Which pissed me off even more.
“Meghan,” Puck began, but I spun around and stormed out before I really started bawling. He called after me, but I ignored him, swearing that if he grabbed me or got in my way he would get an earful.
“Let her go,” I heard Grimalkin say as I bashed the door open. “She would not hear you now, Goodfellow. She wants only him.”
The door swung shut behind me, and I stomped down the hall, fighting angry tears.
It wasn’t fair. I was tired of being responsible, tired of making the hard decisions because it was the right thing to do. I wanted nothing more than to find Ash and beg him to reconsider. We could be together; we could find a way to make it work if we tried hard enough, screw the consequences. And the scepter.
The hallways stretched on, each one similar to the last: narrow, dark and red. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t really care. I just wanted to get away from Puck and Ironhorse, to be alone with my selfish wishes for a while. Statues, paintings and musical instruments lined the corridors; some of them vibrated softly as I passed, faint shivers of music hanging on the air.
Finally, I sank down beside a harp, ignoring a piskie that watched from the end of the hall, and buried my face in my hands.
Ash. I miss you.
My eyes stung. I swiped at them angrily, determined not to cry. The harp thrummed in my ear, sounding curious and sympathetic. Idly, I drew my finger across the strings, and it released a mournful, shivery note that echoed down the hall.
Another chord answered it, and another. I raised my head and listened as the low, faint strains of piano music drifted into the corridor. The song was dark, haunting and strangely familiar. Wiping my eyes, I stood and followed it, down the twisted hallways, past instruments that hummed and added their voices to the melody.
The song led me to pair of dark red doors with gilded handles. Beyond the wood, it sounded like a symphony was in full swing. Cautiously, I pushed the doors open and stepped into a large, circular red room.
Waves of music flowed over me. The room was full of instruments: harps and cellos and violins, along with a few guitars and even a ukulele. In the middle of the room, Charles sat hunched over the keys of a baby grand piano, eyes closed as his fingers flew over the instrument. Along the walls, the other instruments thrummed and trilled and lent their strains to the melody, turning the cacophony into something pure and wondrous. The music was a living thing, swirling around the room, dark and eerie and haunted, bringing new tears to my eyes. I sank onto a red velvet couch and gave in to my churning emotions.
I know this song.
But try as I might, I couldn’t remember from where. The memory taunted me, keeping just out of reach, a gaping hole where the image should be. But the melody, mysterious and devastatingly familiar, pulled at my insides, filling me with sadness and a gaping sense of loss.
Tears flowing freely down my skin, I watched Charles’s lean shoulders rise and fall with the chords, his head so low it almost touched the keys. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought his cheeks were wet, too.
When the last note died away, neither of us moved for several heartbeats. Charles sat there, his fingers resting on the final keys, breathing hard. My mind was still spinning in circles, trying to remember the tune. But the longer I sat there, trying to recall it, the farther it slipped away, vanishing into the walls and carpet, until only the instruments remembered it at all.
Charles finally pushed the seat back and rose, and I stood with him, feeling faintly guilty for eavesdropping.
“That was beautiful,” I said as he turned. He blinked, obviously surprised to see me there, but he didn’t startle or jump. “What was the name of the song?”
The question seemed to confuse him. He frowned and cocked his head, furrowing his brow as if trying to understand me. Then a sorrowful expression crossed his face, and he shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
I felt a pang of disappointment. “Oh.”
“But…” He paused, running his fingers along the ivory keys, a faraway look in his eyes. “I seem to recall it was a favorite of mine. Long ago. I think.” He blinked, and his eyes focused on me again. “Do you know what it’s called?”
I shook my head.
“Oh. That’s too bad.” He sighed, pouting a bit. “The rats said you might remember.”
Okay, now it was time to leave. I stood, but before I could make my escape, the door creaked open, and Warren entered the room.
“Oh, hey, Meghan.” He licked his lips, eyes darting about in a nervous fashion. One hand was tucked into his jacket, hiding it from view. “I…um…I’m looking for Puck. Is he here?”