Page 7 of The Musician and the Monster

“Did you ever see him?” Lydia asked.

“Well, of course not, but Alexa’s cousin said—”

“He was rich and a prince,” Bronwyn interjected. “Women would call him handsome even if he had two heads and the pox.”

Elspeth gasped. Ceridwen winced at her sister’s frank words, though she couldn’t help but agree. Even if he had been the ugliest man in the kingdom, many women would have still sought his favor for the title and money alone.

“Well, that’s probably true,” Lydia replied, always one to keep the peace. “But still, to commit such a horrible crime…” She shook her head.

Shocking. Disgusting. The thought of it still turned Ceridwen’s stomach.

“Well, enough about that,” Elspeth said. “Tell us all about the other night. Start at the beginning.” She motioned us toward the seating area where the other women waited like vultures ready to feast. The fabric of Ceridwen’s skirts crumpled in her fist once more. What would be the focus of their stories later? The monster who stalked the night, or the odd country girl who saw it?

“He was so handsome,” Bronwyn said in a mockery of Georgina’s nasally voice as the sisters walked home arm in arm through the streets. She groaned and rolled her eyes. “And we’ve just fueled more of their gossip.”

Heavy clouds blocked out the sun, adding a slight chill to the day and threatening more rain. The parasol they carried between them would do little good to block an afternoon shower, should it choose to fall, but the frilly accessories were in fashion, and they did happen to own one, so they’d carried it along to the tea. Another attempt to try to fit in, to please Father. The Ainsworths lived in a new home in the wealthy southern portion of the city, far from the family’s home in the aged and unpopular north end.

“At least they can spread the story for us,” Ceridwen said. “I never wanted to talk about it again.” She shuddered just thinking about it.

Bronwyn had told the tale on Ceridwen’s behalf over and over again throughout the course of the afternoon, though her version contained more of the horrific details her sister avoided. The memory pressed heavily on Ceridwen’s heart. Recounting it herself was impossible, and she’d been able to do no more than pick at the rich pastries during tea, despite her love for them.

Ceridwen’s attention snagged on a narrow alley running between two buildings, so similar to the one the monster had emerged from. If she’d helped the thief, could she have saved him? Or would her death be one more addition to the misery of these streets? Her flute had been easily fixed, and despite her promise to her mother, made at her grave to play for her, she couldn’t summon the will to do so.

“With any luck, something more exciting will happen, and they’ll get over this grim fascination quickly,” Bronwyn said, patting her sister’s arm. “Perhaps we can talk Adair into courting one of the women so they’ll have something else to gossip about.”

Ceridwen grinned. “I don’t think he’d need much convincing. You know how he feels about Lydia.” He’d set his sights on her at the spring ball, trailing after her like a pup.

“Yeah, I know he likes her.” Bronwyn frowned. “But with how little he’s likely to inherit, it will never happen. The Ainsworths would never agree to let their daughter take a step down in society.”

“No.” Ceridwen’s gaze dipped to the cobblestones. “Sadly, they probably won’t.” An Ainsworth heir living in a ramshackle house? Never. Adair would be more likely to inherit their father’s debt than any actual wealth. Even with the money Gerard earned from working odd jobs around the city, the family could barely keep up with their loan payments, not to mention the basics needed to get by. Ceridwen let out a long breath. At Gerard’s age, it wouldn’t be long before the better-paying opportunities were given to stronger, younger men instead.

“Bronwyn! Ceridwen!” Jaina waved her arms as she ran in their direction, huffing for breath, cap askew.

Home lay several blocks away. Had she run all the way here? Why?

A sudden chill stole through Ceridwen.Father. Something happened to Father.The family fortune wasn’t the only thing to decline after Mother’s death. Their father had come down with some illness two years ago that never quite left him and flared up at the worst of times.

Tension and worry froze Ceridwen in place, but Bronwyn unlatched her arm and ran. With a deep gasp, Ceridwen tore herself free of the fear and ran after her.

“What happened?” Bronwyn implored, always quick with her words. “Is it Father? Did something happen?”

“No, it’s… Oh, it’s… You have to come right away,” Jaina lamented as the sisters approached. Sweat dripped down her face as she sucked in breaths between words. Tendrils of graying brown hair escaped from her neat cap and stuck to her face.

Jaina shook her head and inhaled deeply before continuing. “Some men came down from the manor, servants of the Lord Protector, and with them…Lord Winterbourne himself.”

Chapter 4

Drystan

The house was worse than Drystan imagined. Though it sat in the old part of town near the manor he occupied, it was a distant cry from the polished floors, ornate tapestries, and fine furnishings that he was accustomed to. One didn’t even need to step inside to notice the cracked and faded paint on the façade that might have once been a lovely shade of blue. That alone spoke volumes.

He expected some measure of surprise when he arrived at the Kinsley household unannounced, but Jackoby telling him that the poor housekeeper nearly almost fainted when he’d announced who waited in the carriage still caught him off guard. As did Mr. Kinsley, nearly tripping over his cane as he showed Drystan into the front parlor and insisted on him taking the wingback chair near closest the fireplace. For that, though, Drystan was grateful. It was the one piece of furniture that he felt comfortable wouldn’t splinter under him. The rest had seen better days, as had the threadbare rugs, to say nothing of the crumbling fireplace that could give way along with a side of the house at any moment.

This family was very poor indeed to not be able to maintain a proper parlor for their guests. He could scarce imagine the rest of it. But in this case, their unfortunate circumstance might aid his goal.

The housekeeper raced off to find Mr. Kinsley’s daughters the moment he informed them of his purpose and desire to speak with the woman who’d been attacked by the monster. Mr. Kinsley himself tried to offer tea, but Drystan declined. He could see the man had enough burdens as it was, and he would not add to them. Instead, Drystan tucked his hooded cloak around him and angled the offered chair toward the smoldering fire. Perhaps it was rude, but he wasn’t there to chat with Mr. Kinsley, not until he’d seen Ceridwen first. Mostly uncomfortable silence lingered between the group as they waited, with Mr. Kinsley occasionally asking benign questions of Jackoby and Kent. The man’shealth might have seen better days, but he was wise not to push Drystan for pleasant conversation as many people would have done.

At length, the housekeeper finally returned with her charges in tow.

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