She was right, but that didn’t make renovating the vast ballroom any easier.
Everyone split up, and their voices receded down corridors and stairwells, while I made the shorter “commute” to the ballroom. Huge double doors led to it from the dining room, though we kept those closed against the cold. I used the adjoining hallway instead and paused at the first of five arched doorways opening onto the ballroom. Yes, five. The ballroom was that long.
My grandmother had been legendary for hosting huge parties for a mix of supernatural guests — shifters, witches, warlocks, and so on. Once, a dazzling mermaid/merman couple had attended, or so my mother claimed. My sister, cousin, and I had only witnessed my grandmother’s last few gatherings, but even those had been amazing. There’d been string quartets. Glamorous dresses. Dancing. Champagne. Fireworks.
Now, a bird chirped outside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and that was it.
Then a faint sound reached me from the left. I glanced at the artwork hanging there — an oil painting my father had made after one of my grandmother’s grand parties. He’d used quick brushstrokes to echo the motion of dancers, waiters, and ladies fluttering fans, resulting in a work straight out of Monet. My grandmother had loved that piece.
Me too.
Listen. Listen carefully, and you will hear,my grandmother used to say.Especially when the artist has poured emotion into their work.
I closed my eyes and held my breath, hoping to hear more.
The magic at Château Nocturne must really have been flowing, because the faint notes of a violin reached my ears,growing gradually more distinct. A cello joined in, along with background sounds. Laughter. The clink of champagne glasses. Shoes scuffing over the floor.
All that seeped out of the painting and into the vast, empty ballroom, bringing the entire scene to life, not just the fraction captured within the limits of the frame.
A dozen couples stepped and twirled. Waiters made their rounds, offering drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Candles flickered, and logs crackled in the massive fireplaces.
I found myself humming the bright, swirling melody of Emile Waldteufel’s “Les Patineurs” and swaying in place.
More details waltzed out of the fog of my memory as the scene continued to play out. The jangle of my grandmother’s bracelets. The tuba-honk of my great-uncle Toby blowing his nose. The creak of the parquet floor, and my mother’s chuckle — the special one reserved for my father.
A tear slipped over the contours of my smile.
The music rose, swelled, and drew to a close. So did the scene playing out in my mind. Guests showered my grandmother withmercisandau revoirsbefore heading home. Then, one by one, the lights in the ballroom were extinguished.
Slowly, I opened my eyes on the empty ballroom.
Mina was right when she’d said,The walls may have been stripped of wallpaper, but the memories are still there. They always will be.
But, whoa. Those weren’t just memories. That was an entire scene replayed to me by a painting.
I turned to it, whispering, “Thank you, Dad.”
Another tear slipped down my cheek.
Then real footsteps sounded and I whirled.
“Reporting for duty,” Roux announced, not all too enthusiastically. Then he cocked his head. “Everything all right?”
I tossed my hair, using the motion to dry my cheeks.
“Of course. I guess Mina decided she could spare you?”
He nodded glumly.
Well, yay to you too,I nearly said.And thanks for chasing away the most magic I’ve felt in years.
Not much of my ancestral magic had worked its way down to me, but it did pop out from time to time — especially since I’d moved here a few weeks ago.
Mina said the longer she stayed at the château, the more magic she felt — and the more she mastered. Was that happening to me too?
I chewed the thought over while explaining the task at hand to Roux.
“We need to clean the grime off the molded plaster on the ceiling.” I pointed up.
