Fury blazed in her. “She was innocent. She was a defenseless, elderly woman!”
Cyrus shrugged one shoulder. “Then she was already at the end of her life. Don’t waste tears on this woman. Most don’t get such a full life. My son, for instance. My grandson. I’m far more concerned with the blood your mother has on her hands. By our old traveler laws, I’d be more than justified in killing you to end this feud. Be grateful I’ve chosen the high road.”
Etta was so stunned, so tackled by disbelief, her next words flew out of her mind. Clearly seeing this, Cyrus continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
“After the passage was discovered, I sent numerous agents to your filthy, crowded city to conduct their investigations. When it became clear Rose had borne a child, and one that might possibly be gifted, arrangements were made to put you directly in a position to travel,” Ironwood continued, lacing his fingers together over his chest. “My agents bestowed a rather sizable donation on my behalf to the museum that employs your mother. They suggested that the museum might invite you to perform—of course, anything is possible when money is being passed beneath the table.”
She felt her lip curl into a snarl, but she forced herself to stay silent, too afraid of crossing that line between cooperative and uncooperative.
“It occurred to me that perhaps your mother didn’t realize the passage was there—that she hadn’t heard it. Or perhaps you didn’t carry the ability. And so Sophia was sent, to see if you could hear the passage, and if so, bring you through it.”
Hear. He knew she’d heard something. But Etta had been inside the museum any number of times, and that night was the first time she’d ever heard that booming call.
“How very thoughtless of Rose to not explain this.” Cyrus seemed to read her thoughts before she did. “Our ancestors, those who created the passages a thousand years ago, were of purer blood than those of us today. It became necessary to…mingle…our bloodlines with common ones in order to survive. The ability to hear and see the passages naturally has faded. We rely on resonance.”
Cyrus slid a harmonica out of a velvet sack in his satchel. Putting his lips to the mouthpiece, he released a powerful burst of air, playing three simultaneous notes.
Before he’d pulled the harmonica away, Etta heard it—the shuddering, distant scream. She pulled back instinctively, reaching out to grab something, anything, until her hand found the fireplace mantelpiece. The noise pounded like a second heartbeat in her head.
“The passages resonate with the chord of G major,” Cyrus said.
Etta rubbed her forehead, trying to dislodge the knot of pain behind her temple, the blazing wildfire of sound trapped there. The Largo from Sonata no. 3…the one chosen for her…that contained those three notes—G, B, and D—only a few seconds into the piece.
She’d called to the passage with her violin, and it had called back.
“How curious,” Cyrus began. There was a cane leaning against the left arm of the chair, and he took it in hand as he rose to his feet, thudding toward her in three beats of sound. “How very curious that your mother kept this from you.”
“How curious that she ran away from you,” she said sarcastically. “I can’t imagine why.”
His hand lashed out, gripping her chin, stilling her. The pressure of his grip, combined with her own shock, made her arms go limp at her side. He was taller than Etta was, but otherwise built with the solid stockiness of a bulldog—and his quiet cruelty took a very different form when he was towering over her. For a half second, with the fire scorching her back, she honestly thought he’d push her into it.
“Stop this,” Nicholas said sharply, thrusting an arm between them.
A small protest, but it did something. The blue flame of his eyes shifted from Etta to Nicholas, and she felt his hand relax, slide down the length of her neck before settling there like a collar—a noose.
“Your mother ingratiated herself to my family as we searched for an item of value that once belonged to my ancestors. She played the part of the sad, sorry orphan, gathered what information she needed from us, and stole it from under our noses. Decades of searching, wasted.”
I have never stolen anything in my life.
Her mother had only just said those words to her—when Etta had joked about her stealing the earrings. She’d seemed almost devastated by an accusation that hadn’t been an accusation at all.
No matter how bad things got, or how much I wanted something.