The Architect of Song Page 8

  “Hawk,” I scolded, face flushed. “I must put on the proper attire. It’s stir-up Sunday. Enya and her entire family will arrive within the hour. I need to bring your flower up here out of the way of the children.” I had been so tired the night before that I’d left it downstairs in the picture window.

  “Tell me of this ‘Stir-up Sunday.’” Hawk strummed his fingers, a taunting smirk on his face. “Is it a game?” The rising sun bathed his outline in primrose light.

  Smoothing the blankets around me, I clasped my hands over the journal. “A tradition. Four weeks before Christmas, we invite our friends to help prepare the Christmas pudding. Each of us takes a turn stirring the batter while we make a silent wish. After that, the mixture is wrapped and steamed in a pudding cloth then hung from a hook to dry. On Christmas day we share it, which frees our wishes so they might come true.”

  “Ah. And what are you to wish for?” Hawk skimmed his hand along my shin, the covers dragging with a slight ripple.

  I caught a breath and he met my gaze with a seductive glint in his eye.

  “I-I plan to wish for you to become flesh again. To live again. I am asking for a miracle.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Hawk laid his head on his outstretched arm. “’Tis a waste of a wish, Juliet. You should ask something for yourself.”

  “It is for me. To walk alongside you, holding your hand in mine. To dance with you. To …” I leafed through the journal pages absently, frustrated. “It is all that fills my being.”

  He rolled to his back. A tortured expression crossed his face. “How reliable is this tradition for granting wishes?”

  “In all of my nineteen years, it’s only failed once. When I asked to hear again.”

  A bemused grin quirked his lips. “Yet here I am speaking to you, and being heard.”

  I gasped.

  Hawk propped up on his elbows. “Well, what’re you waiting for? You need to make that wish!”

  Of course he was simply playing along, but my fingers shuffled the pages faster to match my rising pulse. “I’m waiting for you. Turn away. Look out the window as you always do.”

  He made no move other than to sit up beside me, denting the pillow which supported my shoulders and neck. “What say we dispense with the formalities at last? After all, I already saw your immaculate breasts on the night we first met.”

  Tantalized by his proposition and the masculine, grinding edge to his voice, I tensed, slicing my forefinger on a journal page, deep enough to bleed. I plunged the cut into my mouth, sucking away the sting. “Now see what you made me do.”

  “I am sorry.” The apology was palpable, as was the heat of his gaze. “You know I would never hurt you purposely. You, who’ve walked through hell with me and back again; you, who drew me out of the abyss when I thought to jump in.” He angled his head, his face so close that were he flesh, his nose would brush my temple. “I simply wish to thank you for that, China Rose.”

  After all these years, to hear Mama’s pet name for me spoken aloud, soothed and comforted. Hawk was one of only three people who knew it.

  “But only I know how much you miss her,” he added.

  I closed my eyes, Mama’s face a beacon in the darkness. Though I often hid my grief from Uncle and Enya, afraid to stoke their pain, I could hide nothing from Hawk.

  “No hiding. Yet no touching. Who would ever have known caring for someone could be so maddening,” Hawk whispered. “But perhaps it doesn’t have to be. There’s something I’ve been dying to give you.” His voice echoed within my ear, hot and affecting as any breath. It made my blood race—anticipant for sensations I’d never experienced, things so far out of my reach, they might as well have been stars in the cosmos.

  The paper cut’s sting was nothing to the words he’d said, teasing or not. “I-I don’t find that the least funny, Hawk. Dying to give me …”

  In one graceful move, he straddled me, legs bent at the knee on either side of my thighs, hands braced against my pillow to trap my head. I could escape at any moment just by slipping through him, but I had no such desire. What I wanted was to learn everything he had to teach me. But it was impossible … we were impossible.

  I leaned against the pillow and lifted my chin, frayed and unraveled by the gnawing need within that was become more agonizing each day. “Hawk …”

  “Hush now,” he said, his mouth only inches from mine. “Hush, and let me thank you properly.”

  I imagined his breath on my face, his scent as I’d dreamt it so many times. I imagined us dancing—my hand snug in his masculine palm, my ear pressed to his bare chest and tickled by his hairs, my flesh bared and hot enough to solder spirit to blood and bones.

  “That’s perfect, Juliet. Now close your eyes. Close them, and feel.”

  Blocking out my doubt, I squeezed my lashes shut—so not even a seam of sunrise bled through. I waited, anticipant and yearning, yet dreading that cool rush of air that would signal our failure to make contact once again.

  Instead, the slightest flutter stirred at my lips, like the pulse from a butterfly’s wings, fading to an innervation unlike anything I’d ever felt. Not pressure … not warmth … but a flourish beneath my flesh which washed through my face, tingling all the way into my tongue and throat.

  I opened my eyes and Hawk’s mouth was fading into mine—much like his lips had dipped into my hand at the cemetery.

  I froze, lost to his ethereal beauty—absorbing it. My shoulders relaxed; I arched my back, lifted from the pillow, deeper into him. He opened his eyes, his pupils a dark swirl. His lashes drifted down again, and dizziness blotted my vision, as if I spun in circles until the world folded to shadows and light. Hawk became a vortex of gauzy color and sensation, channeling through my mind and body.

  Internally, he touched every part of me—a shuddering, thrumming, surge of life that shook the blood from my toe-tips to the top of my head—as our spirits connected.

  My heart raced and my cheeks flushed, awakened with a new energy.

  His energy.

  A sudden tug leapt from my lips, and I almost cried out, not ready for the euphoria to end. The pillow dropped from behind me and my eyes snapped open. A blur resolved to Hawk standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me. Behind him, Enya teetered at the opened door, her hand clutched at her neck.

  “She saw us,” Hawk said, his face as flushed as mine felt.

  I struggled to get out of bed, my body riding waves of pleasure—the residue of Hawk’s spiritual fusion.

  She could not have seen us … I managed to reply with my mind, although my limbs weren’t cooperating at all.

  Hawk shot me a stunning smile. “That was glorious.” His intense regard made me want to kiss him again. But there was Enya …

  When I at last shoved aside my covers, I realized my finger—earlier throbbing and itchy—suffered no more pain. The paper cut was gone. Healed without a scar or a line, as if it had never been there. Had I been on the cusp of death, I would surely have been resurrected.

  Before I could register the magnitude of this discovery, Enya moved in my peripheral vision.

  “Enya … I—”

  “Your pillow. It was floating against the wall. Alone.” Enya’s lips moved so fast that Hawk had to translate for me. “You leaned forward. So how did the pillow …?” Enya pointed to the wall with a quivering finger. “Stayed there alone. As if … as if something held it up.”

  I juggled two or three explanations in my mind and Hawk laughed at each one. “Tell her the truth. Tell her you kissed a ghost.”

  Enya scrambled out, no doubt to apprise Uncle of the queer event.

  I glared at Hawk, only to find him fading. He said something else, but his words muffled. His face held an aura of apprehension as it vanished.

  My heart dropped.

  “No, no, no.” Desperate, I fumbled for my locket, my fingers slow and awkward in contrast to my erratic pulse. The moment I opened the lid, Hawk’s petal fluttered to my bedspread—withered
and black as death.

  Chapter 9

  No rose without a thorn, or love without a rival.

  Turkish Proverb

  Chloe wagged her tail upon my entrance into the dining room. Normally, I would’ve knelt to scratch her soft fur. Normally, the potpourri of holiday gatherings—cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and brandy—would have filled me with comfort and nostalgia.

  But my life had not been normal for weeks. And today was no exception.

  Christmas would not be the same without Mama this year, and a part of me dreaded the holiday. If not for Hawk. He wanted to experience all of the holiday vicariously through me, having no memories of his own to draw from.

  Upon that thought I had to temper my footsteps, for I wanted to run toward the picture windows, pluck a petal from his flower, and rescue him. But such actions would cast me in suspicious light, and I anticipated already being in trouble enough, which was why I had forced myself to get dressed in the proper attire before coming down.

  I passed the fireplace where Enya’s four younger sisters sat in a circle of chairs with their crinolines and bustles bubbling around them as they stitched costumes for their brothers. Each of the boys had a part in the upcoming Christmas mummer’s play next month.

  Enya puttered at the table with her mother, adding dried fruits to a bowl: sultanas, raisins, and currants, all glistening in a frost of sugar as the ladies raked them with knives from the cutting board. I couldn’t help imprinting myself and Mama in their place, which triggered a pang of sadness and envy.

  Swiping at some hairs sticking out from her head-scarf, Enya didn’t even notice me. She was intent on her observation of my uncle and her brothers playing Pope Joan at a trestle table in the furthest corner. The eldest boy jumped up and danced after his handful of cards won.

  My uncle grinned. He was the closest thing to a father they’d had since their own ran out. As if sensing my thoughts, Uncle looked up at me and winked. With everyone so caught up in common tasks, it appeared Enya must’ve kept her strange sighting to herself. Perhaps she thought it too far-fetched. That she imagined it all. Still, things would be awkward until I offered some explanation.

  I turned toward the windows to seek Hawk’s flower. Both box seats were barren, other than the stacks of pillows strewn here and there. I looked about the room in a futile search for the pot, accidentally backing into Aria’s cage. Her wings fluttered and gusts of wind swept around me. Uncle came to my side, seating me.

  He knelt down so I would see his mouth. “Why are your cheeks so red? Are you feverish?”

  I clasped the black lace at my neck in hopes to hide my desperation. “The flower … the pot. Where are they?”

  Uncle turned to Enya and they had an exchange I couldn’t read. Hawk always made certain I knew what everyone said, whether I could see their mouths or not. In our short time together, I had become dependent upon his help … forgotten how isolating silence could be.

  Uncle faced me and patted my hand. “Enya moved the pot to the sitting room. She feared her siblings might topple it. She took care not to touch the petals, just as you instructed.”

  I willed away the panicked tears welling in my eyes, then nodded.

  A pair of white, fluffy hands appeared upon my knee. Enya’s littlest brother puffed out his dimpled cheeks within his white rabbit’s hood. “D’ye like my costume, Julie?”

  Uncle and I both smiled.

  I patted his wooly head. “Splendid ears. You look well and ready to plunder a whole village of cabbages.”

  The boy beamed and bounced away.

  If only Hawk was here. He’d developed a fondness for watching Enya’s siblings interact. It made him feel as if he had a family of his own.

  Enya beckoned us to the table for the ritual stir of the pudding.

  Squeezing the elbow Uncle offered, I smoothed my paramatta train where it gathered at the back of my waist and cascaded down from a black velvet bow to sweep behind me in a pool of silk and wool. On my turn to stir with the wooden spoon, I closed my eyes tight, and silently wished the wish I had promised to Hawk.

  Afterwards, Enya and her mother scraped the batter into a cloth to steam it. Her sisters returned to their sewing, the eldest kneeling in front of Ian to pin up the hems at his ankles.

  I rushed into the sitting room. Just around the corner the flower came into view—silver and shimmering on the table next to the door. Uncle trailed me. I reached out in hopes to pluck a petal but he caught my wrist.

  “Why are you hiding things from me, tiny sparrow?”

  I bit my cheek. Perhaps I had been premature in my assumption of Enya’s silence. “Whatever do you mean, Uncle?”

  He guided me to the velvet settee. I watched the flower grow smaller—missing Hawk miserably as my petticoats bunched in stiff tangles upon sitting. What was my ghost doing now? Singing his enthralling lullabies with his hands over his ears? Did he worry I would never call him back?

  Sitting close, Uncle lifted my chin. “It is more than sadness that clouds your countenance of late.” He tucked some strands fallen from my chignon behind my ear. “You are anxious. You are searching for truths.”

  Yes, for Hawk’s truth. How I wished I could tell Uncle. A wall stood between us which had never been there before. A wall I had constructed with lies and machinations.

  Catching his brocade jacket lapels between his fingers, he frowned. “It is my fault. I should never have reminded you of the accident from your childhood. And all these weeks, I refused to answer your questions. That was unfair.” His chin trembled. “The reason I’ve been hesitant to tell you about the quarry’s location is … well, because Viscount Nicolas Thornton owns it now.”

  My chin dropped as I read the name upon his lips.

  Uncle continued, his gaze avoiding mine. “It is in fact something we realized upon our first meeting. The subject of your accident came up. The details rang familiar to him. The prior owners kept records of mining incidents, for judicial purposes. The viscount found a copy of your interview—a written one. It didn’t have any names … it just outlined ‘a little girl’s experience’. The date on the record confirmed it was yours.”

  I frowned, feeling betrayed in some way, though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly how. “Why did you never tell me this?”

  His brown lashes slanted on a glance to his polished, button-top shoes. “I dreaded remembering that day. I was selfish for that. Perchance, to relive the account, it would fill the gaps in your memory, so you could move past all this. I’ve handled things badly.” He glanced over my head at Hawk’s flower. “People often resort to actions out of their character, to ease the chafing of things they feel guilty for.” He had the strangest expression, a mingling of suspicion and pity. “When the physician was carrying the gypsy to his house … she roused enough to attempt speaking in English … she seemed to think you’d stolen something from her.”

  I froze in place. Did he know of the journal? How could he? Had he found it in my room?

  “When I was seeking you at the cemetery on the day you were missing,” he continued, “I went behind the hedgerows where you’d spent time alone after your mother’s interim. I saw the enclosed grave and footprints around the gate—your size. Then I noticed the dirt turned up around the headstone within.”

  Blood rushed into my neck as he flicked another glance at the flower—this one meaningful and accusatory. I didn’t care. Let him think the gypsy referred to only the flower. Better that, than he know the full scope of my thievery.

  Uncle’s brows knitted at my silence. “I’ve wronged you all of your life. Supporting your efforts to hide from society. And what kind of example was I? You’ve known nothing but lies and envy through me. Coveting not only Anston’s bride for my own, but his child as well. I wanted everything my brother had. And you, in your perception, knew it. Yet you never breathed a word. Always kept my secret. I suppose to build such a fortress is much easier than to break it down.”

  I wanted to tell Uncle h
ow wrong he was. How I had learned something other than guile at his knee. That the secret I kept of his sadness made me even more attuned to the value of being honest about your feelings—however society might frown upon them. And though I often hid my deafness from strangers, I faced and conquered it daily via family and clientele. But before I could speak, Uncle’s attention snapped to the door.

  Chloe hobbled into the room, her tail suspended as if considering whether or not to wag. Enya sauntered in behind her, slanting a sidelong glance at Uncle on her way to answer the door.

  I started to stand.

  “No, sit Juliet,” Uncle pressed. “As lady of the manor, you must stay seated to receive guests.”

  Guests? All I wanted was to gather Hawk’s flower and hole up in my room for the rest of the afternoon with my ghost. I didn’t wish to welcome any unexpected company.

  The door opened and a chill morning breeze ushered in a masculine aroma—rich and seductive—like almonds simmering in sweet liquor. Enya backed up to allow the visitor across the threshold.

  I squinted against the sunlight beaming through the door. A man’s powerful frame towered in the opening, the shadow of his hat’s brim hiding his eyes and nose from my view.

  Chloe’s reaction to our guest was unprecedented. Her entire body wagged and she licked his boots. Upon bending to pet the rapturous ball of fur, the man stood and offered Enya his hat and cloak.

  His back still faced me, a sturdy line of musculature beneath a gray frock coat and matching trousers. A hint of burgundy peeked out at his neckline, indicative of a notch-collar vest. His clothes seemed carefully chosen, short of one splash of color which clashed where the cuffs of his wing tip shirt dipped out at his wrists in a periwinkle blue.

  The instant Enya closed the door against the bright sun, his profile resolved to bold relief against the sapphire wall hangings.