Page 88 of The Musician and the Monster

She fisted her hands in the fabric bunched together in her lap. “I don’t… I haven’t. Not for a long time anyway.” How could he think it lovely? Her voice had warbled, cracked, broken, and sounded worse than anything she’d ever played him on her flute. Talking and singing were different. She could speak without thinking about it. It used to be the same for singing—not anymore.

He closed his hand over her arm. “It reached me where nothing else ever has.” His eyes held such sincerity they stole her breath. “Usually, I have to wait for the magic to run its course. If I’m lucky, I retain some control over the beast, but not always. Sometimes it blocks me out so completely that I don’t even recall everything it does.” He set the washbowl aside.

“But your music holds a magic I can’t explain. Something more powerful than anything I’ve known.” He slid his hand down her arm to take her hand, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “I wish I could admonish you for being so reckless and coming near my beast as you did.” He shook his head.

“I’m glad I did,” she admitted, leaning into him. “But I’m so surprised my song helped. It’s never helped anyone before. The opposite usually.” Her attention faltered, falling to the floor as old memories rose to torment her.

“Something happened.” He rubbed a pattern on her newly cleaned skin with thumb, the act almost enough to distract her spiraling thoughts. “I’ve told you about my scars. What happened to cause you to doubt such a beautiful gift?”

A gift.She blinked up at him.

“You said once you used tosing? Until?”

She shuffled closer on the edge of the bed, savoring the warmth of his body and the comfort it provided. “I told you my mother died?”

“In childbirth.”

She nodded. “Father had rented a house in the capital for the weeks before the spring fair. He had numerous profitable business dealings then and had brought the family along as a treat. It was my first time in the capital, and it brought to mind all my foolish, girlish dreams of being a great singer upon a stage. I sang for Mother that morning, but we had a fight, an argument. She had a headache and asked me to stop, but I wanted her to hear the tune I’d memorized. I’d been so proud of it then, certain someone in the capital would recognize my talents and bestow me with my greatest dream.” She shook her head. What a foolish young woman she’d been, stuck on the dreams of youth. No one had given her the dreams of her heart. Instead, those dreams created a very real nightmare that destroyed everything.

“I pushed her too far,” Ceridwen continued. “She…she got upset with me and went to walk through the city. Alone. She forbid me to come.” Her throat tightened, threatening to steal her words. Even so, she pressed onward. “If I hadn’t sung, if I hadn’t been so insistent that she listen to me, she might not have left, and then…” Someone should have gone with her, heavy with child as she was, especially at her age. Sometime later, Father was the first of their household to hear her scream, but not the last.

“Father and Gerard found her stumbling up the front stairs, blood trailing down her legs from a labor already underway. Scratches marred her arms and stomach. She mumbled nonsense. Something about a dragon.” Drystan stiffened, but she continued, the memories spilling out in a torrent she could no longer hold back. “But those creatures of myth do not exist. She must have fallen and hit her head. Encountered some robber in her walk? I don’t know. She had a hard labor. I still remember the screams, the blood…” She’d been out of the room at the time, waiting just outside the door with Bronwyn and Adair. The thick wood had done nothing to halt the horrific sounds from within.

“We sent for the doctor immediately, but he wasn’t fast enough.” Jaina and another maid delivered the baby. A small thing with little life of its own. Despite its size, it managed to inflict such pain on Mother during its delivery.

“The baby came quickly. She didn’t linger in pain too long, but it… Something happened, and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. I still remember the blood on the bed when they finally let us in the room. The sharp metallic scent. The way Mother’s blond hair was matted to her face and the sweat that still ran down it as she reclined on the pillow. It wasspringtime. There were roses next to her bed, pink ones I’d brought her the day before when we’d gone to the market.”

Drystan laced his fingers through hers and gave a tight squeeze.

“Mother taught me to sing and play the flute. She was a great singer herself. Her songs lit up our home even in deep winter. I wanted to be like her, or better, if I could. She beckoned me over as she lay on the bed, just a small movement of her arm. I suppose it’s all she could manage. ‘Sing for me, Ceridwen,’ she said. ‘Sing something happy to help me feel better.’ It was the first lucid thing she’d said since we found her.”

“And so, I sang. I picked her favorite song, the first one she ever taught me. I sang it over and over until my voice was hoarse and my throat ached. I still remember the peaceful look upon her face, despite the sweat that still beaded and fell. Others tried to talk to her, but she waved them away. She looked so calm, so pleasant. I thought surely my music helped.”

An unbidden tear streaked down her cheek. “I didn’t stop until our housekeeper Jaina led me away, telling me that she was gone and couldn’t hear my songs anymore. My music…it didn’t help her. It killed her instead. I couldn’t sing after that. Anytime I tried, my throat closed up, my eyes watered, and the sound wouldn’t come out.”

Drystan wiped away her falling tears with his free hand. The other still clutched her as a lifeline amid her sadness. “You didn’t kill her, Ceridwen. You gave her peace and joy in her last minutes. She chose to go out into the city. She chose where to walk. And whatever happened, you didn’t cause that.”

She sniffled, trying to hold back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Logically, she knew his words were right. But logic had no authority when it came to guilt and grief. Perhaps she hadn’t landed the killing blow, but Mother had left the house because of her. No amount of logic or reason could dull the pain of that or the scars her death left. Mother’s death marked the end of Ceridwen’s happy childhood, one that likely lingered too far into her womanhood anyway, but it was the first time she knew true sadness. Everything went downhill afterward. Adair grew distant and hotheaded. Father made poor investments and lost his health. Bronwyn grew a sharp tongue and stubborn demeanor. And Ceridwen…she lost even more of herself trying to please them all and make things as they once were. Not that it did any good.

“But I couldn’t save her either,” she admitted. Ceridwen pulled away and scooped up the bowl and soiled cloth. “You need rest,” she began as she returned the bowl to the table.

An object on the desk caught her eye where it sparkled in the dim light. A dark iron pin in the shape of a dragon. Her hands shook. Some of the tainted water spilled onto the floor.

“Ceridwen?”

Memories rushed back, choking her as pieces clicked into place.

Nearby, a mask, even more elaborate than the ones worn to the winter ball, sat on the table. But this wasn’t the proud bird Drystan had worn that day. It was something much more sinister.

Dragon.One of the few words her mother moaned after they found her bloodied on the stairs. Nonsense words.

Unless they weren’t.

The deep scratches. The blood. Fear to start a labor so suddenly. Danger in the capital.

And a dragon.

The bowl fell from her limp fingers.

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