Her lips flicker and then draw into a beautiful smile. “Yes.”
* * *
EMBER
Just as Franco said, he takes me straight from my balcony to his, one that spans three times the length of my own. At the center stands an enormous set of moonstone doors. After we land, he banishes the wings he’d conjured for the flight and strolls to the doors. I follow behind him, feeling my pulse quicken with every step I take. I’ve never been alone with a man in his bedroom. The few dalliances I’ve had happened backstage on neutral ground, not in a man’s most intimate quarters…
Wait, this isnota dalliance.
Why would my mind go there?
I’m here for the piano. Thepiano. That’s all. That’s why Franco brought me here. Despite his momentary teasing, which he clearly delighted in, I know his intention is to cheer me up. It isn’t a surprise I was unable to hide my mood from him. After what happened with Imogen, I can hardly summon the energy to pretend I’m all right. At least he didn’t ask me to explain.
He opens the doors and gestures for me to come inside.
With slow, hesitant steps I cross the threshold and glance at the prince’s room.
Roomis an understatement, for it’s more of an apartment, much like Brother Marus’. Franco’s, of course, is twice as large and infinitely more elegant. The main room we stand in is large and lush, with walls of moonstone that end in an enormous glass dome, like the one in the ballroom. I can see stars sparkling above, as well as a hint of the waxing moon. Lowering my gaze, I return my study to the room, finding a sitting area at one end, a dining area at the other, and another set of enormous doors left open to reveal what is clearly Franco’s bedroom. I don’t let my gaze linger there for long, but when I fail to see any sign of his promised pianoforte, my eyes can’t help but return.
Hands in his pockets, Franco heads straight for those open doors. “Right this way.”
“To your bedroom?” I say, although my feet are already hurrying to follow.
“That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
I glower at the back of his head, but my heart is too full of excitement. It’s as if I can feel the piano keys calling my name.
Franco pauses at the threshold and gestures for me to enter. I come up beside him—and freeze. If I thought the main room was elegant, then there are no words to describe his bedroom. The floor is of fiery opal while the walls are pink moonstone. His furniture is jet and obsidian, his bed framed with a sheer white canopy. The blankets are indigo silk and velvet threaded with silver floral patterns, and the pillows are plush and enormous. My heart leaps into my throat when I realize how long I’ve been staring at his bed. I avert my gaze to the other side of the room. That’s when I find the most marvelous sight of all.
Upon a small, raised dais stands a collection of beautiful instruments. There’s an enormous white harp, a violin, and—yes—a pianoforte.
His teasing about his gargantuan instrument no longer seems quite so crude, for what I find at the center of the dais is the largest and most lovely piano I’ve ever seen. It’s of a pale, shimmering wood inlaid with opal and obsidian, adorned in gold filigree.
“Go ahead,” he says with a light laugh, as if he can feel my desire.
That’s all the permission I need, and in a matter of seconds, I’m on the bench, running my bare fingertips over the surface of the fallboard.
“What did I tell you?” He stands next to the piano, his hands still in his pockets. “My big smooth instrument.”
I look up at him with the biggest smile I think I’ve ever worn. “Why do you have these in your room? Do you host musicians often?” Strangely, a flash of envy heats my cheeks at those words, and all I can imagine is a trio of gorgeous fae females sprawled upon the dais, performing some sultry tune for the prince.
He shrugs. “They were a gift from when I was younger. After my…” He shifts his stance and clears his throat before continuing. “After my mother went away, music was one of the few things that could console me.”
I’ve never heard him speak of his mother, but I can tell by that brief hesitation that there’s a story there. I wonder if bywent awayhe means she died. Like my mother. “And now?” I ask. “Who plays them?”
He grins. “You do. I rarely let people into my room, so they’ve gone unused far longer than they deserve. Since I haven’t any musical talent, all I can do is cherish them. I’ll pluck a string now and then or touch a key, just so they know I appreciate them.”
A warm feeling spreads through my chest. He talks about instruments the same way I do. As if they’re sentient beings that deserve attention. Respect.
I lift the fallboard. Underneath it, I find the familiar ivory and ebony keys. Like always, I brush my fingertips over the surface, familiarizing myself with the feel of them. Franco stands quietly next to the piano, so still it’s as if he’s frozen. I place my fingertips over a chord, then change my mind and choose a different one. I press down, and the resulting sound hums deep in my bones. Every worry flees from me at once, every ache drowned beneath the vibration of sound.
Then I play.
35
EMBER
Iplay an intuitive tune, a conversation between me and the prince’s piano as I learn the voice of each key, the resistance between pressure and sound. My fingers dance up and down the keyboard until I settle into a comfortable rhythm.
