Page 154 of What Blooms from Death

Hours later, though, I could fight my exhaustion no longer; my steps finally began to slow. I’d just agreed with Aleksander’s suggestion that we head back toward the palace, when one last spot caught my attention: A music shop.

In the window, several instruments were displayed on tarnished stands and faded cloths, with a scattering of yellowed sheet music in between them. In the center of the display was a violin. Its body was a rich, golden brown, the varnish on itworn in places, suggesting it was well-loved and responsible for a lifetime of melodies.

Aleksander came up beside me, his expression curious. “Do you play?”

“…I used to. My mother—my adoptive mother, that is—was a talented violinist. I was never as good as her, but I enjoyed playing at her side. It…it felt like we were breaking down barriers between us when we practiced together, sometimes.”

The clouds shifted, a sliver of moonlight filtering through their grey blanket, casting a momentary glow on the shop’s window. The shopkeeper noticed me staring at the violin, and he was just as obliging as the baker had been, encouraging me to pick it up and take a closer look.

But I hesitated.

“Go on,” Aleks encouraged.

My fingers itched for a chance to relive my playing days, but I couldn’t bring myself to reach for it. I’d started playing because I so desperately wanted to have more in common with the woman I called Mother. I’d eventually come to love the music I created for other reasons, too, but it hadn’t come easily to me—and I feared that would show if I attempted to play after all this time.

Aleks watched me for a moment longer. Instead of pressuring me to pick it up again, he walked into the shop and took a closer look at some of the other instruments. He settled before a piano in the corner, lifting the hinged lid that covered its keys, testing out a few notes.

And then he began to play.

He started slowly, fingers skimming the keys with quiet, purposeful deliberation that soon gave way to more confident, fluid movements as he relaxed into the piece. He played with surprising tenderness, each chord imbued with emotion that rarely broke through his stoic exterior.

I drew closer, mesmerized as I watched his long fingers dance across the keys with ease. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had suspended its relentless march. The night wasn’t slipping away. War wasn’t looming. There was nowhere else I needed to be.

And as the melody unfolded around me, my heart unfolded, as well, spilling all of the doubts and fears that had clenched it up so tightly.

I returned to the violin and tentatively picked it up. The shopkeeper offered me a finely-made bow, as well. An ache settled in my arms as I took it, almost as if my body was somehow reliving the many long hours of practice it had taken me to try and keep up with the Queen of Eldris.

The fear of looking foolish remained, even if it wasn’t as loud as before.

Taking a deep breath, I drew the bow across the strings anyway.

The initial note was harsh, jagged—like a wail of protest. I cringed, wanting to stop, but the longing in my fingers refused to settle now that I’d started.

I tried again.

Like a rusted wheel grinding into motion, I pressed on, and soon the notes began to flow with more certainty.

Aleks paused to listen for a moment, his expression unlike anything I recalled ever seeing on his face. An almost soft, pensive…desire. He closed his eyes, seemingly allowing himself to sink more fully into the notes I was playing.

His hands rose to the keys once more. A few soft, tentative chords to feel out my song…and then we were playing together in earnest, the melody growing richer, rising and falling in an aching refrain that transported us far away and back again, leaving my stomach fluttering and my heart pounding.

Before long, a crowd began to gather around us. They packed into the small shop, pressing as close as my guards allowed, their smiles wide and their eyes bright with admiration as they applauded and requested a longer show. We obliged, each of us showing off with short solo performances until we settled on a tune we were both familiar with and played it together—an old folk ballad that spoke of love and loss, a melody as timeless as the stars.

When it was finished, I ended with a flourish, my final, lingering note echoing over the enraptured crowd.

Aleksander played on, softer now, while I leaned against the wooden counter next to the piano, taking in all of the happy, admiring faces around us. And I realized something: I was happy, too. The happiest I’d been in some time, despite all the worries and uncertainties pressing in.

Because I felt like I belonged here.

The realization overwhelmed me so much I could no longer focus on playing. I put the violin back on its cushion, thanked the shopkeeper, and gave a slight bow to the crowd before slipping outside for some fresh air, multiple guards on my heels.

Aleks lingered behind after I left, speaking with the shopkeeper—one of the few in the city who hadn’t regarded him with suspicion or uncertainty; more proof of music’s ability to break down barriers, just as it had between me and my mother.

While they talked, I went across the street to the florist shop. It was closed, but the front of the building was worth a visit, anyway; lush greenery, vibrant flowers and climbing vines formed a beautiful exterior display, spilling from the windows, weaving along the porch railings, wrapping around the door.

I knew when Aleks was approaching, because the flora reacted as his magical energy met mine—leaves shivering; petals shifting toward us; a few of the withered blooms perking upslightly. Subtle enough changes that most probably wouldn’t have even noticed.

He reached for one of the more withered blooms—a lily of some sort—and gently cupped his hand over it. Once its petals were fully open and full of shimmering, colorful veins once more, he plucked it and handed it to me.

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