Page 1 of The Musician and the Monster

Chapter 1

Ceridwen

Music says things words never can.

I love you. I miss you. I’m sorry I killed you.

Ceridwen Kinsley sat on the roof of her family’s house, as she often did, playing music into the night. This place would never truly be home. That title was reserved for their country home, or rather, former country home—the one where she’d grown up. But it was never the same after Mother died. Nothing was.

Ceridwen pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders—a poor defense against the approaching winter and even less against the ache in her heart. Time passed, but the pain of loss lingered on, especially given the role she played in that tragedy.

The cool metal of the flute pressed against her lips as she played her fourth song of the night, the mournful notes ringing clear from her perch atop the city house. Every night Ceridwen played for her mother, as she had before her father’s ruined finances forced them to this small city of no consequence. The half-crumbling house in the old part of the city was all they could afford, and sometimes even that seemed like a stretch.

She longed to play for others, but no one would pay to hear the flute. Not in the backwater city of Teneboure in the far north of Castamar. Nor did her father consider it a proper occupation for a young woman despite their need for money.

Even so, music spoke the truths she dared not say aloud, and this little token of song, something her mother had dearly loved, was the best apology Ceridwen could offer her in the beyond. A familiar, hollow ache radiated in her chest.Can she even hear me there?

Some nights Ceridwen felt her presence, her eyes on her. A tingle across the cheek. A shiver down her spine. The slightest hint of a reply on the breeze. It was enough. It didn’t matter if people talked about the young woman who played her flute on the roof.

Dim light glowed from the gas lamps lining the streets in the wealthy southern district of the city. A glowing façade, like the fine clothes its people wore to hide their shallow hearts. Even if its residents hadn’t gossiped about Mother’s passing, they surelycommented about where the family resided in the old district, with its aged buildings and lack of more modern conveniences. They were one step away from paupers, and everyone knew it.

Ceridwen’s gaze wandered north toward the grand old manor—the view she preferred—where it loomed on a rise at the edge of the city, a handful of blocks from the house. Few lights glowed in the gray towers, the only sign anyone lived there. Deliveries were left at the gates, no balls graced its high halls, and few servants ever came or went. Lord Winterbourne valued his privacy, or so people said. It was the gossip of choice for over a month after he arrived in the city last winter. Whatever went on beyond its stone walls proved an enigma, one that drew her attention often as she played.

A familiar clack of wood—the gate to the little yard closing down below—interrupted her song. Ceridwen’s brows furrowed as she picked up the tune again. None of her family would be out this late. Few people were at this hour.

The family goat gave a loud bleat. A chilly breeze brought another sound—a voice, a stranger in the yard. Ceridwen’s breath hitched as she lowered her flute and strained her ears. On shaking knees, she edged toward the low railing.

Nell bleated again. Wood groaned.

“Quiet, you.” The gruff voice floated up from somewhere below.

She sucked in a breath.The animals.They had so few already.

Ceridwen flew through the small attic door, yanking it shut behind her in a clatter. The musty, aged scent of the house wrapped around her as she descended the stairs two at a time.

“Ceridwen?” Jaina called from the end of the hallway. Her brow creased with worry, adding to the wrinkles marring her forehead.

The kindly housekeeper and her husband, Gerard, had followed the family to Teneboure, the only staff they could afford to keep. But they were more like family than anything. Jaina had cared for Ceridwen since childhood, especially after Mother died, and Gerard’s ability to find work was one of the limited things that kept them afloat.

“Get Father,”Ceridwen said in a harsh whisper. Her heart pounded as she slid around Jaina, brushing against the rough stone wall.

The floorboards creaked and groaned as she raced down the stairs and through the hall to the small yard adjacent to the house. Ceridwen’s dress swished around her booted ankles as she slid to a halt on the little dirt pathway, lit only by the sliver of the moon glowing above.

“Come on, you,” said the voice from the street outside, accompanied by the clomp of small hooves.

Nell.Ceridwen raced through the gate, flute in hand. She couldn’t lose her, especially not to some blasted thief in the night.

“Stop, thief!” she yelled.

The man in dirty and tattered clothes turned in her direction as she raced onto the rain-slicked cobblestones.

“Go back, girl.” He pulled a knife from his belt. The other clutched a rope tied around the goat’s neck.

Her legs froze as she caught sight of his weapon. “Dear Goddess,” she gasped.

“Ya hear me? Stay away.” He backed down the street, nearing an alleyway.

The flute went icy in her grip, the keys biting into her palms. They couldn’t afford more loss and misfortune. Summoning her courage, Ceridwen advanced.

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