Dorien didn’t need Manderley. He already had an international career. Having the prestigious program on his resume might look good, but so would touring internationally as a soloist or with the other two Broken Muse hotties, and he couldn’t do both at once. That dead, haunted look in his eyes – he didn’t want to be here. So why was he?
I bet it’s his parents.Even when Dorien was being a complete shit, he loved the music, and he wanted so badly to do well. His parents pushed him hard – his mother always sat in the back of the class, her eyes burning holes in his back as she memorized his every movement to criticize later. They were both super odd – I went to their house once for Dorien’s birthday, and his father made us play in this room that had no furniture and only a box of wooden blocks – but Mom said that was just how old money people were. They seemed to like me, though, although it was primarily my father’s fame that interested them. I always wondered if they were the reason Dorien broke up our friendship, but I didn’t want to make excuses for his dickweasel behavior—
With a start, I realized Madame Usher had stopped in her tracks. I skidded on the heavy carpet in an attempt to halt my momentum before I slammed into her. I succeeded, but it threw me off-balance. My flailing hand caught a vase, toppling it off the edge of its stand. I lunched and caught it before it smashed on the floor.
“Watch yourself.” Madame Usher gestured to a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall with a NO STUDENTS sign engraved on it. “I live in the east wing of the house. No student is to enter my private rooms unless invited. Disobeying this rule will result in animmediateexpulsion. Do not take this lightly, as I have dismissed students before.”
I nodded.
“Master Radcliffe lives in the stable house toward the rear of the grounds. He joins us for meals unless he is traveling. You’ve met Harrison already – he lives in the gatehouse you saw when you came in. If you need to know where to find anything, he’s the best person to ask. I’ll be too busy with the school to be concerned with small details. This is the first year I’ll be running our program without Victor, and it must run flawlessly. Any questions?”
A million, but none I wanted to ask her. “Where’s my room?”
“You will be on the third floor. Follow me.”
Up another flight of stairs, so steep and narrow I had to hug my violin case to my chest in order to fit. We emerged on a small landing, the walls of clapboard sloping inward at such a steep angle I had to stoop as I climbed up. Madame Usher pulled a string and a single, bare bulb lit the space.
We were obviously in the attic of the house. Facing me were three doors. I assumed that when the building was used as a stately home, servants lived in these rooms. It seemed fitting then that I’d be given one. Madame Usher found another key on her ring and shoved it into the lock of the middle door.
“We had these rooms remodeled three years ago when we employed Clare. The room on your left is your bathroom – this outside door is blocked off, so the only access is through your room. The other door must remain locked at all times,” she said. “We use it for storage, and it contains many old tools and other odds and ends. It becomes a health and safety issue if students are wandering inside, so I’ve not given you a key for it.”
She swung open the middle door to reveal a surprisingly large space. The walls sloped toward the center of the room, and a dormer window cast cool light across the grey shag rug and comfortable – if worn – furniture. A white brass bed made with cream sheets faced the window. A stack of blankets rested on a carved wooden chest. The stone chimney rose through one corner of the room, so at least I would stay warm when the downstairs fire was lit.
Sticking me in the attic was obviously another part of Madame’s plot to humiliate me, but she’d have to do better. The room was actually pretty cool – it had more personality than the ritzy suites downstairs. I set my violin case beside the chair at the window. “Thank you.”
I hovered there, waiting for her to leave. When she didn’t, I upturned my duffel bag on the bed and picked through the clothes I’d hastily shoved inside, pulling out my two concert dresses to hang on the rack beside the window, and a spare set of jeans to change into.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Unpacking.”
“No time for that.” She glanced at her watch. “It is past ten. We dine promptly at eleven. You need to get back to the kitchen.”
Chapter Six
Faye
An hour of frantic chopping and sautéing later, I had prepared a passable lunch with what I found still usable in the fridge and pantry – herb-encrusted lamb medallions, a warm chorizo and sweet potato salad, and some stale bread that I’d sliced into croutons and grilled with a little garlic and served with a caramelized onion preserve I’d found on the shelves. Mom may not have been a virtuoso dickhead like my father, but I learned a lot from her – namely, how to rock the fuck out of a bare kitchen.
Bringing the heavy plates of food into the dining room was another matter entirely. It was another chance for my natural coordination to shine. As I rounded the corner of the staircase, one of the croutons slid off the plate and landed preserve-side down on the hallway rug.
Great. That’s going to leave a stain. Remember to pick it up later.
Talking and laughing echoed off the high ceilings as I entered the room and got a first look at my fellow students.
Dorien Valencourt sat at the right-hand side of Madame Usher, where he held court over the table. He must’ve just said something hilarious, because the honey-haired girl who left me stuck in the porch tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed. Her laugh sounded like water trickling down a waterfall.
The white-haired waif I’d seen at the piano sat beside a boy who… wait a second.
It was the violinist from Dorien’s videos, I wassureof it. He and the girl looked practically identical – the same perfectly-straight silver hair, arresting eyes and sharp cheekbones. While she had the appearance of a pixie, he was a dark elf, the kind that lured you off the path into a magic circle where he’d make wild love to you and then cut your head off and suck out the blood. He placed his hand over his sister’s, his icy gaze sweeping me with that a menace that made it clear he was as dangerous as he was beautiful.
Twins.That explained their identical last name, but not why they shared a room. Wouldn’t they want their own space?
Across the table from the twins was a girl with curves like mine (maybe we could be friends…) – her skin a deep, rich brown, and her eyes sparkling with mischief. She wasn’t African American, but I couldn’t place her features. She wore a tight leather skirt and a black tank top that showed off swirling black tattoos across her shoulders and only barely covered her tits, as well as an attitude that told the world to fuck right off. She bent her head to speak with a guy I immediately recognized as the third Muse from Dorien’s video. He could only be Titus Thibodeaux. In the dim candlelight, hewasthe spitting image of his father Amos, except that Titus’ smoky eyes – the edges tinged with midnight – shared none of the maestro’s warmth. He looked like he’d spent the day at back-to-back funerals with a quick stop in between for a root canal.
Madame Usher sat at the head of the table, and a white-haired man with soft grey eyes and a slightly-hooked nose faced her on the other end. Master Radcliffe, I guessed. A rare musician who had mastered three instruments, the brochures made a big deal about his presence on Manderley’s staff. He was the only person who smiled at me as I approached the table.
Dorien Valencourt stood as I slunk forward, my knee stinging from where the porch bit me. He wore clothes this time, thank fuck, although his skintight black jeans and fitted red shirt with Baroque embroidery on the collar and cuffs did nothing to disguise that hot-as-sin body beneath. A hand reached out to me, those treble clef tattoos dancing over his fingers, and I imagined what it would feel like to have those hands dance across my naked skin—
