Page 10 of A Song of Ash and Moonlight

“Well, this letter is certainly to the point,” I distantly heard Gemma say. “Ryder wants to visit Ivyhill, and bring Alastrina too, of course. He’s wondering why you haven’t answered—Farrin—any of his lastfiveletters. Oh, and here’s a note from Alastrina.” She madea little sound of puzzlement. “She’s asking if Illaria has any of her winter scents ready for purchase and if I’ll put in a good word for her, persuade Lari to send early samples.Interesting.When she wants something, Alastrina can be shockingly cordial. She’s practically gushing with compliments for Illaria.” Her mouth twisted into a sly smile. “I may have to play matchmaker with those two. What a lovely couple they’d make, don’t you think?”

Gemma’s words jostled about in my head, rattling me like blows. It was as if some mechanism had switched inside me. Images of Talan and my sister flooded my mind—naked and ecstatic and tender, loving each other—and I couldn’t get rid of them, wasn’t sure Iwantedto, and yet I desperately wished them gone.

“We’ll see many Basks soon enough at the ball,” I managed to reply, hating myself, humiliated. “That will have to satisfy Ryder for now. And perhaps if he put a little more effort into writing all these letters, I’d be more inclined to respond to them.”

“He’s succinct.”

“He’srude.”

“No-nonsense is what I’d call it. And you aren’t exactly a bastion of decorum yourself, dear sister.”

“I can write a polite letter that doesn’t sound like an order barked at a military subordinate, at least.”

Then I felt a gentle touch at my elbow and opened my eyes to find Gemma sitting beside me again, the letter discarded and her brow creased with worry. I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d done it to hold back tears—embarrassing, baffling, bright-hot tears.

“What is it?” Gemma asked softly. “I’ve said something that upset you.Reallyupset you.”

I tried to sound wry and careless. “No, it’s only Ryder. One more annoyance to deal with, you know.”

“Truly, Farrin. It’s more than that. I can see it on your face.”

Without answering her, I rose and headed swiftly for the door. I didn’t look back even when Gemma called after me. If I did, I would snap at her or say something terrible, something she didn’t deserve. She’d done nothing wrong—not that she knew of, anyway, and certainly nothing that would have sent a reasonable person fleeing her rooms in a temper. I would offer her an excuse later, some task I’d neglected to complete, an appointment I’d forgotten.

But right then, I needed the one thing in the world that I knew could soothe this sudden anger boiling inside me and scrub my mind clean.

I needed my piano.

***

She awaited me in the Green Ballroom, my steadfast love. With the exception of our library and its archives—draped with so many layers of protective ward magic that it would have taken an act of the gods to destroy it—little else had survived the Basks’ fire, but my piano had somehow, impossibly, made it through the night intact. Imagine the shock of seeing her—a perfect instrument of rich cherrywood, ornamented with carved wooden vines—standing pristine in a ruin of ashes and embers, wisps of smoke curling all around her. It had taken me days to retune the poor thing, but I’d managed it, and she played as beautifully now as she ever had.

Her survival was the one thing that kept me believing in the gods after everything that had happened to tear my family apart, even if that belief was, at times, hair thin. Something had saved my piano that night, something none of us had ever been able to explain. My mother, insatiably curious, had hired beguilers and elementals and alchemists to assess the piece. Was there any trace of protective magic lingering upon it? Was there something in the wood that repelled fire? Was it not truly a piano but rather something elsealtered to mimic the appearance of one? No one could ever find a reason it had survived; it was, Father decided at last, a miracle. A gift from the gods.

As a girl, I’d gotten the feeling that my mother had never been satisfied with that answer. This had irked me; couldn’t she simply be happy for me, for the marvel of it? Another grievance with her that I held inside me, one of many I clutched in a fist that would never open.

I wasted no time. I closed the doors of the ballroom behind me and hurried to my girl, who stood proud and alone in the middle of the floor, framed by towering green walls and ivory curtains. Alone, but not lonely. She preferred her solitude.

I opened the lid, unveiling the black-and-white keys, every last one of them gleaming and perfect. I slid onto the bench and immediately began to play the first piece that came to mind. I didn’t have a name for it; it felt too dear to me to be named, like a thing so precious it was best to avert your eyes from it, to speak of it only in whispers.

It was the piece I’d written about the shining boy,forthe shining boy, about that horrible night and everything before and after it. How it had felt when he’d found me half dead, shivering beside a decaying wall soaked with malevolent magic, and held me, and told me not to be afraid. How he would look if I were to see him now, grown. How it would feel if his hands—the very same hands that had saved me—were to touch me again.

But the calm that ordinarily fell over me when I disappeared into my music did not come. Instead, with each arpeggio, each crescendo—here, the melody for my sisters and me, fighting futilely against the onslaught of our parents’ war; there, the opening notes of the shining boy’s theme, hopeful and heroic, coy—the tension inside me wound even tighter.

I was distracted, my thoughts scattered.Really supremely good sex, Gemma had said, blissfully unaware, blissfully happy, as I wouldnever be. My piano, alone, not really understood by anyone—a thing to be kept apart, treasured but seldom touched by anyone’s hands but my own. The shining boy’s sad voice telling me goodbye. My father’s iron grip on my wrist, hurting me. Talan pinned to the ground by all of us in that evil house of poison, shouting obscenities at us in a voice that wasn’t his own. Mara, alone, overwhelmed, tired, fighting monsters in the shadows of the Mist.

I couldn’t bear it, being torn apart from the inside by this confusion of memory, this tumult of too many strange, frightening pains to name. Why had Gemma said anything at all? Why had the letter from Ryder fallen out of my pocket? But she had, and it had, and the nettle of it had stuck in me for some reason I couldn’t explain, reawakening every bad thought I’d ever had, making me ache, making me miserable.

A missed note here, an inelegant phrase there. My fingers wouldn’t work as they were supposed to, even with all this godly magic coursing through my blood. Was I an Anointed savant, or was I a mere fumbling child?

A volcano of anger erupted inside me. Hot and blazing, head to toe.

I slammed my fists down on the keys with a muted cry, nearly choking on my own frustration. I dashed a hand across my face, swiping at tears.

And then, from behind me, came the sound of one person applauding.

I stood up, whirled around, and saw, standing in the corner of the ballroom next to a voluminous fern, a little tin watering can at her feet, Emry the housemaid.

She was weeping.

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