Page 82 of Hateful Vows
“Where’s Dante?” Mariella asks as she enters the piano room where we’re all gathered, studying isolated islands and possible trade routes enemy factions use on a regular basis. Any thread that would lead us to Dante.
Lucie stands, her outfit uncharacteristically rumpled, and gently pulls Mariella aside with a hand on her elbow. “He’s not here right now. Let’s have a walk in the garden.”
But Mariella tenses. I notice she’s not wearing her usual bright red lipstick and her eyes aren’t painted with the elegant eyeliner she favours. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
She’s visibly agitated, her gaze shifting from one person to the next until her eyes speak only of fear and despair. They’re wide and her hands tremble. Untangling herself from Lucie’s grip, she takes a step back and gets more confused.
Wary but determined, Irina steps in between the two women but Mariella cries out, throwing herself at Irina, distressed and asking for Dante again.
I’m unsure what possesses me to do it. Like I’m pulled by an invisible thread, I prop the lid of the grand piano open, then take a seat on the elegant black leather bench. It’s not like anyone has had their hearts in doing anything else but look for Dante for days on hand. But I know Mariella’s deep connection to music. I know how it soothes her, having played for her before.
My own anguish at losing Dante, at failing Irina, resonates in my heart and I have no way to vocalise it. I’m not good at any of this. Relationship, support. Love…
But my fingers know the keys. Throat clogged, I lift the fall-board. The black and white ivory is cool under my touch. I have nowhere to pour my inner turmoil but in the music; I’d never burden Irina with it. She has enough on her plate. If I’m not adding to her life, I won’t ever be the one that takes. I will never be like my father.
The Sick Doll by Tchaikovsky echoes in the room, drained from my pain onto the keys by my fingers. It’s like my body knows what to do before my mind has had time to catch up. Themournful melody drapes the room with heavy energy, a grief none of us want to acknowledge but can’t help feel.
When I lift my head, Mariella has stopped wrestling. She’s closed her eyes and sways to the music, clutching her heart like it pains her. Irina’s stare pins me in place. I’m unworthy of the awe shining in them. I continue playing after the short song ends until Mariella has settled next to me on the bench, smiling softly like she’s back to herself.
“What a wonderful pianist you make, Aleksei,” she says softly, gliding a gentle hand on my jaw. I’ve never had a mother, mine having died when I was very young, but I’d hope for someone as kind as Mariella Ventura. Her thumb swipes at my cheek.
“Music also makes me feel strong emotions,” she says and I notice the wetness of a tear on her digit. “Keep them close, they’re more useful than people want you to believe.”
When she asks again about Dante, it’s with a more curious tone, and she seems both surprised and disappointed that her son hasn’t made it to dinner with her for days. Lucie takes her on a stroll in the garden in the company of our new ally, Toma, but not before she sends me an agonising look. Loss is written all over her face and I don’t know if it’s meant for her aunt or her cousin.
“Everyone, out!” Irina barks at the remaining men in the room, and they all effectively disperse in minutes, obeying their new queen with a respect I can’t help but admire.
Before I can close the keylid, Irina stops me. “Why don’t you play some more? Something you like?”
The vulnerability of her question flays me open. I nod, unsure what to say, and she takes Mariella’s place at my side. We don’t talk for long minutes as I play, letting the music purge me from grief. It’s not enough, but with her at my side, it could be. I’ll only deserve it when we find our missing piece. Meanwhile, Ican let her know how much I love her, how much I admire her, respect her and worship her with the notes on the piano.
I’m panting when I end the last notes of a love song my father would have beaten me for playing, revelling in the freedom Irina offered me without knowing. Or maybe, she knew exactly what she was doing.
When our eyes meet, the brown of her irises shine with gold flecks. She doesn’t avert her eyes, meeting my pain straight on with her own, offering the perfect mirror.
“I love you, Aleksei,” she says simply. The words knock the wind out of my lungs.
“Irina.”
Her name on my lips is agony.
“I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. I don’t expect you to say it back,Lyosha. I’m hard to love. I’m stubborn, I’m selfish. I don’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. I don’t forgive and I don’t move on. I’m power-hungry and I love money. No one loves a woman who loves money.”
“I do.”
Her pupils widen. She licks her lips, then scoffs.
“You do?”
“Yes, Irina. I love you.”
I don’t have any pretty words to add to my simple ones. I only have the proof in the blood of my father under my finger nails and my relentless effort to find her husband, the man who showed me how to love her.
“How did I get so lucky? To have not one but two men who could see my faults and cherish me nonetheless?”
Her glossy eyes take my breath away. My wide hand covers the side of her face, learning its contour once more. I let my lips fall to her forehead and Irina softens against me. “He showed me how,” I breathe against her hairline, inhaling the comfortingscent of her heady perfume I’ve loved so much for so long. “And I won’t rest until we find him,malyshka. I promise.”
Her fierce eyes lift to meet mine once more, violence etched on the lines at the corners, a testament of time we wasted. But no more.
