As I hobbled and fumed, I passed under a window partially obscured by creeping ivy. The pane was open a crack. I stopped in my tracks, arrested by the music flowing from inside.
The lightest flutter on the keys made the piece sound effortless, but I recognized it immediately as Liszt,La Campanella. Liszt is one of the hardest composers to play since the rotten bastard loved to create knotty compositions that seemed to defy the laws of physics. If you made even a couple of mistakes, the whole thing sounded like complete shit, so it was gutsy to add a piece like that to your repertoire.
This musician wasn’t just playing Liszt, they createdmagicwith Liszt. The skips and runs carried with them a wild passion that evoked the master’s unconventional style, but with a playfulness that was completely unique.
I couldn’t help myself. I set down my violin and stepped onto the raised garden bed, craning my neck to peer through the window. The music drew me up short, grabbing my heart in my chest. I needed to see who could play like that.
I squinted into the darkened room, my breath catching in my throat as I struggled to make out the shapes of furniture and people. A girl sat at the piano, her delicate features bent toward the keys, her eyes heavy-lidded as shefelther way through the piece. A waterfall of white-blonde hair – perfectly straight and shimmering like threads of silver – cascaded down her back. In the shadows, I could just make out the folded legs of the tutor, sitting in rapt contemplation.
The pianist was a tiny wisp of a thing, everything about her light and effortless, her eyes closed, her features serene. How did a girl likethatchannel the kind of raw emotion that made tears prick at the corners of my eyes—
“Ms. de Winter,” a sharp voice broke my reverie. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Chapter Four
Faye
I jumped at the voice, slamming my head into the stone lintel. Red welts danced in front of my eyes.
At least I’m not thinking about the pain in my leg anymore.
Rubbing my head, I turned to face Madame Usher. She stood on the path in another of her sweeping lace gowns – this one black and purple – her hands on her hips and an expression of utter disgust on her painted face.
Great. Because this day couldn’t get any worse.
“Skulking around the grounds and peering in windows like a cat burglar,” she tsked. “This is not the conduct of a Manderley student. Under my tutelage, you represent not just me but all the graduates of our fine school. I will not tolerate this kind of antisocial behavior. Do you understand?”
“I was trying to find the entrance, and I—”
“A simple, ‘Yes, Madame Usher’ will suffice.” She hit me with that smile again, the one that promised pain if I didn’t obey.
I bit back a hundred wicked retorts. “Yes, Madame Usher.”
The words tasted like sandpaper. I hated having to bow and scrape for this woman – the bitch who’d seduced Dad with all her promises, leaving Mom broken and me without a father.
“Good. Follow me.”
I jumped down from the garden wall, sending a jab of pain through my skull. I must’ve hit the lintel harder than I thought. As I bent to pick up my violin case, Madame Usher’s mouth pinched like she was sucking a lemon.
“We enforce a strict dress code. I realize you’ve been living ‘in the hood’, but your hobo-chic style will not be tolerated here.”
What’s she talking about— Oh, right.I glanced down at my torn and filthy jeans, which now boasted a few dead leaves and dewy patches from the overgrown garden. “I fell through a rotting board on the porch. I was hoping to change before I saw you—”
“When I want you to talk, Ms. de Winter, I will make a request.”
Okay, fine. It’s going to be like that.
Her demeanor made no sense to me. In the hospital, she claimed to still love my father. She was impressed by my playing. She even used the word ‘delighted.’ But now she seemed almost annoyed that I was here.
For a slight woman, Madame Usher walked fast, with purpose. I had to jog to keep up, which only made my leg and head hurt more. She led me along a wide path and through a small iron gate into a kitchen garden overgrown with weeds. A narrow wooden door broke the monotony of the brick wall. Madame removed a set of keys on a metal loop and selected one, turning the ancient lock until it clicked.
How was she planning to let me in if the door was locked?
The door opened onto a short hallway, cloaked in shadows. A single fluorescent bulb swung from the ceiling, barely penetrating the corners.
She showed me into the first room – a narrow pantry stacked with supplies. A whiteboard on the wall detailed shopping lists and menus in delicate, looped handwriting. The floor had this gritty feeling, like someone had upset a salt shaker but never bothered to clean it up.
The cupboard opposite held cleaning supplies. Another led to a laundry with an ancient washing machine and drying racks suspended from the ceiling. I half expected there to be a hand-cranked wringer and a stone for grinding flour.
