Page 129 of Ashborne Forged

‘Please…’ I sent as I rode.

‘Please…’ I sent, stretching for greater reach, while I scrubbed my arms in the bath.

‘Please!’ I pleaded as the maids dressed me for dinner again, and I spent hours under Breckon’s penetrating gaze.

‘Please, Voski… I love you. I need you. Please, come. I’ll fight. Only… come.’

But still, the night—and my mind—remained silent of his voice.

42. Play for Me

SOUNDTRACK: Kill or Be Killed by Jutes.

~ VOSKI ~

“Play for me, Vane.”

Mother sat in the parlor, a glass of nearly-black red wine in her hand, her expression odd.

I’d been about to rise from my chair, and froze.

I’d known the request would come eventually. And perhaps I should have celebrated. Maybe it was a measure that I was under her skin more than I’d thought. It was the only triumph I could claim after yet another night creeping through the house, looking for access to her dungeon, and not finding it.

Tonight I’d return to the office, praying she’d hear me again.

“I’m tired,” I muttered sullenly.

“I insist,” she returned.

We stared at each other. I fought to keep my expression blank while panic clawed up my throat. My response here would be her measure of control over me, and affect her decisions in how to deal with me moving forward.

Did I give her hope that I grew increasingly weak? Or show my backbone and make her insecure.

To my utter shock, while I considered the question, she snapped her fingers at the servants, gesturing for them to leave the room. And when they did, she folded her hands in her lap, raised her chin, and stared at me with eyes tight at the corners.

“It truly is remarkable to have you back, Vane,” she said quietly. “Whatever may have passed, whatever you may think of me, I have never wanted to see you in pain. It is a relief to see you, hearty and hale. And I find myself wishing to know the man you have become.”

“Then why ask me to play?” I said through my teeth. “I haven’t played since the day I left.”

Her brow furrowed. “That’s a grief, if it’s true. You are talented, and I have missed listening to you.”

I hated, hated that those words touched something in me.

For a moment, my mind flickered and bubbled with the memories of my childhood, all those moments her hands touched gently, and she whispered reassurance. All those nights she’d shooed the nurses away and lay alongside me, to comfort me in the dark. All the pride that blazed in her eyes and rang in her voice when I showed strength, or talent—

God, she was good.

And that was the answer, I realized. I had to let her believe she’d broken through.

So, I swallowed hard and without another word, rose from my seat to walk across the long room to the rich, mahogany grand piano at its end.

As I approached it, memories flooded back. Pianos were rare. A new instrument. But mother had heard one in the home of a master of symphonies, and hounded the poor man until he’d introduced her to the maker in Sierral.

It arrived when I was six years old, and became a part of my lessons. Because she’d had a tutor shipped with it.

My childish attempts had entertained Lords and Ladies. The elites of my parents’ powerful sphere.

I grew to love the instrument, with its full, round sound, and the more capable I became, the more expressive I learned it could be.