And somewhere, in the back of my mind, a terrifying thought takes root.He gave me exactly what I wanted.And all I had to do was obey.
CHAPTER 07
THE NOCTURNE
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The West Wing Corridor -> The Music Room
Track:Nocturne in C Sharp Minor (No. 20)– Frédéric Chopin (Performed by Jan Lisiecki)
Sensory:The cold brass of the key, the smell of lemon polish and old felt, the vibration of strings through wood.
Mood:Trance & Arousal.
I don't walk to the music room. I flee toward it.
My ballet flats slap against the marble floor, a frantic rhythm that echoes the chaotic hammering of my heart. The small brass key cuts into the palm of my hand—the same hand Alaric marked with his teeth—but I squeeze it tighter, needing the sharp bite of the metal to anchor me to reality.
One hour.He gave me sixty minutes. But he also gave me a warning.Play structure. Do not play chaos.
I reach the double oak doors. My breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, not from the exertion of the run, but from the sheer, crushing weight of anticipation. It has been twenty-four days. Twenty-four days since I touched ivory. Twenty-four days since I felt the vibration of a string traveling up my arms and settling in my chest.
For a musician, silence isn't just the absence of sound. It is the absence of oxygen.
I fumble the key into the lock. It turns with a heavy, satisfyingthunk. I push the doors open and slip inside, closing them instantly behind me. I lean back against the wood, closing my eyes, inhaling deep.
The air here is different. It doesn't smell like the clinic. It smells of dust, velvet, rosin, and the sharp, chemical scent of lemon wood polish. It smells like a sanctuary. I push off the door and walk toward the platform.
The Steinway Model D sits there like a sleeping black beast. It is massive, nine feet of polished ebony reflecting the grey light from the tall windows. It is the exact twin of the instrument my father sold, the instrument I spent my childhood weeping over, bleeding over, hating, and loving with a toxicity that rivals my relationship with Alaric.
I approach it with reverence. I sit on the leather bench. It groans softly under my weight. I reach out and stroke the fallboard. The lacquer is cool, smooth like glass. With a trembling hand, I insert the brass key into the lock on the lid.Click.I lift the lid.
The keys grin up at me. Eighty-eight stark black and white teeth.Hello, old friend. Hello, old enemy.
I look up at the corner of the room. A small red light blinks on the security camera mounted near the ceiling. He is watching.Play for me,he said.
I wipe my sweating palms on the grey wool of my dress.Structure. He wants structure.
I position my hands. My fingers feel stiff, foreign. The "withdrawal tremor" is there, a subtle vibration in my ring finger. I take a breath. I begin.
Hanon. The Virtuoso Pianist. Exercise No. 1.It is the most basic, repetitive, mechanical exercise in existence. It is the musical equivalent of scrubbing a floor.C-E-F-G-A-G-F-E...
The sound fills the room, bright and percussive. The acoustics are incredible—warm, rich, forgiving. I play the exercise up the scale. Then down. I play it again. Faster. And again.
My muscles begin to remember. The stiffness melts away, replaced by the fluid, oiled precision that took me twenty years to build. My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenchs. The world outside—the asylum, the locked doors, the bite mark—begins to fade.
I play scales. C Major. A Minor. D Harmonic Minor. I play arpeggios. I play chords.
It is safe. It is boring. It is exactly what he asked for. But it is not enough.
The hunger inside me, the starving, clawing thing that Alaric woke up during our therapy session, begins to rattle its cage.He knows,the voice in my head whispers.He knows you wanted to destroy your father. He knows you aren't a good girl.
I look at the camera again. The red light is unblinking. Is he bored? Is he sitting in his office, swirling a glass of scotch, checking his watch?Play for me.
My hands shift on the keys. Without my permission, without a conscious thought, the melody changes. The mechanical drilling of Hanon dissolves. My left hand finds a low, ominous octave.C Sharp.My right hand finds the sorrow.
Chopin. Nocturne No. 20 in C Sharp Minor.
