Page 14 of The Musician and the Monster

“Whenever you’re ready,” he prompted.

A sudden tightness threatened to steal her song, but she swallowed her nerves and took a deep breath.

The first notes came out warbly, airy, and a little flat. But after a few bars, the tune strengthened. The notes rose and fell in crescendo and decrescendo, escalating to a ringing forte during the climax of the song and falling to a soft pianissimo as the tune drew to a close. At some point while playing, she’d closed her eyes, letting herself drift far away with the music. She still held them closed as the last note slipped into the heavy silence. She heard nothing, not even the beat of her own heart or the crackle of the fire.

Nothing, until a slow, loud clap drew her back to the present and caused her eyes to fly wide. It was the same reception she’d received at her house the day before.

“Perfect, just as I remembered,” Lord Winterbourne said as he halted his applause. “You will uphold our agreement?”

Ceridwen swallowed and gave a jerking nod.

“Do not leave the manor grounds, nor enter the high tower. You shall attend dinner in the formal dining room and play the flute for me each day. Anything else is your own discretion.”

A heavy breath slipped from Ceridwen’s lips. No odd commands. Nothing to dishonor her. Perhaps she truly would be treated as a guest in this empty, lifeless place.

“That will be all, Jackoby,” he said. “Ceridwen, please stay.”

Her heart raced as Jackoby bowed once again and headed for the door. She followed him with her gaze, silently begging him not to leave. Terror gripped her chest at the thought of being alone in a room with this strange man. Each step increased her worry until her face flushed as the door slid shut behind the butler.

When she turned to Lord Winterbourne, he no longer sat.

“Come with me. I’ll show you to your room.”

Chapter 7

Drystan

Drystan took his time leading Ceridwen through the halls of the manor. She had a tendency to try to trail behind him, often distracted and staring at one thing or another, but that only encouraged him to slow further. He enjoyed the sight of her taking her surroundings, inspecting his temporary home. Most all the furnishings belonged to the manor itself, used by whatever Lord Protector might be in residence at the time, but her obvious wonder and admiration still had a sense of pride swelling in his chest.

It’d been long, probably too long, since he’d spent any time around someone new, particularly someone outside the nobility and their servants. He supposed the manor would look grand in comparison to the modest home in which she lived, and he wasn’t quite certain about the young woman’s history before her family moved to this city. A country upbringing, Jackoby had heard, but the details of it were limited at best.

“I’m to have a room of my own?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper despite the quiet of the hall, punctuated only by the click of their boots across the marble floors. She’d left her flute behind in the study at his request since she’d play for him again that evening, and without it to hold, her hands had a tendency to twist with each other in front of her.

“Of course,” Drystan replied. “You are my guest.”

Ceridwen paused in a stream of light flowing in from between the curtains. Many of the windows on this hall were completely covered, but this one had been left askew by a careless maid. Normally that would irk him, but the light shimmering over her aroused a different feeling.

A frown took shape on her pink lips as she glanced away. “If I were a guest, I’d be free to come and go.”

His lips twitched. “You’ll have to excuse my want of privacy.” Drystan held out a hand to her. “Come along.”

Ceridwen tentatively met his gaze, a slight blush on her cheeks. She reached out to take his hand but stopped just short, her attention glued to his skin.

Damn it all.He’d forgotten his gloves, and with the light streaming in, she easily spied the scars marring him, a few of them still recent and scabbed.

She glanced up at him, eyes wide. “You’re—”

He jerked his hand away and turned on his heel. “It’s nothing. Come along.”

For a moment, he feared she might protest or ask more questions, but eventually, the soft click of her boots resumed behind him, where he let her linger for the duration of the walk, his previous pleasure shattered by her observation.

Questions would follow, and he had no good answers for her, at least none that he would give.

At length they reached the door Drystan sought, which he threw open before ushering Ceridwen inside. He'd left the decision of her room to his housekeeper, Gwen, who he must admit had chosen well. The bedroom was sumptuous with its green walls and golden accents, though they’d been dimmed by time. Carved wooden couches with pale cream and gold cushions dotted the space, with matching dark wooden tables composing the sitting area. Even he could find nothing amiss with the tall four-poster bed and matching armoires. Kent had already seen to depositing her trunk at the foot of the bed. Or at least he assumed it must be hers. While much of the room, and the manor, were dated, the poor trunk looked like it could fall apart at any moment, its paint peeling badly in one corner.

Thankfully, Ceridwen was so distracted examining the room that she didn’t attempt a further look at his hands—or the rest of him. He might as well have vanished the moment he opened the doors.

Something about that irked him, though it was for the best.

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