Page 27 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

She’s dead. My youngest sister has left this world before I had the chance to know her. Before I was allowed the opportunity. The wind whistles its sorrow-filled tune, knocking unapologetically on the tall windows stretching out along the wall overlooking the garden. The rose bushes dance helplessly to the winter’s tune, shedding their petals amidst rows upon rows of neatly kept hedges. I should be grieving along with my father and stepmother, but instead, I feel… nothing.

I’m alone in the Great Room—or at least that’s what it used to be called. It wasn’t named Great because of its size, not being large at all, but because of the effort put into designing it. The walls are panelled with carved swirls, plated in a metal that isn’t iron but resembles silver instead. A hearth is tucked away behind a decorative obsidian grid with carefully cut petals imitating a creeper found in the manor’s gardens. Velvet-covered seats and satin cushions face the empty fireplace. There are teacups of the finest porcelain and so many books I could spend every afternoon reading but never complete the collection. In all this grandeur, ignored and forgotten, the greatest treasure remains the piano. It’s a deep cherry brown that appears black at first glance, until the sun catches it; then it shines a ruby red. It’s the only vibrant colour in here. This is a room seldomly used and even less frequently dusted. I’ve taken it upon myself to keep it clean. My father built this room for my mother when they first wed. Despite all her belongings being stripped from it, it’s still the one place where I feel closest to her. On days like these, I need to be close to her. When I struggle to see her face in my memories, and her outline begins to blur, I come here, where I feel most at home.

I inhale a deep breath and slowly blow it through my nose. My hands take their place on the keyboard, left hand on the lower notes while my right rests on the higher. Breathing in once more, I close my eyes and imagine her beside me.

My fingers float over the keys, playing a piece I can still hear her practice. The repeating melody is soft. Sweet. Hopeful. My breath catches in my throat. She taught me to play this, although she never saw me do it well. My fingers find the keys they’ve played so many times before. Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them run down my cheeks. I’d give just about anything to be held in her arms once more. To feel safe and loved.

My tempo increases as the dynamic of the piece changes nearing the decrescendo. My pressure on the keys increases, too, accentuating the emotion portrayed, but my eyes remain closed, picturing my mother on this very bench, smiling down at me while she plays effortlessly. She could get lost in the music and in the poems she wrote in her diary.

A gentle breeze whispers over my skin as the door opens to the passage. Footsteps sound behind me, soft yet honest. There’s no attempt made to conceal their presence. I don’t know who it is, but I don’t care and don’t stop playing to look. Like a rehearsed dance, my hands move over the keys, swiftly, without stumbling or breaking rhythm. A crescendo leads me back to the soft melody the piece started with. Chords strike within the piano, vibrating above the soundboard as if it were an extension of me. Subtle hints of cinnamon, peppermint, and red wine reach my nose. My eyes open for the first time since I started playing, and I miss a note as my jaw clenches and my shoulders tense. Odhran. Many of rank and breeding have been loitering around the manor all day, demonstrating their condolences for a family they don’t know and a child they never met.

Warmth touches the back of my neck. I increase the tempo as I reach the song’s bridge. Determination to play my mother’s favourite song the way it deserves to be played spurs me on. Fingertips brush along the inside of my collar, softly sweeping against the back of my neck. My heart flutters, echoing in every playful note. I push down on the pedal. The volume intensifies. I swallow loudly, warring with my body to not lose concentration. My eyes remain fixed on the sheet of music in front of me as if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, even though I don’t need it. I need to forget the person behind me more.

His breath is warm on my skin before he speaks, and heat races up my neck, settling in my cheeks.

“You will not attend the ball tonight; do I make myself clear?” he whispers in his deep voice. A voice that never ceases to draw a response.

Faster, my hands move like water over pebbles in a stream. I clench my jaw harder, unable to fill my lungs as I step down on the pedal.

“Am I clear?” His fingers move from the back of my neck, leaving only the ice-cold reality of my solitude in their wake. Closing my eyes, I try to ignore his lingering presence, forcing myself to sway to the rhythm of the song I’m playing. Passion, that’s what this song is about. Passion and the loss thereof.

He leans in, caging me between his arms like he did the night before. “Do I make myself clear, Miss Ashglo?” His whispered words are pure sin. Teasing me. Taunting me. I take the bait and miss another note, which stands out like a staccato, and I stop playing altogether.

“Abundantly!” I grit out, turning the page to the next piece.

“Are you going to be a good girl and listen?” The subtle hint of amusement in his tone sets me on edge, annoyance burning deep within. He knows he’s bothering me. How could he not? Yet, it brings him pleasure in doing so.

The next piece is harsh, powerful and abrupt. There’s no playful dance as my fingers glide over the keys. Both hands press notes, moving abruptly to the next. Loud and clear.

“Don’t force my hand, Slìbhìn. You might not like the way I play.” He straightens behind me, and I play the piece with more passion and raw anger than I’ve ever unleashed on these poor keys in their entire existence. The chords echo in the bare space of my mother’s Great Room.

He says nothing, but I know he’s still here, listening to me play. The arrogance. The audacity. The pompous prick of a so-called prince. I hate him.

When the sound of my last note finally fades, I turn. There he is, wearing all black, from his shirt with its turned-up collar and rolled sleeves, to his buttoned vest and tailored pants, right down to his polished leather boots. His silver-tipped hair is brushed back to show his black roots. I’ve never seen hair like his before, black fading to silver, leached of colour. Odhran looks at me as if it’s the most natural thing to do. As if it’s our first time meeting each other. As if tracking me down in an old and forgotten room in my father’s manor is of no significance. My eyes narrow, and I imagine them inflicting pain on the recipient of my glare.

“What I do and don’t do is none of your concern… Your Highness.” The contempt in my tone is as clear as day.

“Careful,” he warns without expression, save for the flexing of his right hand at his side. Clenching into a fist for the briefest moment, he shoves his hand into his pocket, hiding it from sight.

“You don’t scare me.” My lip curls as I stare him down, determined to show him how little he affects me. How little he matters.

“Perhaps you should be.” Odhran turns on his heel and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I stare after him, even though he’s already gone. My heart flutters, and my lungs tighten. He can’t command me, can’t keep me locked away and hidden from sight.

I scream out loud, fisting my skirt in frustration. All I’ve ever wanted is to be normal and live a regular and peaceful life. It’s becoming clearer by the day that normalcy is far harder to acquire than I’ve ever anticipated. It’s a dream, and in Declan’s own words, dreams are best left to children.

I stand from the bench abruptly, causing it to fall backwards against the polished stone floor. Shit! Fuck! Dammit! Not sparing a second, I drop to my haunches to pick it back up. The upholstered top of the bench is skewed, and my heart constricts. It was my mother’s. This place and everything in it is sacred to me, and now it’s broken. I broke it because of him. My eyes narrow as I bite down on my teeth, hating Odhran so much more.

Back on its four legs, I inspect the bench for further damage, moving to straighten its soft seat. My fingers curl around the edges of the velvet pillow, wiggling the board back to its rightful place, when a small reflection of light catches my eye. I pause, leaning in closer, keeping to the right so the light spilling from the windows can show me what I need to see.

Small traces of gold and silver shine through, and curiosity blooms within me. The room is still empty, no one to witness what has clearly been hidden. I look again, to be sure, then wrap my fingers around the hard backing of the pillowed seat, gripping so tightly that my knuckles whiten with pressure. I give it a powerful pull. The bench’s feet lift off the floor, only to crash against it with a sickening slap. The sound makes my stomach turn, but it doesn’t stop me from pulling again and again until I lift the top of the bench and expose what lies beneath.

A thick leather-bound book in a shade somewhere between Prussian blue and teal lies in a concealed space within the bench, wrapped in a cloth that has fallen open with the movement. The edges of the pages are gold, shimmering as they reflect the light. There’s no name embossed on the cover. My heart flutters when I pick it up, and my muscles work to bear its considerable weight.

A small bundle of pressed flowers, the colour of red wine, slide off the title page. Red verbena, the type we grow along the outside of the wall. My heart catches in my throat. At the top of the page, written in delicate cursive, I read: The property of Glynis Ashglo. My eyes move to the title in the centre of the page: The Legends of the Forgotten by Tibor Harper.

My pulse flutters beneath my skin as I wrap it in its cloth, then set it aside as I restore the soft velvet pillow to the bench’s frame once more. This book was my mother’s and has been within my reach all this time. My excitement turns to panic when a thought crosses my mind. She thought to keep it hidden even before she was declared wicked, before she was confined to her room. She hid this book before my father turned his back on her.