Page 41 of The Musician and the Monster

Drystan crossed the narrow space between them and lifted her hand to his lips, placing a chaste kiss upon the back that sent a shiver down her spine. “A little of both, then. Magic to see if he tries himself against it, and myself in case he does.”

“What about the monster?” she asked. It’d sounded so close before, almost within the manor walls.

“I warded your room against that before you arrived.” He looked away. “I try to keep it at bay, but it’s quite challenging.”

“That’s one of the things they are watching you for? Part of your test?” One he didn’t seem to be passing if it involved ending the monster for good.

He nodded.

“So it’s not a twisted pet?” She’d wondered, especially hearing it so close to the manor.

His brows rose. “A pet? Never. I’d love nothing more than for it to be gone forever. But until then, stay in your room at night where it’s safest.”

“You can’t kill it?”

He held her gaze for a long time before he answered. “I want to.” Sorrow tinged his words as his hand opened and closed. “A stronger man might be able to, but I can’t. Not yet. Soon.” He glanced away. “One way or another, I’ll make sure this monster is gone for good.”

Ceridwen watched as Drystan worked his magic on the room. He took the little blade he’d used in the garden and cut his hand—another scar for her. The blood he painted on the doors and windows soaked into the wood and glass as surely as if it had never existed to begin with. Yet Drystan promised the wards held true—ones specifically designed to keep out any male she did not invite inside, though as the caster of such a spell, he was immune.

An extra spell he wove as well, almost without effort it seemed, to let him know if anyone tried his wards. Though the blood had sickened and terrified her when he’d first demonstrated his skill, the more she watched him work, the more she became entranced by the magical designs.

The slide of his bloody fingers across a surface reminded her of Bronwyn painting a new canvas. Each stoke precise and measured, shapes taking form from whatever vision enraptured her mind and gave her inspiration for a new work—often a landscape or snippet of winding city streets. Though occasionally, Bronwyn chose to paint a subject, either animal or human. Each took her breath away, but they were never a mirror of their subjects. Yet, at the same time, Ceridwen could not say what her sister added or took away to give them their own unique air.

Drystan’s patterns were like Bronwyn’s paintings. Intricate. Beautiful in a way. Yet elusive to the mind all the same. She could not have copied one from memory had she tried, despite watching him hastily draw the same symbol on each potential entry into the room.

At length, he lay upon the long divan near the fireplace and said not a word as she climbed into bed and hid her face with the blankets. When worry refused to let her sleep, she peeked out from the coverings toward the smoldering embers of the hearth.

A breath lodged in her throat as light gave shape and life to the room. Drystan lay wide awake, his hands propped behind his head, where he sprawled upon the divan, watching her.

Their eyes locked.

Seconds turned into minutes. Silence grew heavy and thick in the air.

What could she possibly say?I’m frightened? I miss my family?But their health and happiness relied on her staying, no matter how uncomfortable she might be at times. A recent letter from Bronwyn only solidified that when she shared that the money Ceridwen earned was enough to buy new medicine for Father, some that actually seemed to help him regain his strength.

It wasn’t just them who relied on her either. Somehow, impossibly, Drystan might need her too. The secrets he kept frustrated her, but some deeper pull drew her in, like it did as she stared at him across the room.

He’d join me in bed if I asked him.She could feel the truth of that in his gaze as certainly as the blankets wrapped around her. Part of her yearned for it, her fingertips aching to wave him over. But a last bit of self-preservation held her back. What could she hope to gain from sharing a bed with him? A night of pleasure, perhaps, but she knew he planned to return to the capital at midwinter. Would he return after that? Would he bother with her? He had no reason to, despite his proclaimed love of her music. She was a commoner, and there was no future between them that didn’t end with her in pain and possibly ruin.

Even so, the pull of desire toward him was strong enough to hold her still, to hold his gaze across the room in the dim light.

What are you thinking about right now?She yearned to know, to ask. What could possibly fill his mind as he stared at her in the dark?

If she went to him now, would he reveal his secrets? Open his heart?

A log in the fire split, sending up a spray of sparks and tumble of glowing embers. The movement drew Ceridwen’s attention, breaking the invisible connection between her and Drystan. She hid back under the covers, not trusting her head or heart. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d figure something out.

Eventually, she did find a few minutes of rest.

When Gwen woke her the next day, Drystan had already left. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, nothing in the room would have indicated he’d been there at all.

“Did Malik die during the night?” she asked the housekeeper. It would be generous of the monster to take himself off their hands.

Gwen huffed a laugh before ushering her to the dressing screen, where she changed into a gown of evergreen with creamy lace and ribbons. Yet another dress Drystan had commissioned on her behalf. Despite her initial reluctance, she had to admit that the dresses were a dream. The soft material caressed her skin. The layers kept away the winter chill. Each dress was more fashionable than anything her family had been able to afford since childhood, when she’d been far too young to appreciate them.

“Unfortunately not,” Gwen replied. “And Lord Winterbourne has insisted that you meet them both for a casual breakfast in his study.”

Ceridwen’s hands paused in their efforts to smooth the heavy skirts. Never once since she arrived had Drystan attended a meal with her other than dinner. Yet now, he wanted her to eat breakfast with him and a man he knew she loathed? This must be another front. Another attempt to convince Malik that nothing was amiss. But why involve her? Ceridwen shuddered. She pinched her eyes shut as she wrestled control of her worries and pushed them down and out of sight. With a deep and steadying breath, she turned toward Gwen. “I’m ready.”

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