I try to remember the song the girl was singing in the Haunted Gallery. Or maybe it was in my head. I try to remember, but the tune is just out of reach. My memory is good, but it’s notthatgood. I’m seriously considering calling it a night when I think I start to hear something—it’s faint and muffled, but it’s there. Music.
I whip around in the direction of the sound before turning back Bessie. “Do you hear that?”
She leans to the side to glance around me. “Who would be playing music at this hour?”
She hears it, too! I’m not imagining it! Whirling around, I follow the eerily familiar melody and am once again in front of the chapel. The music is coming from beyond the doors.
I square my shoulders. Maybe this is it. I’m going to open the doors and be sent home. Please, baby Jesus, let this be it! The doors creak as I push them forward. I freeze and hope, then hope some more.
Bessie arrives at my side, speaking in a hushed tone. “Are we going in?”
I suck in a breath at her question. I’ve just been the victim of a musical bait and switch, and I’m still fucking here!
I want to scream and cry and rip out my no longer red hair, but I opt to walk into the chapel instead. I never made it inside in the future. Looking at it now, it’s a decadent mix of wood and stone. It’s narrow but substantial. Turning my gaze up to the ceiling, wooden inlays of dark blue are speckled with hand-painted golden stars. It’s a splash of color in a world I’ve found so muted up until now, and the air catches a bit in my throat.
The still-playing music draws me back, and Bessie and I keep walking on the black-and-white marble floor until we find the source. Tucked into the far corner of the room is a group of five musicians. They mostly seem to be in their twenties, and no one has noticed us yet thanks to the blond player in front who’s facing them and holding their attention. He’s on the shorter side, and judging from his posture, he might be playing a ukulele.
The notes of the song start to fade, ending in a soft finale. I’m about to clap, but the player in front quickly addresses the group.
“Right,” he says. “I don’t want to single anyone out, but, William, if you ever play like that again, I will plant a spell book in your sleeping nook and accuse you of witchcraft.”
Oh damn.
William, a lanky redhead with a shy but handsome face, takes an indifferent step forward. “Just so we’re clear, Bartholomew, you do realize that it wasyouwho was incredibly flat on that G and not me, don’t you?”
The cutthroat bandleader sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m blaming you to mask my shame. Let’s play it again, shall we?”
It’s the redhead, William, who notices us first. His eyes go a little wide in surprise as he points in our direction. The leader turns, and the rest of the group looks at us in varying levels of shock.
“Hello,” I say with an awkward wave.
No one responds until Bartholomew elbows the musician next to him. “Bow, you sods. It’s the future queen.” Their surprise gives way to nerves as they all bow in quick procession.
I wave my hands in front of me—a knee-jerk reaction to the royal protocol. “Bows really aren’t necessary. I’m very informal. My friend Bessie and I were just going for a late-night walk, and we heard you playing.”
Bartholomew goes pale. “I am so sorry, my lady. Please don’t kill us.”
I voraciously shake my head. “No, no. We’re definitely not here to kill you. I’m just wondering... that song you were playing—what was it?”
William steps forward, nervously clearing his throat. “You mean ‘Pastime with Good Company’?”
“Yes, that one!” Then toning it down, “I forgot the name somehow.”
“The king composed that song,” Bartholomew says. “He’s a very accomplished musician.”
I smile politely. “I know. He’s a marvel, isn’t he? Anyhoo, I was wondering if you all would be able to help me with a project I have going on in the hallway?”
The musicians look among themselves. Bessie goes to leave, but I catch her hand before she can escape.
Ten minutes later, I’m running back and forth through the hallway with the accompaniment of a full band.
“How much longer do you plan to keep at this?” Bessie asks. She’s standing beside William as the group continues to play, her arms crossed over her chest.
I slow jog over, pausing a short distance away from them. “How many have I done so far?”
Bessie shakes her head, refusing to answer. A confused Bartholomew speaks up instead. “A fair bit, my lady.”
I’ll do one more. One last push. This could be it.
