I stand up to meet her. “My mother is none of your affair,” I say, electricity crackling in my voice.
She stares at me, our faces only inches apart. I know she must feel the heat radiating off me. I wait for her to tell me to get out again, to get lost, but instead she backs away and sits down on the couch, almost crushing the bag I’d placed there. Which is when the bag lets out a hiss. “What the …?” Daphne bounces away from the now-wriggling bag. A second later, a furry little thing pops out of it, launches itself at me, and perches on my shoulder. All the while hissing its displeasure over almost being squashed.
“Well, it’s your fault, Brim, for hiding in there!”
Brim growls, baring her tiny fangs.
“Oh my gosh, is that your kitten?” Daphne asks. She sounds strangely amused, and the anger melts from her expression.
“In a way. But she’s not a kitten,” I say, because I know Brim hates being called that. “She’s nearly seven years old.”
“But she’s so tiny! Like, barely bigger than a guinea pig.”
I try to pet Brim to calm her, but she swats at me with her claws. “What she is, is angry. That’s not a good thing.”
“It’s adorable.” Daphne laughs. “Come here, little girl,” she says in a singsong voice, reaching for Brim.
“Not a good idea,” I say, and try to pull the cat away from her reach. Brim bites my finger. I snap my hand back, and to my horror, Daphne snatches up the cat. To my utter astonishment, Brim lets her, though she’s still growling and hissing.
“I know how to soothe a savage beast,” Daphne says, like she’s singing. “My mom is always bringing home cranky strays. Grab the guitar. Try the song again.”
I scoop up the instrument and sit next to her. I pick out the notes again. After a few seconds, Daphne joins her voice in with my strumming. She sings in a lower, more gravelly tone that carries the same timbre as Brim’s small yet ferocious growl. Listening to her feels like the sensation of someone wrapping a warm blanket around my shoulders. But it’s been so many years since someone has done this for me; I am surprised I remember what it feels like.…
We’re halfway through the song when I realize that Brim’s growling has been replaced by a steady purr. She’s curled herself into a tiny ball in Daphne’s hands. Daphne smiles down at her.
I suddenly feel jealous of the cat.
I haven’t dared to add my own voice to the music for fear of spoiling it. I don’t even know how to sing, but as the song rounds into the final lines, the warmth of the music engulfs me to the point that I feel as if something inside of me is pushing its way out to meet it. I cannot help myself. My voice crackles at first and is barely audible, but when Daphne turns her smiling eyes on me, my voice grows stronger, mingling with hers. Our voices ring together, and for a moment, I feel as though I am free. Even freer than I felt in the Tesla. Freer than owls soaring from their roost.
I hold the final note of the song with Daphne, almost afraid to let that feeling of freedom go. Finally, she lets the note fall and I end the song.
I pull my fingers from the guitar strings and find Daphne staring at me. Her head is cocked to the side as if she is listening to something even though the music has stopped.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“Huh. I didn’t think you had an inner song, Haden Lord,” she says softly. “I guess I was wrong.”
I have had five lessons with Daphne in the last two weeks. Each one starts almost the same as the first. She peppers me with questions about my family and my past until she becomes frustrated with how little pertinent information I give her, and eventually she moves on to the music. I bring Brim with me since she seems to have a softening effect on Daphne, who lets her sit on her knee as we play.
My mastery of the guitar is coming along quite nicely, thanks to Daphne’s gifted hands. She has even let me play the piano in her father’s studio a couple of times. I prefer the guitar, though; it gives me something to hold on to.
It is late in the evening. I am headed back to Simon’s mansion after my latest lesson with Daphne. Brim clings happily to my shoulder, enjoying the fresh air, and I carry the loaner guitar that Daphne has sent me home with to practice. It’s an ebony black Stratacoustic from her father’s collection. “Believe me, he won’t even notice it’s gone. Besides, he owes me one,” she’d said. I think of how her hands had brushed mine when I took it from her.
I am crossing the bridge that leads to the school, taking a shortcut to Simon’s, when the smell of sulfur permeates my senses. Brim catches the scent also and jumps from my shoulder. She yowls and runs across the bridge, following the scent.