Sanctuary. Safety. Home.
I barely realize what I’m doing as I sweep across the room and settle onto the bench. The three wisps circle over my head, then hover above my hands as I lift the fallboard to reveal the keys. My fingers tingle in anticipation, but I know better than to start playing at once. A musical instrument is more than a tool. It’s a partner. A friend. Something that deserves as much courtship as a lover.
Lighting my gloved fingertips over the surface of the keys, I press nothing, and instead familiarize myself with the tactile experience. I do this from one side to the other, then settle my fingers over a chord.
Then I press. Lightly.
The sound reverberates through my bones, loosening the tension trapped within me. Brother Marus’ face flashes through my mind, and I close my eyes. Then I see his lapel pin, the insignia of Saint Lazaro.
I press again, slightly harder, the chord rumbling to my very core.
Next, I recall my stepmother’s smug grin, my stepsisters’ teasing, the prince’s lewd suggestions in the alley. It all comes tumbling forth, spilling from memory and shifting into a rage that radiates down my arms, my fingers, and flows over the piano keys.
I play. With my eyes closed, I let my fingers fly. I need no sheet music, for I play no existing song, following only what my rage wants to say and how my fingertips want to say it. The resulting song fills the air around me, replacing my anger with relief I haven’t felt since Mrs. Coleman sold my pianoforte. The music continues to bleed out of me, and after a while, I open my eyes.
The three wisps rest upon the shelf where the sheet music should be, expressions tranquil.
“You promised you’d sing,” whispers one of the females. For once, there’s no taunting or teasing.
A spark of anxiety surges through me, one reflected in the chord I play. She’s right. In my urgency to get away, I promised to do something I haven’t done in over three years. Ever since…
Ever since…
My song takes a chaotic turn, my throat burning as a lump rises within it. I try to swallow it down, but I can’t. Fae promises are nearly as binding as bargains. I must keep my promise.
I have to sing.
My bass notes grow louder, deeper, the treble cascading down to meet it.
A rumbling builds in my throat, eliciting a desperate craving with it. For three years, this is as much as I’ve ever given in to. A hum. And it’s never been enough. Never.
The hum shifts from a rumble to a tone—one still trapped beneath my closed lips. A tear slips from the corner of my eye, and a burning fills my lungs. Then finally, I part my lips.
My fingers go still, ringing out a bass chord. My voice meets it two octaves higher, a simple and quietah.
The relief I felt just moments ago is insignificant compared to what I feel now, the tension melting out of me, every remnant of rage whisked away as if snatched by a gust of wind. My fingers dance lightly over the keys, a slow progression to meet the octave of myah. There the notes join, the piano and my voice, and a much gentler song emerges. I weave a wordless vocal tune to harmonize with the music of the keys, and the combination feels so much like happiness I could weep.
I glance at the wisps again, finding all three frozen in place, leaning forward from their perch to gaze at me with wide unblinking eyes. I pause my singing and offer them a smile. They return it, and I’m about to ask what their names are when, all at once, they glance up. With a squeal, they dart from the piano and out of sight.
Startled by their sudden exit, my fingers halt on the keys.
That’s when I feel it. The sensation I’m not alone.
I whirl around on the piano bench to find a raven hovering behind me.
* * *
Biting back a shout of alarm,I rise and stumble back, a dissonant chord ringing out as I catch myself on the keys. As much as I regret such indelicate treatment of the poor pianoforte, I can’t bring myself to move off it. The raven simply stares at me, equally as frozen as I am. And it isn’tjusta raven. That is, I’m not sure it’s a raven at all but a person—one of towering height with humanlike arms clad entirely in tight black gloves and draped in dark feathers, legs adorned in orange hose and ending in rather convincing claw-like feet. At its neck is a black cravat, and above it rests its raven face, overlarge and expressionless, looking more like something you’d find stuffed and mounted than existing on a living body. My gaze falls to the raven’s middle, which is of wide girth.
The creature moves, first taking a step back, then glancing down at its stomach. When it looks back to me, it says, “I’m a fat raven.” The voice is male, youthful, and heavy with amusement.
“I see.” Steadying my breathing, I slowly push off from the piano and right myself.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s a glamour.”
I shutter my eyes a few times but say nothing.
The raven cocks his head, then nods. “Ah. This is more about me sneaking up on you unannounced. For that, I apologize.”
