Page 13 of The Musician and the Monster

Something. Better than nothing. And most intriguing that a noble, much less a Lord Protector, would select an unseasoned butler.

When the carriage rocked to a stop, Ceridwen shielded her eyes and looked up at the towering manor walls whose gray stone gleamed in the morning light. The tallest spire, one that soared above the other structures of the manor and where at least one light always gleamed at night, reached high above the wall, even from this perspective.

Iron gates blocked the carriage’s passage. The inner yard beyond stood empty. If she didn’t know better, she would think the place abandoned despite the manicured, yellowing green grasses lingering late into the season and the well-kept appearance of the space. Jackoby exited and requested Ceridwen remain seated.

Though she lived but a few blocks from the manor, she’d never come this close. There’d been no reason to, despite her curiosity of the place. The houses nearest it stood empty, their little yards barren, as if the whole area were dead and cursed. Ceridwen shivered, more from that thought than the late autumn chill that clung to the morning.

The metal clicked and groaned as Jackoby unlocked the heavy gate to allow entry.

In moments, the carriage rolled into the yard. A knot stuck in Ceridwen’s throat when Jackoby locked the gates behind them, sealing her promise along with any hope of escape. How many of the city’s residents had ever stood where she did now? Likely very few. None recently that she knew of.

Another man entered the yard, grabbing the reins from Kent, who promptly strode to the back and lifted the trunk with ease. Jackoby helped Ceridwen from the lavish carriage as Kent disappeared into the manor.

No sooner had Ceridwen stepped away from the carriage onto the pathway leading to the manor than the other man led the horses off toward a large side door.

Hair rose on the back of her neck, bringing her feet to a sudden halt only a few steps across the gravel pathway. She peered around the yard, but nothing new greeted her. The tingling came again on her head, her shoulders. She glanced up at the tall tower, the highest levels just visible from this angle. The windows were dark this morning, as they always were in daylight, pits of shadow in which nothing but darkness was visible.

“Miss Ceridwen?” Jackoby asked, looking back with concern as he waited for her to follow.

No matter how she stared, nothing took shape in the dark depths. She shook her head. “It’s nothing.” Ceridwen faked a smile despite the gooseflesh creeping up her arms before following Jackoby into the manor.

Inside, the halls shone with the same pristine beauty and care as the outer yard, yet like the outside of the manor, it lacked life. Only their footsteps echoed through the richlyappointed dim halls. Heavy curtains were drawn over many of the windows, allowing meager light from outside to slip through their seams and edges. Ornate golden sconces glimmered with low flames, offering just enough light to see by.

Although Kent entered only a few minutes in front of them with Ceridwen’s things, she neither saw nor heard him. His destination remained a mystery, almost as though he’d vanished with the trunk in tow. Her flute she had packed separately, a request made by Jackoby before they departed. She carried the little box by its handle in front of her, a token of comfort in this strange place.

Rich tapestries hung from walls along with fine paintings even Bronwyn would be impressed by. The rooms and alcoves they passed were filled with an array of lavish furnishings: lamps wrought of gold and silver; finely carved, polished tables; and seating made of exotic wood and fine cloth. Yet all were empty—silent as a tomb at midnight.

The beauty and grandeur chaffed. The contents of one room could change her family’s fortunes for generations, yet the reclusive Lord Protector kept it all locked away. To not even invite the citizens under his protection to view and enjoy it was unthinkable.

“Here we are,” Jackoby said, drawing to a halt in front of an ornate wooden door.

He led Ceridwen into what appeared to be a study containing more of the breathtaking furnishings that occupied the rest of the manor. On the far wall stood a large stone fireplace that crackled with orange flame. Soon, such a fire would be necessary, but not yet, not if they opened the windows and let in some fresh air. Wood smoke perfumed the air instead, mixing with the faint scent of old parchment and leather. A cozy scent, or it would be anywhere else.

Ceridwen thought the room empty until a voice spoke from a high-backed leather chair turned toward the fire. “You’ve brought her.”

The deep timbre rolled over her skin and sent her back stiffening. A hand moved on the armrest, holding a glass of dark liquid that glimmered in the firelight.

“Yes, my lord. Miss Ceridwen Kinsley, as expected.” Jackoby bowed slightly at the waist, though Lord Winterbourne could not see him from where he sat.

“Thank you, Jackoby,” he replied, swirling the contents of his glass. He made no move to rise or turn. “Perhaps Ceridwen would indulge me with a song?”

So that’s why Jackoby had me carry the flute separately.Lord Winterbourne must have informed him of his wishes early this morning.

The glass clicked on a wooden table as he set it away, still reclining in the chair, hidden from view.

“Any requests, my lord?” Ceridwen asked before setting the flute case on a little table and removing the precious instrument.

“‘The Tale of the Maiden Fair.’”

Ceridwen’s blood chilled in her veins. It was the same song she’d played the night the monster attacked. She yearned to tell him no, to deny knowing the song, but she pushed the urge away. Better not to offend her patron during her first assignment.

She nearly gasped as Lord Winterbourne rose in one fluid movement. He stood tall over the high-backed chair. Long, unkempt hair trailed down between his shoulder blades. Dark clothing hugged broad shoulders. Though she could see little of him, what she saw reminded her of the wild men who lived in the deep wood, far from cities and towns. Yet this man was supposed to be a noble lord? Their protector?

His face sported a beard as dark and ragged as the hair that hung about his head. Had he never used a comb? Scissors? His butler appeared more a lord than he did. The fine dark jacket hugging his arms and shoulders shone with silver stitching. A light-colored shirt poked out from between its front lapels, crisp and clean. The pants and boots, too, spoke of wealth, yet the man…

In one movement, he lifted the chair and twisted it around. The heavy object thumped into place upon the carpets before he reclined in it once again.

Icy blue eyes locked with hers, staring Ceridwen down in return. Heat rose to her cheeks as she dropped her gaze to the ground. Even if he chose to act a hermit and keep his hair and beard like one as well, he was still a noble, and she chided herself for watching him so boldly.

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