Page 63 of Ruined Wolfsbane

Once I get up from the bed, I smooth Malachi’s black T-shirt down. Why yes, yes, I did conveniently forget PJs. Malachi’s shirts are way better than mine for sleeping, and they smell good. It’s totally normal to smell your professor’s clothes. It doesn’t make me a creeper at all. Really.

I debate hunting around for some pants to wear under his shirt, but there’s a high chance I’ll wake one of them up. It’s long enough to be a dress, so it should be fine.

Quietly padding over to the door, I slowly ease it open. Once I gently close it behind me, I sigh in relief. Mission Don’t Wake the Wyldharts accomplished. I’m practically a super spy with how well I snuck out of Malachi’s room. I resist the urge to fist pump at my victory.

Heading toward the stairs, I try to remember where the ballroom with the piano is. I have no clue. All the fancy rooms in this mansion blurred together during Bastian’s tour. I guess I’ll wander aimlessly. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I turn right because that’s where at least one of the dining rooms is. Dining rooms and ballrooms are basically the same, right?

I find the right room on my third try. Pushing open one of the gilded doors, I step into the surprisingly bright space. Moonlight filters into the ballroom from the bank of windows to my right. That’s also where the piano is.

The mural on the wall opposite the door snags my attention. It’s a neoclassical piece divided up into seven panels.

The first shows a woman with dark hair and eyes standing on a balcony over a cheering crowd. They’re in the middle of a bustling coastal city.

The second shows a ship with a grand sail and a bunch of oars docking on a sandy beach outside the walls of the city.

The third shows the same dark-haired woman seated in the middle of a banquet table. Half the table is filled with people dressed the same as her. Seated at the other half is a group of men who look like foreigners.

The fourth shows the men from the ship attacking the city shown in the first panel.

The fifth shows the dark-haired woman and her people defeating the attacking mariners.

The sixth shows the leader of the travelers giving the woman a bottle of something. Possibly as thanks for not killing him and his people.

The seventh shows the dark-haired woman burning on a funeral pyre with the ship sailing in the distance.

I’d think it was a mural of the Aeneid if not for the fourth through the sixth panels. I wish Dido had whooped Aeneas’s ass. But, alas, Virgil was a misogynistic jerkoff. He couldn’t stand a strong woman. In the Aeneid, Dido died without getting revenge on the gods or Aeneas.

What a strange painting.

Shrugging off my curiosity over the captivating mural, I walk over to the piano. I’m hesitant to touch it because it’s the nicest piano I’ve ever encountered. I don’t want to mess it up. It’s not like I can replace it if I do break it.

But what good is an instrument if no one plays it?

I sit on the padded bench facing the wall of windows and gently depress the keys. Gaining confidence, I play a couple chords. I can’t contain my grin at playing this beautiful piano.

When the piano doesn’t spontaneously burst into flames at my touch, I start playing it in earnest. The first song that comes to mind is a piano version of “The Best Day.”

After the opening notes, I start singing the lyrics, thinking of my mom the whole time. That’s what I love about music. It expresses all the things I struggle to find the words to say. The only safe time to let my emotions out is when I play music.

I’m horrible at singing, so I refuse to sing around other people. But no one’s here now. I don’t have to worry about rupturing anyone’s eardrums. It doesn’t matter if I wail along to the music like an angry cat.

“I don’t know who I’m going to talk to now,” I sing, voice breaking on the last word. When I open my mouth to finish the line, a sob comes out instead. I clamp my lips together to keep any sound from coming out as my shoulders shake from how hard I’m crying. In defeat, I rest my head on the music stand.

I’m powerless to stop the flow of tears. It’s like a dam burst, and I’m just watching the destruction happening from afar.

Eventually the shudders subside, and I can get a full breath in. Wiping my eyes with the back of my hands, I focus back on the keys. I want to play something happy, but the only song coming to mind is “In the Stars.”

Needing to do something with these emotions, I start the song. Tears land on my hands as I play and sing, but I’m not full-on sobbing. It’s an improvement.

Clapping sounds from behind me as I play the last notes. I almost fall off the bench in surprise. “Jesus fucking Christ on a bike with Mary on the goddamn handlebars and Moses in the handbasket!” I whisper shout.

Hopping up and spinning around, I see that it’s just Bastian. And he’s laughing at me. “Anyone ever tell you that you swear like a drunk Irish grandma?”

“Can’t say anyone has, but I’ll take it as a compliment.” I subtly try to wipe the tears from my eyes before he notices.

“Good. It was meant as one.”

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