Page 21 of The Musician and the Monster

The manor’s library, too, provided a wonderful distraction. Shelves of books lined the left and back walls. A freestanding shelf on the right separated the large desk from the three three-paned windows around a reading nook. The books numbered more than she’d ever seen. Those along the back wall out-aged the rest. One nearly crumbled when she’d touched it, so she stuck to the newer sections instead. Destroying Lord Winterbourne’s library wouldn’t earn her any favors.

And though she tried to keep herself busy, the steady ache of homesickness grew within her more each day.

She missed Bronwyn and the rest of the household. They’d sent a few letters. Well wishes. Encouragements. None of them were sealed. Lord Winterbourne or his staff likely read them all, as well as the ones she sent back. Ceridwen kept her messages brief and carefully complimentary of her host and her stay. But the folded pieces of paper were poor substitutes for her family’s company. Letters didn’t give companionship, reassuring hugs, or share winks of amusement. She couldn’t linger in Father’s scent of peppermint, Gerard’s evening stories, or the comforting aroma of whatever meal Jaina had cooked up. Even Bronwyn’s sass or Adair’s temper would have been welcome company.

Her brother was always prone to bouts of dramatics, like that day at the gate, and had no trouble speaking his mind. How he maintained himself in the military, Ceridwen had no idea, for he’d never been the type to follow orders. Much like Bronwyn, he was outspoken and could easily steal the attention of a room. Ceridwen, however, had often been the opposite—the calm presence to her siblings’ testy natures. But their spark of life added color to her otherwise boring one. Without them, things weren’t quite the same.

But most of all, she missed playing for her mother under the stars. She played her flute by the window most nights in the hopes that her song carried to her, but it wasn’t the same. And her voice… She’d tried to sing, as she once loved to, but it still wouldn’t work. It hadn’t since her mother died. As a child and through her youth, Ceridwen dreamed of being a great singer on the stage despite her tendency to hide at the edges of the crowd. But that dream died the day her mother did. Every time she tried to sing now, her throat closed up, choking off any sounds. Perhaps it was for the best. Her song only seemed to bring death and sadness anyway.

The only blessing over the past few nights had been the lack of the monster. Or if it had come, she hadn’t heard it.

“Are you ill?” Lord Winterbourne asked as Ceridwen settled in across from him for their nightly concert. “Did something happen?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. Any time she brought up leaving the manor, or staying at her family’s house and just traveling the short distance to the manor each day, his mood soured. Besides, her homesickness was worth whatever coin it earned. Father would need each one.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and lifted the flute to her lips. The notes of the song slipped into the air—sad and mournful, a reflection of her spirit.

After a handful of bars, a weight pressed against the instrument in her hand. The song halted as her eyes flew wide. Lord Winterbourne stood before her. Dark brows wrinkled over deep-blue eyes as he gently pushed the flute away from her mouth with a gloved hand. Always gloves since that first day.

“You’re unhappy.”

She blinked at him, neither confirming nor denying his words.

“You have the best food in the city, a room fit for a noble, new dresses, and not a chore nor occupation to demand your efforts.”

Color raced to her cheeks. That was certainly true. The dresses had been the greatest surprise, one brought in by Gwen one morning only days ago. Ceridwen had beenterrified at first that the money had come from what Lord Winterbourne promised and been spent on such frivolous things that she could do without, but Gwen, and later Lord Winterbourne himself, had promised that was not the case. They were a gift. An unexpected one. Perhaps some attempt to make the woman staying with them look more like a guest instead of a servant, but she was beyond grateful all the same.

Everything he said was true, and though it should be enough, more than, none of it filled the needs of her soul.

She looked at him, really looked. Clear blue eyes stared into her as she reached for the depths of his spirit, trying to see beneath the unkempt noble in front of her. Yet all she found were walls, high ones covered in thorns and impossible to breach.

“I miss my family,” she admitted. “I miss playing under the stars. No amount of luxury can compensate for those things.”

Deft fingers tilted her chin in his direction. Ceridwen shivered at the limited contact, the smooth leather of his gloves against her skin. “You find me hideous.”

She pursed her lips.Your occasional sour attitude more than your unkempt appearance.

His eyes widened as if he could read her thoughts or perhaps at her lack of denial of his claim.

Ceridwen stiffened, waiting for a harsh reaction, though she’d managed to keep her thoughts from slipping free in the form of words. Instead, he laughed, dropping his hand from her face.

“That spit of fire stills burns yet.” He smirked before crossing the distance back to his customary chair.

Three songs later, he called an end to the performance. Ceridwen waited for Lord Winterbourne to cross the room to the braided crimson rope that would summon Jackoby to return her to her room. But instead, he crossed to the other wall and threw wide the heavy curtains, allowing pale moonlight to filter into the room.

Ceridwen’s lips parted at the sight, in awe of the beauty of the night but also his odd behavior this evening. The moonlight paled his hair where it fell upon his locks, his shadow a dark form in the pool of light that stretched to her feet.

“Join me?” He reached his arm through that light in her direction, his open hand holding an invitation she dared not refuse. Yet accepting it felt just as impossible.

Ceridwen took her time returning the flute to its case before joining him.

“Who taught you to play?”

“My mother.” A genuine smile bloomed on her lips.

“She lives here in the city?”

And it died just as quickly. His question sent a dagger through her heart. No matter the time that passed, it still hurt to think of her.

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