The sun lowers as dusk approaches. Khalessor seems relatively safe, but I don't want to walk the streets alone at night. I take a deep breath and step out from under the awning into the heavy rain. My slippers soak through. Wet strands of hair cling to my skin. I hug my arms close, trying to keep myself warm despite my chattering teeth. I ascend the castle steps like a wet rat, my clothing thoroughly drenched. The two guards at the front snicker at me as I enter the castle. I ignore them. I look to my left, then my right, trying to figure out the path back to my room.
Why can I never remember which way it is?
Turning to my right, I trudge back to my room as water droplets fall from my clothes and pool at my feet. I circle a corner, sure of my surroundings, only to find myself at the servants' quarters. Sighing, I turn and go in the other direction.I grow so frustrated that I open random doors and look inside. It isn't that late at night… so why can’t I find anyone?
The next door I try leads me into a large, cavernous room. It shuts behind me, sealing me into the dark space. Heading to the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, I pull the thin gossamer drapes open, flooding the space with moonlight. I try to see which part of the castle I am in, but all I see is a view of some trees and shrubbery. As I turn, I bump into a large object covered in a thin white sheet. I wince from the impact, my hand cradling my elbow as it stings. A faint ringing emanates from the object, and as I circle it, I realize what it is.
Pulling the thin cover free, I see a stunning pianoforte.
I huff, turning my chin to the ceiling. “If I play you a song, will you stop changing the corridors on me?” I call out to an empty room, questioning my sanity. A few days in Khalessor has reduced me to talking to walls.
Pulling my soggy satchel over my head, I plop it beside the bench. I carefully open the lid, looking inside to determine the instrument’s age. The strings seem in good enough condition. I hike up my heavy skirt and sit, placing my damp slippers on the pedals. Gathering my bearings, I pluck a few chords, checking the tuning.
Then, my fingers move, playing a tune from memory—one that I practiced a million times in front of Governess Margaret. For every mistake I made, she would strike me and force me to start over. I play it perfectly, the song carved into my bones against my will. My fingers slow, and I stop playing halfway through. I don’t feel whole. I hate that song, hate the woman who turned my passion into a dreadful plight. I sit there and stare blankly at the keys, the pouring rain my only company.
Why do I feel so hollow?
I start again, this time with a different song: Flight of the Silverbird. Margaret never let me play anything she did notconsider a classic, constantly scolding me that a princess would never play something so unrefined.
The song echoes through the quiet room, the melody comforting me like an old friend. My hands move faster, pouring unspoken frustration into the music until the world beyond the keys ceases to exist. Each note gathers a fragment of the self I lost to perfection. Perfect daughter. Perfect speech. Perfect manners. Perfect choices. I shaped myself into what everyone wanted until nothing real remained. I played the part so long I forgot the sound of my own voice.
What do I even want?
I continue. Playing song after song until it heals a part of me that I did not know was broken. My fingers ache, but I don’t stop. I don’t know how much time passes, but as the last note lingers in the air, I feel something I haven’t felt in years…solace. Standing, I turn to exit the bench.
I am not alone.
I startle back with a gasp, my hand clutching my chest as I bump into the pianoforte. “How long have you been standing there?”
Wrath’s tunic is neat, his pants sitting low on his hips. He leans against the back wall, hands tucked into his pockets. Wrath’s black hair is preposterously smooth and styled. He is the living embodiment of composure. Would it kill him to have a single flaw?
“A while.”
I huff an annoyed breath, collecting my discarded satchel from the floor. I sling it over my shoulder, then close the cover and lid to protect it from dust. Part of me longs to return to this room, to touch the keys again and rediscover the joy that once lived in every note.
“You play quite well,” Wrath says.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve complimented me,” I comment, knowing he will say something irreverent in return.
“Would you like me to praise you more?”
My jaw clenches. It’s not what I expected Wrath to say, but I won’t allow him to get a rise out of me. I cross the room to where he’s standing, stopping before him. Wrath is a figure carved from moonlight and shadow, the scar on his jaw catching in the faint light. His magic coils around me like a snake waiting to bite. I hate the sensation. Wrath watches me with a quiet intensity in return, and I catch the subtlest glint in his gaze as it lowers.
“Why are you damp, Raelys?” he asks, voice harsh.
“I got caught in the rain,” I admit.
“You went outside the castle?”
A bolt of panic shoots through me. “Am I not allowed?” I ask meekly, knotting up my hands in front of me.
“Who told you you’re not allowed to go outside?” He pushes away from the wall, standing upright. I preferred it when he was leaning, as now he looms over me.
I anticipate his anger at my insolence, hesitating for a moment. “No one…” my voice trails off. Wrath’s magic prickles up the back of my neck, causing me to squirm. In my discomfort, I continue rambling, “Back home, I was forbidden to leave the castle walls. So I just assumed?—”
“Ever?”
“Yes…” I reply reluctantly.
