“You play beautifully,” Franco says. I meet his gaze and find his expression soft and open. “What’s the song called?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m simply playing what I feel right now.”
“Is that how you always play?”
“When I’m without sheet music. I love playing existing songs, but I also like to just…play.”
“Where did you learn to do that?”
I open my mouth but hesitate before I answer. “I took lessons,” I say. The full truth is, while I received ample lessons as a child, the connection I formed with music is my own. With my mother being a wind fae, the air element moves through my veins. One of the manifestations of air is creative expression, especially through voice, speech, and sound. Playing the piano came as naturally to me as climbing did.
But singing came even more naturally…
My song quickens in tempo while my fingers dance toward the base notes. It takes a few moments for me to regain my composure and return to my previous tune. I don’t dare look at Franco to see if he noticed my momentary shift.
“Want to play question for question again?” he asks.
“All right.”
He faces me, propping an arm on the side of the piano. “You said your mother died in the rebellion. What was your childhood like before that? When she was alive?”
My pulse quickens at such a personal question, but my heart aches at the thought of my mother. It begs me to speak of her. Honor her. My tune changes into a slow but steady melody, one equally solemn and joyful. “It was wonderful,” I say. “During my childhood, we lived on a human estate in the countryside without much fae interaction. Mother was my connection to magic. To my fae side. She taught me ways to experience my wild nature.”
The notes I play tell of climbing trees, scaling the roof to study the stars, learning songs on our piano so I could watch her and Father dance. They tell of windstorms and gentle breezes, of bedtime stories and endless smiles.
He breathes in deeply, and I wonder if he’s sensing my energy.
“My turn,” I say. “What was yours like? Your childhood, that is?”
He pushes off from the piano and begins to take a slow stroll around it. When he reaches the other side, he pauses. His answer comes out soft. “Lonely.”
I look up at him with a furrowed brow. My fingers follow the tone of his voice, translating the shift in his expression. “Why was it lonely?”
He continues walking again, starting another circle around the piano. “I didn’t make friends easily. When I was younger, I had very little control over my magic. Before I learned to consciously wield my powers, I would drain people of their energy when I fed. They recovered, but you can imagine this left me little in the way of friends.”
I nod, playing a backdrop to his every word. I can almost see the small version of the prince, shadows casting all around him, friends screaming as he unwittingly bled their emotions dry.
“After Mother left, it was just me and Nyxia. She’s been my best friend ever since.”
“You mother left?” I ask gently. I know it isn’t my turn to ask, but I’m hoping he’ll answer anyway.
He does. “Once my sister demonstrated her power, my mother was ready for Nyxia to challenge her for the crown. After dealing with the first war with the humans, Mother was more than eager to leave politics behind. She knew my sister would make a perfect queen, so she left as soon as Nyxia assumed the throne. She took her unseelie form indefinitely and never came back.”
His tone says more than his words do. My fingers play a low, hollow tune that speaks of a boy being abandoned by someone he so deeply loved.
“My emotions were dark after Mother left,” he says with a small, bitter smile. “My shadows were out of control, flooding the halls in darkness while I cried and grieved. No matter how Nyxia tried to hide it, she was unsettled by me, disgusted by my demonstration of sadness. She didn’t mean to make me feel bad, but…I felt so guilty for displeasing her. For scaring our residents with my fits of emotion. Day after day, our servants constantly asked if I was feeling better, tried to tell me I had nothing to be upset about. That’s when they got me these instruments and brought in musicians to soothe me to sleep. I appreciated their efforts, enjoyed the music, but the pity and disgust were horrible to bear. All I wanted was to be alone and grieve, and everyone else just wanted me back to normal.”
A lump rises in my throat at his story. “Franco, you never should have been made to feel like your grief was wrong.”
“We’re unseelie,” he says with a shrug. He finishes another circle around the pianoforte and leans on the side again. “We may take seelie physical form, but we honor the Old Ways. We value our instincts. At least, that’s what my sister always said. Sometimes I’m not so sure she feels the same way she once did. She’s changed the last few years. I wonder if that’s why she’s more desperate than ever to cling to our throne, ensure it stays in our bloodline. Maybe she knows we’re vulnerable, simply because we’ve learned to feel too much.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I continue to play a song that demonstrates the look in his eyes.
He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyhow, it wasn’t long before I figured out how to keep all the questioning glances and pity at bay. Instead of wailing and rebelling, I started acting like everything was fine, used humor and flattery to set others at ease. Finally, I was left alone. I was able to feel my sorrow in private when no one was looking.”
I can’t take my eyes off him as I continue to play. So much about him makes sense now. I already knew he tended to divert attention away from serious subjects using crass comments or lighthearted humor. Now I know why.
“My turn,” he says. “Is your father still alive?”
