reached their room. His footsteps slowed as he drew closer, until he stilled completely right in the middle of the corridor, in full view of the guards stationed at the door.
He didn’t care. He was rooted to the floor as he listened to Amryn play.
The music was breathtaking. Beyond anything he’d heard before, at any concert hall he’d ever visited. It was as if Amryn’s very soul lived in the notes. Vibrant. Spectacular. Beautiful.
She had downplayed her skill. Drastically.
One of the guards—a soldier named Allen—watched him, his voice a low murmur as he said, “She’s been playing for hours.”
Carver’s chest burned. Saints, he should have given her the cello sooner.
Music continued to drift through the closed door. It was one of the reasons Carver hadn’t opened it yet. He knew the moment he stepped inside the room, the song would end.
Soul-gripping. That was the best way to describe her playing. The song was beautiful, even though it was sad. Some of the chords were so deep, so mournful, it wrenched something inside his chest.
Hearing the music Amryn created was almost like a chance for him to feel what she felt as an empath. This was the closest he could ever come to knowing her emotions. Tofeelingthem. It was a gift, even if it bruised his soul to think she might be feeling any measure of the heartbreak she poured into her music.
When the last drawn-out note faded, Carver eased into the room.
Amryn sat in the corner of the suite, the grayish light of early evening spilled over her. She sat on the edge of the cushioned chair, her long skirt flowing in a graceful waterfall behind the large cello. Though she wasn’t playing, her graceful hand still circled the neck of the instrument, and her other held the long bow that was poised above the strings. Her posture was upright, almost regal, and with her red hair spilling down her back and over her shoulders, she was truly breathtaking.
Then he realized there was no music sitting in front of her. The song she’d just played had come from inside her. Somehow, he was both humbled and impressed by that, even though his heart suddenly ached.
Her eyes found him. “Carver.” It was only his name, but the hushed way she whispered it was everything.
He pushed the door closed, his eyes not leaving her. “You’re incredible.”
Color bloomed on her cheeks as she lowered the bow. “You were listening?”
“Just that last piece. It was . . .” There were too many words, yet none were sufficient. He shook his head. “You’re extremely talented.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated, then set aside her bow, her hand flexing against the soreness he had no doubt she felt after hours of playing. He knew the wound on her arm no longer bothered her, but he had to wonder if it was protesting now. Before he could ask, she said, “Thank youdoesn’t feel like enough. This cello . . .” Her hand ran gently down the long neck of the instrument, her head shaking slowly. “It’s beautiful, Carver.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He would have given her a thousand cellos just to see that light in her eyes. He slipped his hands into his pockets. “If there’s anything else you need—any piece of music you want—let me know.”
“You’re spoiling me.”
