Page 64 of Pretty Savage: Defy

He pulls at the handle. The door resists at first. Then it opens with a dry whisper, and humid air moves in a gust over my face.

The conservatory ceiling is made from arched panes of glass held in place by metal ribs mottled green with age. Several panels have cracked, leaving narrow openings where ivy has pushed its way inside.

Most of the plants are dead. Brown vines curl around empty trellises. A row of clay pots sits shattered beneath one window.

Not all of it, though. Life persists under the broken panes where rainwater has reached it. Ferns spill from a long stone planter near the far wall, their leaves glossy and green. A lemon tree leans toward the light, its branches bowed under fruit no one has harvested. White orchids climb from a ceramic urn in the corner, their petals bright.

A shadow passes beyond the glass. I turn, but the old panes warp it into a dark smear moving between the trees. It disappears before I can decide whether I saw a person or only a branch shifting in the wind.

I keep watching the spot, waiting for it to return.

“What’s this?” asks Carrson, drawing my attention back to him.

He stands in the center of the conservatory by a large piece of furniture covered by a dusty sheet. Carrson rips it away with a flourish, the fabric rippling to reveal a grand piano.

Its black lacquer has faded to a soft charcoal, and vines have curled around one carved leg, but the instrument is otherwise untouched.

Carrson lifts the lid. The hinges answer with a rusty groan. He presses a key, and a warped note rings out.

He tries another, which is better. Then a third.

“Most of them still work,” he says.

“You play?”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “A little.”

“That means yes.”

He looks down, a lock of hair falling over his forehead, almost embarrassed. “I took lessons when I was younger.”

I raise a wry eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m a mystery you’re determined to solve.”

I gesture to the piano and grin. “Satisfy my curiosity.”

He rolls his eyes. Then he sits down on the bench.

A melody emerges, some notes clear and others dulled by age. Carrson adjusts, building the imperfections into the song until the music itself sounds haunted. It moves slowly through the room, slipping between the ferns and clinging vines. There’s grief in it, the kind a person keeps hidden because they’ve learned no one’s coming to save them.

I think of Carrson slipping into bed after everyone else has gone to sleep, pulling me against him and burying his face in my neck. The way he holds on as if caring for me is the only thing that’s ever made him afraid.

I sit beside him on the bench.

When the final note fades, Carrson leaves his hands resting on the piano.

“I have something for you,” he says without looking over.

“You already gave me the key.” I pat it in my pocket, staring at the room, unable to comprehend that all this beautiful ruin is mine.

He turns toward me and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a dark blue rectangle. He hands it over, and I read the words out loud.

“Passport,” I say. My finger traces the embossed gold letters. “United States of America.” I hold it up. “What’s this?”