Page 12 of The Madman and his broken Princess
I scanned the shelves for one with children’s books, but only found one with fables and fairy tales. Old leatherbound books lined the shelves, nothing that usually spoke to a child. I ran my finger over the spines in search of the right one. I had almost given up hope when I found the small, thin book at the end of the shelf. I took it out with a grin. Something fluttered to the ground. A photograph of a young Nestore, maybe six or seven years old, standing beside a beautiful, tall woman with dark hair and huge green eyes. She wore a long blush-colored dress and had an arm wrapped around her son.
I picked up the photography and hid it in the book. My father destroyed every photograph and all the Romanos’ personal belongings, so this could very well be the last photo of Nestore’s mother.
The house was quiet when I stepped out of the library. The staff was probably done cleaning the ballroom or took extra care to be quiet so they wouldn’t wake my father and encounter his wrath.
With the book clutched against my chest, I hurried downstairs. Nestore shoved to his feet when I entered the basement.
“I didn’t expect you to be back tonight,” he said as he curled his hands around the bars.
I lifted the book with a smile, then held it out to him. He froze before he took it as if it were breakable.
“I found a photo inside.”
He opened the book, and his face softened with wistfulness as he looked down at the image of his mother and himself. Heswallowed audibly before he took it out. Then he held the book out to me.
I shook my head with a frown. “It’s for you.”
“I know. Can you read a couple of pages to me?”
My chest tightened. “Of course.”
I took the book and sank to my knees. Nestore sat against the wall, the photo propped up against his raised legs.
I began to read. “Once upon a time, there were four rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.”
Nestore closed his eyes, and I kept reading.
Ten minutes later, Nestore opened his eyes. “Thanks. That’s enough for tonight. Can you read me more tomorrow?”
I gave a slight nod, my throat too tight for words. I slid the book through the bars and Nestore took it. Then he hid both the book and the photograph under his bed.
He sank down on the bed. “It’s late. You should go to bed before someone catches you.”
“Sleep tight,” I said, moving toward the stairwell.
“I don’t know if I would want to survive without you. Thank you for helping me.”
I froze. “You don’t have to thank me.” I slanted him a look over my shoulder. He was looking down at his legs. “I need you to survive.”
Two years later
Isat cross-legged across from Nestore. We often sat right at the bars so we could be close while talking. I could count the days I hadn’t visited Nestore in the past two years on two hands. I talked to him more than anyone else, mostly about mundane things like my private teachers, the news, and gossip I overheard. I was his link to the outside world, and he’d become the center of mine. I felt safe talking to him.
It was the weekend, so I didn’t have school, but I still got up early to see Nestore before breakfast. His hair was a little tousled from sleep, a sight I always particularly enjoyed. He ate the buttermilk biscuits and chicken drumsticks I’d snuck away from dinner yesterday. “Sorry I couldn’t make it last night. Father insisted I play the piano for him and Flavia in the ballroom.”
“I always hated piano lessons,” Nestore said, then ripped off a chunk of meat from the cold drumstick. He had mentioned it to me before, but I still loved to imagine him sitting at the piano.
“I wish I could hear you play. I love listening to the piano, but I don’t like to play myself.”
Nestore chuckled. “Same.”
“Maybe we would enjoy playing together.”
Nestore’s expression stilled, and shame washed over me. When would Nestore ever get the chance to play the piano again? I had lost hope that my father would ever let him go.
Nestore smiled, but it was a little tight. “You’d outplay me. I haven’t played in almost three years, and the scar tissue on my fingers probably makes them less nimble.”
“Why did you stop playing?” It was a topic we had discussed before. There probably wasn’t a topic we hadn’t spoken about in the hundreds of hours we’d spent talking, except for what happened in the torture chamber.
