My hands go still, ringing out a dissonant chord. My stomach sinks, my mouth suddenly dry. I bring my fingers to the base of my neck, seeking the locket that isn’t there.
He takes a step closer, eyes full of concern. “I’m sorry, Em. You don’t have to answer that.”
My chest heaves as my eyes rest on the hand that remains on the keyboard, my fingers clenched over the keys. I don’t have to answer. I know I don’t.
“It’s all right,” Franco says softly.
With a few deep breaths, I uncurl my fingers and lay them back over the keys. I lower the hand from my throat and rest my fingertips over a chord. When I return to playing, the song is dark. Deep. Ominous.
“My father is dead,” I whisper.
He stands perfectly still, saying nothing in reply. His silence tells me my answer is enough, should I want it to be. He won’t push me. Won’t coax me. He won’t ask me to share the same sincerity he shared with me.
Maybe that’s why I do.
“I used to sing,” I say. For a moment my song goes higher, lighter, a joyful rhythm like the one I played when I spoke of my mother. “Our dinner guests and visitors would beg me to sing for them. The older I got, the more apparent it was that my song held power. It was an amplifier, Mother explained. When people listened, they felt pleasure. The more I sang, the more their pleasure increased. The more at peace they felt. The more calm and beauty and joy they experienced in that moment. It was a gift. Or so we thought.”
My song returns to its deep and haunting melody, the rhythm growing chaotic and uneven. “After Mother died, I continued to sing. Father said using my inherited power honored her. I clung to that magic, let it carry me through the toughest times, especially after he remarried.”
My song dips lower again, louder. Tears prick my eyes.
“The last time I sang, I killed my father.” A tear streams down my cheek. “It was after a dinner party, and we were all taking tea in the parlor. Upon request, I played. I sang. I remember looking at him, meeting his eyes over his teacup. They sparkled with pride, and I felt my own pride swell up inside me. I was bursting with gratitude that even though my mother was gone, I could still bring him this piece of her. Still bring him such joy. I averted my gaze for just a moment.”
Two sharp chords.
“Then I heard the clatter of tableware.”
Three sharp chords.
“I leapt from the piano and rushed to his side. He was clutching his heart, the tears I’d sparked still fresh in his eyes. He died before the doctor arrived.”
My chest heaves as my hands go still. I can no longer see through the sheen of moisture filling my eyes. My cheeks tingle where streams roll down before splashing onto the keys.
A weight shifts on the bench, and I hear Franco’s voice come from nearby, so soft and strained. “Your song didn’t kill him.”
“It did, though,” I say, words rich with emotion. “He’d had heart problems before this. Making him feel that much emotion…it overwhelmed him. Killed him.”
“Says who?”
The answer is my stepmother, but I’ve always known she was right.You should have known better, she told me time and time again after his death.I tried to tell you not to sing. You wouldn’t listen. You just had to show off like you always do.
I hated when she would claim I played music to show off, but she was right about one thing. With my father’s heart in such a fragile state, I never should have sung. “I killed him.”
“You don’t know that. You might never know what really happened, but you can’t blame yourself. Your mother was right. Your song is a gift. It’s beautiful.”
I blink the tears from my eyes and face him. He’s sitting on the bench next to me. Now that I can see him clearly, I realize he’s so much closer than I expected. “I’m dangerous,” I say. “Deadly.”
He holds my gaze without waver. “So am I.” His words are firm, but they aren’t said in threat. It’s something so much softer, so much stronger. Like understanding. Camaraderie. Conviction. It’s that look that makes my mind go still, soothes my aching heart. I may not believe him about my innocence over my father’s death, but heseesme in a way no one else has.
Something soft brushes the side of my hand. I look down at the bench to find our hands resting side by side, our pinkies touching. When I lift my eyes, I notice his gaze has fallen to our hands as well. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. Seconds tick by, and still, he doesn’t move. Then, finally, his pinky twitches and wraps around mine. When his eyes return to mine, there’s a question in them, as if he’s the one waiting for me to pull away this time.
I don’t. For some strange reason, the feel of his pinky entwined with mine seems far more significant than the few times he’s held my hand. There are no gloves that stand between us. No one to put on a show for.
His shoulder comes against mine, filling me with a steadying warmth. Inch by near-imperceptible inch, he leans closer. His lips are so close I can feel the soft caress of his breath as it mingles with my own.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize with a burning certainty that he’s going to kiss me. Heat unfurls low in my abdomen, and everything inside me begs him to close that distance. This close I can see every shade of silver in his eyes and the long black lashes that frame them. Across his nose, I see the palest smattering of freckles, and I wonder if he can see mine too…
My breath catches, my blood going cold.
