Page 21 of The Phoenix Bride
She links her hands in her lap and wrings them. “Cecilia, I am allowed to be concerned. As long as you live here, I will care for you.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with my marriage.”
“There are so many eligible men at court. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“Wonderful foryou—to have your sister a lady, and your status affirmed.”
She sighs. “It isn’t that,” she says, admonishing. “You know I speak only out of concern for your well-being. You could be very happy, I think. If you were to marry a lord, you could play harpsichord for theking,just as you always dreamed of—do you remember?”
Playing for the king: a childhood fancy, long discarded. I scowl, but I don’t bother replying. Instead, I stare stonily at my plate.
Margaret follows my gaze. Her face pinches. “You’ve eaten nothing. Have one bite, I beg of you.”
One bite. It is doable. I raise the cake to my lips, and I make an incision with my teeth, cutting a wafer-thin slice. It sits heavy in my mouth, doughy and cloying.
“There,” Margaret says, satisfied.
I swallow, and I smile at her without feeling, using my tongue to scrub the crumbs away from my teeth.
—
Afterward, I go to the music room. It is early evening; the sun is setting, and its light bronzes my skin. All is very quiet, and the air is still. It almost feels as if the townhouse outside this room is abandoned, as if London itself has been emptied of people. All that exists is me and the spinet: my dearest friend in this place. It is a shrunken version of the harpsichord I grew up with, and I have grown quite fond of it. The compulsion to play is one of few things that still draws me out of bed.
The spinet’s case is very fine, veneered in dark wood. The ivory is still glossy. I hover my hands over the keys, and I smash down, vindictive, producing a dissonant holler that seems to make the very walls tremble. It is intensely gratifying.
I arrange my fingers for an old pavane my mother made me learn. I begin, think better of it, and begin again. The movements bring forth memories of dismal hours spent practicing it as a child, when each note had been embossed upon my skull, and my hands turned to claws. But even this song now presents an escape, in this miniature life I am living. By resurrecting it, I briefly become Cecilia at twelve years old, for whom this pavane was the greatest evil she had ever known. And despite the hatred I once had for it, I realize now that it is a very sweet song. Itseems to follow itself, ebbing and rising. I begin it again, and then a third time. Upon this third playing, the music feels complete. The spinet strikes each note cleanly and harshly; when I finish, the silence covers me like cloth over a birdcage.
Someone clears their throat. I look over my shoulder to see my sister and Mendes in the doorway, watching me. Margaret is wearing an awful expression, pitying and nostalgic. I can only imagine what she must think of me, playing childhood songs on her husband’s spinet, a ghost in a dressing gown. But beside her, Mendes is smiling with neither sympathy nor horror. He seems quite impressed.
“You play beautifully,” he says.
Embarrassed, I look back to the keys, pressing a high note. “Thank you.”
My sister wavers in the doorway, fiddling awkwardly with her skirts—clearly wanting to intercede, but uncertain how to do so.
A voice calls her name from downstairs: her husband’s. The timing feels like providence. Grimacing, she glances at the door.
“You needn’t stay if you’d rather leave, Maggie,” I tell her. “I’m certain Master Mendes just wants to ask about the effects of his medicines. It won’t take long.”
She gives me a suffering look, but Lord Eden’s wishes must trump either of ours; it has always been so. “Once you are finished, go directly to our steward,” she tells Mendes, opening the door with some reluctance. Sir Eden shouts for her again, and she cries, “Yes, darling, one moment!” as she leaves.
Once she is gone, Mendes gestures to the spinet. “You really do play beautifully. How long…?”
“Since I was a girl. Margaret sings along, sometimes.” I tap at a key absentmindedly, feeling the spinet hum in response. “At first, Mother thought to have us duet, but my voice is terrible.She soon lost hope, and she set me upon the harpsichord instead.”
Mendes sits on the chair by the desk, folding one leg over the other. I play another note, considering a fantasia, but I can’t commit to it.
“I haven’t taken the cure for melancholy,” I say. “But I’ve attempted the others.”
Mendes frowns. He has trimmed his beard, and I can see his lopsided jaw more clearly. Despite the asymmetry, his chin is quite square and sharp, the sort one might find upon a Roman bust. His nose, too, is an emperor’s nose. With his dark curls, he might pass for Hadrian.
He asks, “Have you seen any improvement?”
“My stomach has been calmer,” I reply begrudgingly. “I won’t take anything else, mind you, but—”
“I didn’t intend to prescribe anything else.”
“Oh?”
