They look normal. They look wealthy. But their eyes... Every single one of them has the same look. The look of something that has been hollowed out and filled with cotton.
"They’re sedated," I whisper, horror creeping up my spine.
"They arebalanced," Alaric corrects. "Their demons are quieted so they can function."
"They aren't functioning. They’re existing."
"For some of them, existence is the only victory they can hope for." Alaric places a hand on the small of my back. The heat of hispalm seeps through the grey wool dress, branding me. "Go on. Walk among them. You are one of them now."
He pushes me gently forward. I step into the room. The atmosphere changes instantly. The silence here is heavy, thick with unsaid things. I walk past the man at the chess board. He doesn't look up. I walk toward the fireplace.
"Don't get too close to the fire, darling. The glass gets hot."
The voice is brittle, sharp, and feminine. I turn. Sitting in a high-backed armchair near the hearth is a woman. She must be in her forties, but she looks older. Her face is gaunt, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut. She is wearing a red velvet turban and clutching a pearl necklace as if it were a rosary.
"Hello," I say, my voice trembling.
She looks at me. Her eyes are bright, feverish. Not sedated like the others. "You're new," she states. It’s an accusation. "I saw you come in with Him. The King of Spades."
"Dr. Graves?"
"Graves. Tombs. Crypts." She laughs, a dry, rattling sound. "He has many names. He likes to collect pretty things. Are you a pretty thing?"
"I... I don't know."
She leans forward, her eyes darting to where Alaric is standing by the archway, watching us like a hawk. "Listen to me," she hisses, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't take the red pills. Cheek them. Hide them under your tongue. If you take the red ones, the music stops."
My heart skips a beat. "The music?"
"The music in your head. The colors. Thelife." She clutches my wrist, her fingers bony and strong. "He wants to make it quiet.He hates the music. If you have a song, girl, you hide it. You bury it deep where his scalpel can't find it."
"Elodie." Alaric’s voice cuts through the room like a whip crack.
The woman releases me instantly. She leans back, her face going slack, the feverish light dying out as if a switch was flipped. She picks up a book and pretends to read.
Alaric is beside me in two seconds. He doesn't look at the woman. He looks at me. "I said socialize, not conspire," he says smoothly, but his fingers tighten on my elbow. "Mrs. Vanderbilt is a paranoid schizophrenic. Her advice is usually regarding how to communicate with aliens or which of the nurses is a CIA agent. I wouldn't put much stock in it."
"She said you hate the music," I say, looking up at him.
Alaric’s jaw tightens. Just a fraction. "Come," he says, turning me away from the fire. "Speaking of music. There is one last room you need to see."
He marches me out of the Atrium. We walk down another corridor, this one narrower, lined with acoustic padding disguised as decorative fabric panels. We stop in front of a double door made of solid oak. Alaric takes a key from his pocket—an old-fashioned brass key, not a key card. He unlocks the door and pushes it open.
I gasp.
It is a ballroom. Small, but exquisite. A parquet floor, a domed ceiling painted with cherubs, and tall windows draped in heavy velvet. And in the center of the room, on a raised platform, sits a piano.
It is a Steinway Model D. Concert Grand. Polished ebony. It is the twin of the one I had at home. The one my father sold.
It calls to me. It pulls at my soul with a gravitational force stronger than the earth's. My fingers twitch at my sides, phantom chords playing in the air. I haven't touched a piano in three weeks. The ache to play, to pour all this pain and terror into sound, is overwhelming.
I take a step toward it. "Can I..." My voice breaks. "Can I play?"
"No."
The word is a wall. I stop, turning to him. "Please. Just... just five minutes. You said you didn't want to waste talent. You said—"
"I said Ihatewasting talent," Alaric interrupts, closing the distance between us. "But you are not ready."
