“But everything in the parlor…”
I gazed at a length of steel I hadn’t been able to pick up. “Even the piano. Especially the piano.” The words choked me, and my throat tightened with tears.
She didn’t speak.
“And you know about the explosions, right?” When I closed my eyes, I could still see the fire, the smoke. I could still feel Geral’s weight in my arms. “They’re telling me to stop.”
“How do they know what you’re doing?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I squeezed the SED, wishing I could tell her about the books, the key, the research—everything. I could tell her about the fight Sam and I had, and that he’d asked if I wanted to leave, but not right now. Not when she was so far away. “I wish you were here,” I whispered into the SED.
“Me too.” She hesitated. “You aren’t going to give up, are you?”
“No.” I clenched my jaw. “No, they can tell me to stop, but I won’t. I’m not giving up.”
“Good.” She sighed, and a minute shivered past. “I’ve been riding hard to Purple Rose. The road has been snowy, but fine. A drone will come through if it gets bad.”
“So you’ll be home soon?”
“Yeah, a few more days. This horse is going to hate me, though.” Something clanked in the background. “I’ve been calling my people. I checked in with Lidea and Moriah, and they’ve been in touch with their groups. Everyone is doing their part. You just get ready for yours and don’t worry about the rest of us.”
“That’s hard to do with Cris and Stef missing.” With explosions, people destroying parlors, and nursery breakins, anything could have happened.
“I’ll call their lists. It’s fine, Ana. I’m sure they’ll turn up soon.” She didn’t sound convinced, though. “I bet Sam could use your company right now. Go be with him, and I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”
The SED clicked, and she was gone. Just in case, I tried Stef and Cris again. They didn’t answer, so I left messages. Then I readied another tray of food for Sam, hoping he’d finished the last, hoping he’d gotten up to bathe.
He hadn’t. He didn’t break his intense study of the floor. His scowl never eased as I replaced his food tray.
Heavy with dread and worry, I did the only thing I could think of that might rouse him from his misery. I sat at the tall harp and positioned my hands like he’d shown me a few months ago—right hand close, left hand far—and plucked at the first string my fingers found, then the next.
On the bed, facing the other wall, Sam sat taller. He tilted his head.
I played another string, and another. Long, low ringing filled the bedroom like gentle snow. It was slightly out of tune, but I didn’t know how to fix that. I’d only played the harp a few times before, though the strings on my fingertips, the curve of wood against my shoulder—they felt natural.
My fingers wandered into familiar patterns from Sam’s brief lessons. I played a simple tune, belatedly recalling how to work the pedals to change key. My playing wasn’t what anyone would call good, but as I continued, I heard silverware clank on ceramic, a mug thunk on the nightstand. A few minutes later, the shower started.
He came back into the room—water still running in the background—while I fumbled across a series of notes I couldn’t remember; I was used to having music in front of me.
“Here.” He took my hand and placed it on the correct string. “The arpeggio begins here.” His fingers fell off mine, skin grazing skin.
I nodded, continued playing, and watched while he took clothes from his wardrobe and drawers, then went into the washroom. Steam wafted from the door he’d left ajar.
My music soared through the house, even when my fingertips started to hurt and I lost track of which strings were which. I needed the music, too.
Shower water silenced, and a few minutes later Sam appeared in clean clothes, his hair chafed damp against a towel. He sat on the bed near me while I kept playing the harp.
“I remember building it,” he murmured, almost a countermelody against the delicate harp. “The piano. I remember covering it with coats of clear finish to let the natural wood shine through, fitting the cloth into corners and creases to ward away bubbles and drips. It felt like it warmed under my hands, like it was alive. I could already hear all the music I’d make. Preludes and nocturnes, sonatas and waltzes.”
My fingers found a darker melody to match his mood.
“I never imagined choosing a favorite instrument, but even before I played the first note, I thought the piano could be it.
“Each piece of ivory and ebony came from faraway lands. I carved and polished every one myself. I cut the maple from forests near Range, and mined the ore—to be smelted and purified for wires and such—with my own hands.”