The Architect of Song Page 11

  “My brother?”

  I buried my face in the quilt.

  “Look at me, Juliet.”

  I rolled over, sighing.

  “You’re flushed.” Hawk frowned. “What did he do to you?”

  I refused to answer. Refused to even think. Made my mind a swimming, black void.

  A slow-burning flame sparked my ghost’s eyes, and I thought for a moment he might press me. Then he looked at his watch again and clicked his teeth together. “You’re right. Your future rides the tide. It is your decision to make. Perhaps there is another way we can uncover my past. Without any outside help.”

  His reciprocal tone soothed the burn in my cheeks. “Such as?”

  “I didn’t plug my ears this time,” he blurted out the unexpected answer. “Nor did I sing. I listened to the voices in the dark. All of them.”

  Lying on my side, I stared at him, dazed by his courage. “And what did they say?”

  Hawk sat, his phantom fingers tracing the alternate pink and blue floral prints along the quilt. “I think they’re miners. They were shouting instructions down to one another … as if constructing something. I heard hammering.”

  “You say down?”

  “I believe it is a hole wherein I reside.”

  “A mine shaft.”

  His head drooped lower.

  I knew it couldn’t be easy, acknowledging where his body lay. I wanted to hold his hand, but instead was forced to watch his fingertips tread the quilt’s stitches, envious of the fabric’s response to him.

  Hawk closed his eyes and moaned. “This is such torment.” His hands plowed tunnels through his hair. “But we must be grateful we can make contact at all—on any level.”

  We both glanced at the flower.

  “Even if it’s to be doled out in portions,” I grumbled.

  Hawk leaned back on his elbows, his tousled hair making him appear almost boyish. “There’s more to my discovery. While I sat there in my purgatory, hearing the yells from above—I had a vision. It came upon me soft and blurred, like a lost remembrance. A child … a girl. Little slip of a thing. No more than six, fallen within a similar deep hole, looking around, trying to find a way out; frightened as a wren in a cat’s lair. When her cries mounted to screams, a boy slipped from the shadows to comfort her. He was older—fourteen perhaps—his bony body and ragged clothes so coated with dust he looked to be formed of mud. He told her a fairytale, prompting her to smile—though I can’t remember the story’s details. Then he held her in his lap with a gentle hand. Wiped her tears, tended her scrapes with mud, took care of her … until voices called from above. ‘Juliet’, they said, panicked yet hopeful. The boy left then. Vanished from whence he came.” Hawk frowned.

  A dark tremor rattled within my soul as the shell harboring my unborn memory shattered open. It was all exactly as he said …

  How did he portray the details with such vivid accuracy, when only at this moment had I remembered them myself?

  I rubbed my temples, trying to alleviate the queer sickness I felt.

  He moved nearer. “I believe it a result of our fusion. When I kissed you the first time, I retained a part of you within me. Your memories. And I’m hoping perhaps you did me as well. And in turn can tell me more of my life. Maybe even of my death.”

  The raven’s wing of earlier that had shielded my mind whisked away, taking flight. The pieces were fitting together—what Uncle said about the mud prince, combined with what we learned in the journal of Hawk’s time in some tunnels as a child, and the gypsies that worked for Larson …

  Hawk hedged closer. “I can’t keep up with all your thoughts … they’re too, discombobulated. Slow down.”

  I fisted my hand at my mouth, holding in my shuddering breaths. If only Larson’s handwritten account of my accident had been more descriptive, we could know for sure. Ink was more reliable than memory.

  “Handwritten.” I gasped, dragging my fist away. “The note.” I drew it out from my décolleté.

  “What is that?” Hawk sat up as I did.

  “Your brother said this would give me peace in dealing with my past. Perhaps it can do the same for you.” I unfolded it and held it open.

  Hawk studied me, confused, then leaned forward to read. “Dearest Miss Emerline, though your coughing fit was well played …” He raised his brow in question.

  I rolled my eyes, assuring him he didn’t wish to know.

  Frowning, he resumed. “Though your coughing fit was well played, I suspect you knew my brother Chaine, and for some reason wish to hide this from your uncle. Only his closest friends called him by his sobriquet, Hawk.”

  Hawk’s ghostly gaze met mine.

  Taking a shaky breath, I urged him to keep reading while watching his reaction, waiting for the epiphany to hit him at last, as it had me.

  “Chaine and I were separated at birth,” Hawk’s fingertip followed the script. “I’d only just learned of him eight years ago and was trying to forge a relationship when he died.” Hawk paused.

  I sat there, awash in sympathy that they hadn’t grown up together. Had the viscount been taken in by an English family? That would explain why they had different fathers, and such different lives.

  A grimace tugged at Hawk’s mouth. “It is for my brother I purchased the quarry,” he continued Lord Thornton’s explanation. “Chaine suffered unspeakable evils in his childhood while living amongst the gypsies. My intent was to ensure such atrocities never took place within those tunnels again.”

  Hawk choked on the words.

  Determination to give him his truth—our truth—drove me to read the rest.

  I knew—the moment I read your interview and saw the date—that you were the girl my brother had told me of. You may not remember, but he was with you in those tunnels. You gave him hope that day; you gave him something other than his own pain to think of. To care for another helpless soul furnished him with a sense of purpose, redemption, and light. He always believed that meeting you was the turning point. He considered you his sky-fallen angel.

  I turned my eyes to Hawk, but he couldn’t look up from the paper.

  “Keep reading,” he whispered.

  Somehow, I found the strength to comply:

  I’m only shocked he didn’t apprise me of his success, as he’d been looking for many years—seeking the delicate little girl in the mine. He wanted, above all else, to thank her. It gives my soul tranquility to know he realized that goal before his death. Let this give you peace, as well.

  I folded the note and tucked it beneath my pillow, unable to read his signature for the tears blinding me. I looked up at my ghost—my mud prince—to find his face every bit as wet as my own.

  “It was my memory,” Hawk whispered. “Our memory. That’s what drew you to my flower. Our souls have been entwined since we met in the mines as children.” He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me. He tried to embrace my legs, only to watch himself blow out like a candle before materializing once more. He groaned—a loud, gut-wrenching sound.

  It hurt. It hurt because I wanted to feel his palms curling around my calves, to feel his head upon my lap. I wanted to hold him and share the emotions that purled in my chest on a deep and winding burn.

  Instead, our eyes locked in the only embrace we could share. The intensity of my need to touch him threatened to combust my body to flame. Hawk started to lean in and I knew he was going to touch his lips to mine, immerse himself within me again, that this time it would be more powerful and binding than any spiritual fusion thus far.

  He bolted back at the last minute, his attention at the base of my closed door where a hanky slid into view. I kept my eyes averted from Hawk’s, the only way I could tame my erratic heartbeat, and walked on weakened legs to open the door.

  Uncle crouched on the opposite side. Throughout my youth, he’d always notified me of his presence thusly, because I couldn’t hear him knock. He usually used a swatch of dyed fabric. But there were times, such as on birth
days or holidays, he would use a pressed flower to amuse me.

  “I wanted to assure you’re feeling well. You disappeared so quickly after the viscount left.” Uncle clenched the door frame to pull himself up. He looked over my shoulder at my desk and the traveling mourning cap I’d been working on. “Were you sewing that for the trip?” His smile was hopeful.

  Glancing at Hawk’s matching hopeful expression, I knew I had no choice. The two men who meant most to me in the world needed me to make this journey to Worthington. But surely I didn’t have to say goodbye to my house for a full month to seek closure for them. “Uncle … might I speak to you of the viscount’s offer?”

  “Of course.” He gestured to the bed and I settled on the edge. Drawing out the chair from my desk, he sat and faced me while clasping our hands.

  Kneeling on the floor, Hawk waited for me to decide on my words.

  “Uncle, I prefer we accomplish this with a simple visit. One week at the most. Why must we live and work there to put this to rest, when I don’t wish to be away from home for that long?”

  Uncle broke the clasp of our hands and shoved back the chair to stand. Shocked by his mood change, I regarded the wooden legs sticking up in the air before looking at his face again.

  He rubbed his reddening neck. “For heaven’s sake. I have tried to be subtle. To be patient. It’s time to branch out, Juliet. Stop hiding within the dusk of your soundless world, letting light and life pass you by. Do you wish to become some senile old spinster? You spend all of your time sulking in a dark house with a nightingale and a stolen flower as your closest confidantes. I’ve heard you talking to the blossom. I’m worried for you. For your sanity.”

  Moisture scalded my lashes. I had no idea he’d been watching me with such a keen eye. Had no idea he’d misconstrued my actions to such a morose level.

  Hawk looked on in speechless empathy. My emotions were still raw and frayed by our discovery. How humiliating, that he of all people would bear witness to this private scourging.

  My fingers wound within my skirt. The combination of silk and wool felt stiff and harsh to my touch, and it occurred to me the whole world was bereft of the velvety underpinning which had once cushioned my days and nights. If this was how it felt to walk among the living, I wanted no part of it.

  Tears pooled in my eyes, preventing me from reading Uncle’s next words. Hawk—still in shock over our earlier epiphany—failed to interpret.

  Uncle tilted my chin and blotted the moisture with his handkerchief. “Forgive me.” Tender lines replaced the firm pleats at the corners of his lips. “I’m at my wit’s end. You have a great capacity for living, tiny sparrow. T’would be a tragic waste for you to stay locked away merely subsisting, and never find someone to share life with.”

  “I share it with you, father bear.” I mouthed my pet name for him, suspecting I failed to sustain it with my vocal cords.

  Uncle knelt down, wincing until he found stability on his knees, the soles of his shoes facing upward. Hawk stood to look out the window beside my desk, hands clenched behind his back.

  “I treasure our time together.” Uncle tugged on a loose lock at my temple. “But I want you to find a young man for a companion, one who can care for you and share your interests.” He hesitated. “The viscount, as I told you earlier, has a business acquaintance in Claringwell. To accommodate their transactions, Lord Thornton has been seeking property here—somewhere outside of the hustle of town, yet close enough to ease his travels. And … well … he has offered for your hand in marriage, if I give him this house and land as your dowry.”

  The bottom dropped out of my world. My face burned—a stinging torture of sensation—as if he had slapped me with his bare palm. “My home is not for sale. Nor am I.”

  A penitent haze dulled his eyes, but his determined expression didn’t falter. “Perhaps not, Juliet. But the land is. I was far too busy caring for your mother those last few months. I lost many customers … spent more funds on her medications and treatment than I brought in. The bank foreclosed on my business weeks ago and the estate is soon to follow. We’ve been in financial straits for some time now. I should’ve told you from the beginning. I thought I could fix it. But … even by taking this job in Worthington, we’ll still be indebted. We have no choice but to sell. The only way for you to hold onto this house and the memories, is to build new memories here. With a husband.”

  From over Uncle’s head, Hawk turned around. The slant of his strong jaw told me this turn of events did not meet his approval. Hips reclined against my desk, he stroked my mourning hat, so like the one I wore at Mama’s funeral.

  My stomach rolled into a fist as an ugly awakening tainted her memory. “Those missives you received from the viscount during Mama’s last months. They were addressed to both you and her.”

  The downward sweep of Uncle’s eyes validated my worst dread. Together, the three of them had mapped out my entire future behind my back.

  Uncle’s lips fluttered. “Two months ago, when I took your mother to that special appointment and you stayed home to tend a customer … we were meeting Lord Thornton. She wanted to see him for herself. She’d always hoped you would find someone kind, noble, and wise. He impressed us both as all of these things and more. I promised her on her deathbed, that I would see you married and safe.”

  I gritted my teeth. “That is why he wanted the trial basis. To assure we’re compatible as husband and wife.”

  “The offer is above generous.”

  “Generous?” I hissed.

  “Surely you see how advantageous this would be for you. We have no title; you haven’t the training or status required for a social debut. Yet the viscount is willing to overlook all of this.”

  “How benevolent of him. Nothing predicates generosity and refinement more than a thoroughbred stallion hitched to a milk cow.”

  Uncle frowned. “I haven’t accepted his offer. It is yours to decide. I simply want you to know all of the details. To consider it. Allow him to court you when we’re in Worthington. See where it might lead.”

  “We have nothing in common!” I knew by the strain of my vocal cords that I yelled. I only hoped it wasn’t loud enough to bring Enya’s entire family upstairs.

  “You are wrong, Juliet,” my uncle continued, oblivious to the grimacing, ghostly silhouette which loomed just behind. “The viscount has a deformity in his foot. Such a thing tenders him to your own infirmity.”

  Infirmity. I shoved a knuckle into my mouth to stop from sobbing. Tears built behind my eyes. Within a fortnight, my life could take an alternate path—overgrown with anxieties I feared would never be weeded-out.

  Uncle coaxed me to read his lips. “You must admit Lord Thornton is being quite affable, considering you threw yourself into his arms before you’d even been introduced properly. He would have had every right to be offended, or to deem you a trollop, but he handled it with grace, not mentioning it again. A tribute to his character, do you not agree?”

  Hawk glared from over Uncle’s head, eyes ablaze with a threatening light. Some unnamed, intense emotion curdled his usual calm demeanor and he appeared to grow, the broadness of his frame more foreboding than ever before.

  “My brother held you in his arms, and you precipitated it?” His phantom voice sliced through my heart—a frosted accusatory quality I had not heard since our first encounter when he thought me a thief.

  I pled with him to be rational, to let me explain, but he was beyond reason.

  “How could you let him touch you? Knowing I never can?” Hawk pounded his chest. “Knowing how I burn to!” With an earth-shattering growl and a well-aimed slap of his hand, he sent my hat soaring through the air, veil flapping behind it, until it landed atop the upturned heel of my uncle’s left shoe.

  Chapter 13

  Where there is love, there is pain.

  Spanish Proverb

  Uncle started to turn, as if feeling the hat’s weight upon his foot.

  I moaned aloud, clut
ched his wrist, and feigned a dizzy spell. He scrambled up to support me, accidentally raking the hat several inches toward the toppled chair.

  He started to look over his shoulder again, so I pretended to faint. Patting my cheek, he pressed my hand to his lips and I felt his anxious words: “Juliet? Juliet!”

  Yelling inside my head, I demanded Hawk fix his mess. With one eye squinted, I watched as he swished his foot behind the hat and coaxed it beneath the bed.

  I sat up with Uncle’s help while inwardly I scolded Hawk for his blatant disregard of the lies I had to weave daily to hide him. He frowned at me, the flame of betrayal still hot behind his eyes.

  After I assured Uncle I’d fainted due to hunger, he agreed to go downstairs and return with tea and toast. He scanned the floor behind him as he left, a fruitless search for the elusive object he’d felt on his heel minutes earlier.

  Once he pulled the door closed behind him, Hawk and I glared at each other in scalding silence.

  I offered an olive branch. “I was so taken aback by your brother’s likeness to you. Everything felt out of sorts … surreal almost.”

  “Of course. He held you in some sort of trance. Is that it?”

  “It was the first I’d ever seen of his face. The resemblance was—”

  “Resemblance be damned.” Hawk trampled my explanation. “There is one irrefutable difference between us, for future reference.” He drifted through the fallen chair from one side to the other, his form as insubstantial as the tracings of a cloud. The muscles in his neck twitched. “Ghost, remember?”

  Teeth clenched, I cast a grimace up at him. “I made a wish. Stir-up Sunday, remember?”

  Looming over me, Hawk chuckled. For the first time, the sound rattled in my head, discordant and venomous. “A childish game. Were you an empty-headed wren, I might believe such an excuse. But you’re bright and perceptive. And ripe for the plucking, it would seem.”

  Heat spread from my chest to my neck and cheeks. “Perception loses clarity when diluted by emotions. As proven by how I’ve been blinded to your more loathsome aspects up to now by my loneliness and grief.”