The fever breaks on the third morning. I wake up to the sound of rain against the window. A soft, steady rhythm. The bed beside me is empty.
Panic spikes in my chest. "Alaric?" I scramble up, grabbing the silk robe I found in a wardrobe. I run into the hallway. "Alaric!"
I hear a sound. Downstairs. A single note.Plink.Piano.
I run down the stairs. I run to the music room. He is there. He is sitting at the Bosendorfer. He is wearing a pair of linen trousers I found in a trunk, loose and comfortable. He is shirtless, the fresh bandage on his shoulder stark white against his skin. He is thin. He has lost muscle mass. But he is sitting upright.
His right hand—the healed hand—is hovering over the keys. He plays a chord. C Major. Then C Minor. He watches his fingers. They tremble slightly, but they obey.
"You shouldn't be out of bed," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn't turn. "The bed was too soft. I needed... resistance." He plays a scale. Up. Down. It is a bit uneven, lacking his old mechanical precision, but it is music. "It’s stiff," he murmurs. "The action. It hasn't been played in twenty years."
"We can get a tuner."
"No. I like it. It fights back." He turns to look at me. His eyes are clear. The silver is bright again. "Come here."
I walk to him. He pulls me between his knees. He rests his forehead against my stomach. "You saved me again," he whispers.
"Stop counting," I say, running my hands through his hair.
"I can't stop counting. I am in debt, Elodie. A dangerous amount of debt." He looks up at me. "How do I repay you?"
"Play for me."
He shakes his head. "I can't. Not like before. The virtuoso is dead."
"I don't want the virtuoso," I say. "I want the man." I sit on the bench beside him. "Play something simple."
He hesitates. Then he places his hands on the keys. He playsClair de Lune. It is slow. Hesitant at first. He misses a note in the arpeggio. He grimaces. But he keeps playing. And there is something new in the sound. Before, his playing was perfect. Cold. Surgical. Now... now there is a fragility to it. A hesitation that feels like a breath. It is imperfect. And it is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.
I lean my head on his shoulder. I close my eyes. I listen to the rain and the music. We are safe. The Syndicate is in chaos. My father is dead. We are ghosts in a stone castle. We have money. We have time. We have each other.
It feels like a happy ending. But I know better. Happy endings are for fairy tales. We are in a gothic novel. And in gothic novels, the storm always returns.
[ONE WEEK LATER]
Domesticity is a strange drug. We fall into a routine. Alaric heals. He eats ravenously, regaining his strength. He spends hours in the library, reading old books, or on the terrace, staring at the lake. I play the piano. I practice for hours, letting the music fill the empty halls. We make love. Gently at first, mindful of his wound, then with increasing intensity as his strength returns. We explore the villa. We find wine in the cellar. We find old clothes.
We don't talk about the past. We don't talk about Thorne, or the boat, or the kill. We pretend they don't exist. But we still lock the doors. We still keep the gun (now reloaded with ammo we found in a hunting cabinet) on the nightstand.
It is a fragile peace. A glass house waiting for a stone.
I am in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner. The sun has set. The villa is dark, lit only by the lamps I’ve turned on. Alaric is in the study, checking the encrypted laptop we brought. He is moving money. Creating new identities. Building the wall around us higher.
Click.The sound comes from the front of the house. The front door. I freeze. I locked it. I know I locked it. I put the knife down. I pick up the heavy cast-iron skillet. It’s not much, but it’s heavy.
I walk into the hallway. "Alaric?" I call out softly.
No answer. The study door is closed.
I see a shadow move in the foyer. A man. He is standing by the door, shaking rain from a black umbrella. He is wearing a suit. Not tactical gear. A bespoke Italian suit. He looks up. He sees me.
He smiles. It is a smile I recognize. I saw it across a poker table in Monaco. Silas Vane.
He is alive. But he looks different. He has a bandage on his neck where I held the knife. He looks thinner. Meaner. And he is not alone. Two men step out from the shadows behind him. Big men. Silent.
"Hello, Lady Elodie," Vane says smoothly. "Or is it 'The Muse' now?"
