Page 11 of The Musician and the Monster

“He’s on patrol,” Father continued. “But once he’s back and learns of this arrangement, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t storm the manor himself.”

Ceridwen packed her meager belongings in an old chest that might sooner come apart and spill her dresses into the street rather than carry them to the manor gate. Afterward, she found Bronwyn, who wielded a paintbrush against a new canvas with all the delicacy of their goat Nell.

She would have been famous if anyone knew the works were hers. There were tales of women artists in larger cities and the capital, but in Teneboure, as in the countryside, most people still frowned on it. So when Father or Gerard sold her paintings at the market, one of the few sources of income keeping the family afloat, the name of the artist wasn’t mentioned. When pressed, Father claimed the work as his own.

A thick band of blue streaked across the canvas as Bronwyn attacked it with a huff. Painting was her great pleasure in life. Her true love. It was a wonder that she’d mentioned it to Lord Winterbourne at all rather than keeping it carefully tucked away in her heart as she often did.

“Are you mad at me too?” Ceridwen asked from the door.

“No.” Bronwyn’s hand dropped away from the painting. “No, not you. I’m terribly proud of you, actually.” She gave a weak smile. “But I wish he’d chosen me. Not because I want to go, but to save you from this.”

Ceridwen twisted her hands in her skirts. If the situation were reversed, she’d feel the same way.

“I can’t stop worrying or being angry with Lord Winterbourne for his uncouth offer. Nor can I sit still. And this”—she poked the brush tip at the canvas—“is a complete disaster too.”

Bronwyn set aside her palette and brushes with a clatter and wiped her hands on the stained apron over her dress. “I’m sorry. Here I am complaining when you’re the one walking into the demon’s den.”

“Maybe it won’t be that bad…” Though Ceridwen didn’t quite believe her own words.

“He hid his face. We know nothing about him. He could be hideous, disease-ridden, deformed.”

Ceridwen swallowed her nerves and sat on the edge of her sister’s bed. “He only asked for my music, something I do every day.” Once, it hadn’t been the flute she had turned to daily to create music. As much as she loved to play, she’d loved to sing even more. But that was years ago, before Mother died. Before her voice refused to make the lovely lilting sounds it once had. She’d buried her singing voice with her mother, and why shouldn’t she? Her singing had led to her mother’s death after all. It was only fitting it rest in the planes of the Goddess with her.

Bronwyn crossed the room and took Ceridwen’s hands in her paint-stained ones. “I pray that’s the case. But if he tries anything, stab him with a dinner knife.”

Ceridwen’s eyes flew wide.

Bronwyn grinned.

“This isn’t the time for jokes.” Ceridwen pursed her lips in mock disapproval.

Her sister’s smile dimmed. “It wasn’t entirely a joke. But hopefully, he’ll be a gentleman, and it will never come to that.” The seriousness in her eyes didn’t reflect the optimism of her words.

Ceridwen trailed her fingertips along the twisting vine of red roses stitched into the quilt atop the bed. Mother had made it long ago.

The quilt had a twin once, one with pink roses instead of red. The scratches on her pregnant stomach bled onto it after Gerard carried her into the rented house in the capital. Ceridwen never knew if the injury caused the screams or if it was the early labor that ripped her apart from within.Dragon,Mother mumbled in her fevered haze. But dragons didn’t exist. They were children’s tales.If only I hadn’t sung for her.Ceridwen lamented in silence.I wouldn’t have upset her. She wouldn’t have gone outside. She wouldn’t have—

“She’d be proud of you,” Bronwyn said, a sad smile on her face.

“Mother?” Ceridwen asked in a cracked voice.

Bronwyn nodded.

How could she, when Ceridwen was the reason Mother was gone?

Her mother’s death, the bed of blood, reminded her so much of the thief who’d died on the street. She couldn’t save either of them, but perhaps she could save others. “The monster,” she whispered.

“You’ll be safe inside the manor walls, surely,” Bronwyn replied.

Ceridwen nodded. If anywhere in Teneboure was safe, it should be there. “Maybe I can learn about it.”

The Lord Protector must know something, even if he did nothing to stop it. The payments for her music would help, but they already had an end date, and Goddess knew they needed all the money they could get.

Bronwyn raised her brows as she sat next to Ceridwen on the bed. “It’s not a bad idea. If the mayor is offering a reward…” She shrugged. “Every bit of information helps.”

“Don’t tell Father. The last thing we need is him worrying more or trying something foolish.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she replied.

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