Page 87 of Petrify

Too many things are happening, too many things I did not expect.

I fall onto my back on top of the bed, wanting to disappear. Wishing there was someone I could tell everything to. Out of habit I reach for the necklace.

But it’s gone.

He’s taken it. Like he slowly wants to claim my past for himself. Or maybe he’ll use it to coerce me into being an accomplice, dangle it above my head and tell me tobe good or else.

Rolling over onto my side, I curl up into a ball, holding my knees to my chest.

I count,one, two, three, count each breath, count the swirls on the blanket, count the number of midnight blue stripes on the wall, count the number of times the charging port of my laptop blinks, count the seconds until I’m shivering and I can no longer hear my heartbeat in my ears, count the minutes until I realize my phone isn’t on the bedstand, either, because of course he took that too.

And it doesn’t even matter, because if Mariane is right, if Bastien gets what he wants, then I’m trapped, anyway—cursed—imprisoned inside because I was unlucky enough to catch the attention of the Ghost.

Chapter 41

The Ghost

Liszt’sConsolationNo. 3was always my favorite to play, before I killed my first nanny and my family became afraid of me.

The song was perfectly and beautifully melancholic, challenging but not too hard I gave up, and better yet—I had no reason to play it other than I wanted to. No recitals, it wasn’t in my tutor’s lesson plans. It was all mine.

So when I hear a familiar music-box melody chiming from the practice room on the second floor, for a moment, I believe it’s a figment of my imagination. It conjures memories of the garden, the cemetery, and quiet summer mornings with soft breezes and birds chirping. A freedom I didn’t realize I missed.

She’s playing it—for me. Surely.

Henri listens patiently, standing behind the bench. She’s moving slowly, so he can follow along easier. He’s attentive. Observant. Remarkably so for his age. Eyes darting back and forth to watch her fingers land, peeking at the sheet music around her shoulder, his little foot tapping even without the metronome.

I know that look: his own hands yearning to play through the piece.

Whether she meant it or not, I accept this offering, this apology. Especially so, when she is alone again at night and pulls out the waltz—mywaltz—to play.

Chapter 42

The Pianist

The Beauchenes insist,even with the holidays approaching, that Henri keep up with his practicing. He is given a break only from Ms. Wilder’s lessons, not mine, as Mariane fears even one day off could stunt his progress.

I haven’t seen Mariane since I confronted her. Her directions have been relayed through Ms. Wilder and Ms. Byrne.

They must know I’m on thin ice—they know I’ve done something wrong. Their eyes have said so.

They must suspect I’ll be leaving soon.

Do they want me out? Do they hate me?

Henri and I follow our normal routine—scales at an increasing pace, one minute warm-up tunes, and then work on the Prelude, running through it for hours at a time, and he never grows bored. Henri is an excellent student: he wants to learn, he wants to do well. He reminds me ofme.

He doesn’t smile when Ms. Wilder comes to get him. But he smiles when she returns him in the afternoons. He smiles at me.

The day before Christmas Eve, we practice in the evening before dinner, too. His hands are small, his fingers can’t stretch across the keys the way mine can.

He will do well. I’ll make sure of it. There will be hundreds of people watching. And Mariane and Leo will hear their praise. And then how can they say they want me to leave? Because if Henri is doing well, I am doing my job.

They’ve never sat in on our lessons. They’ve never asked him to play for them in the evenings.

This won’t be Henri’s first time playing in front of a crowd, but I can sense his nervousness as he runs through the piece, again and again, more determined each time. Each mistake, each frustrated run, and I know he’s hearing their words echoed in his mind, their reminders of what Arnie was capable of, what Henri must become.

When Ms. Wilder comes to get him for dinner, I hold Henri in place and look him in the eye. “You are doing something very difficult,” I remind him. “We’ve been working very hard together, haven’t we?”