The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1)

by A. G. Howard

  I sensed it on the verge: the eruption of emotions he’d been holding at bay. I buried my face in my hands, bracing myself. Given all he’d just learned of his brother’s ruthless betrayal, I didn’t try to stop him. I allowed his fury and frustration to run its course.

  He roared and scattered things about. The brush, comb, and tray from the vanity … the pillows from the bed … papers and quill from the Secretaire. Even the inkwell. Splotches stained the salmon carpet in blots as black as nightmares, the musky scent overpowering the wilted lilies beside a fireplace now faded to embers.

  Had I not wedged Chaine’s discarded shirt between the bed’s frame and mattress earlier, Hawk would have cast it on the embers to revive the flames.

  My ghost clenched his hands in the hair at his temples. “Damn his lying tongue and petty gifts!” He kicked aside a basket of strawflowers and feathers. The contents erupted and drifted all around me—a snowfall of petals and plumes—several catching in my hair. I didn’t bother cleaning them up. I was too miserable to care.

  “First he steals my life … then he steals my love and breaks her heart. I could kill him!” The venom in Hawk’s voice burned my incompetent ears. I had no idea how far he’d carry this rampage. A flicker of conflict crossed his face as he considered the flower’s terrarium—his brother’s most treasured gift.

  “Hawk, no … its contents are priceless.” A sob gathered in my chest. “Your time with me is too precious to squander in a moment of rage.”

  He met my gaze then glanced at the seven fragile petals locked safe within. Groaning, he turned aside and stared out the French doors.

  I scooted to the bed’s edge. “There are things that make no sense. Why would Chaine wish to bring you back if you could accuse him?”

  “He only wants me to materialize before Larson, the one person who already knows. I doubt I even asked to be brought back at all. Chaine just told you that, to pacify you. He and Aunt Bitti are using me. Once the investor is terrified to silence, poof, they’ll send me back to my purgatory forever.”

  Light shifted beneath my door from the hallway.

  Hawk grimaced at the locked latch. “You still have an audience. Wretched lives of the living … so bored with reality they must glean entertainment from other people’s angst and turmoil.” Silver moonlight gilded his panting silhouette. His hair was mussed, his teeth clenched, an excited glint to his eyes—a portrait of enraptured misery so beguiling yet terrible my breath stalled in my lungs.

  “I’m glad to be dead. Do you hear me, Juliet? I’d rather be a rotting corpse than what they are … vultures supping upon the bloodied carnage of another’s raw emotions.”

  I shivered, for two of those vultures were my loved ones. I had no doubt Enya and Uncle still stood on the other side of my door where I’d left them. By now half of the servants must be gathered, drawn by the outburst. Everyone assumed the viscount and I had a lover’s quarrel. That I was destroying my room.

  If only it could be as insignificant as that.

  The moon sunk beneath a cloud outside my French doors, and the growing shadows brought unexpected serenity. Hawk studied his destructive wake while leaned against the portrait of Gitana, his face awash with change as sorrow rolled over him in a dark, silent wave.

  His shoulders drooped. “You may let them in now. They’re jiggling the latch. Given much longer, they’ll send for Miss Abbot and the other key.”

  Hesitant, I scanned the room, but realized I was too tired to care. I cracked the door enough to invite Enya in, telling my uncle I loved him but needed a woman’s company tonight.

  He surrendered under the insistence I let him check on me first thing in the morning.

  Locking the door behind her, Enya stepped around the mess and lit two candles in the sconces on the wall, casting an amber glow so she might survey the damage.

  Before she could ask, I spoke. “Do you know of his lordship’s tawdry past with women?”

  Her cheeks grew rosy with embarrassment as she shook her head.

  “He’s taken many lovers. I don’t believe I can ever trust him …”

  Hawk frowned at me, then understanding dawned and he nodded in encouragement.

  Pillows tucked beneath her arms, Enya dropped them two at a time on the bed. Her chin tightened. “That’s what it was all about—in the tower? The investor, Larson. He told you of Lord Thornton’s past and it started the fight?”

  I suppressed the bitter smile threatening to break. I had become quite adept at leading people to conclusions. I was starting to feel a bit like a gypsy myself.

  On that thought, I crouched to retrieve the comb and brush. My eyes clenched closed, images of Chaine’s betrayal an earthquake within me. Even now, some part of me refused to believe his guilt, despite the crumbling foundation of my trust.

  Enya came to my side and lifted my chin. “The past is in the past. Anyone can see he desires only you now.”

  I answered nothing, so Enya gathered the tray for me. Together, we arranged things on the vanity. Next, she dragged the chair over and bade me sit so she could work the feathers and flowers from my hair.

  Upon finishing, she picked up the brush but I caught her wrist. “Leave the tangles for tomorrow.”

  Her gaze toured the room once more and I feared she would insist on cleaning before we retired. Instead, she helped me out of my clothes.

  For once, my ghost refused to turn away. And much as I tried to turn my back to him, I couldn’t. I hurt for him, for all he had learned of his identity, of his brother’s part in his unbidden death. He needed a distraction.

  So I faced him, as I had wanted to for so long but was never courageous enough. I stood before him, vulnerable in my nakedness—and let his eyes drink me in. All of me.

  He hissed through his teeth and watched like a predator behind a cage. When Enya finally tugged my bed gown on, and the clean, crisp fabric fluttered around my ankles to cover me, he whispered the sweetest words: “Thank you, China Rose.”

  Enya retreated to her chambers after she tucked me into bed and blew out the candles. Hawk settled atop the covers, a comforting weight next to me—however insubstantial he was.

  “I want to hold you.” I couldn’t stop the agonizing admission, or the tears slicked upon my cheeks.

  He met my gaze. “And I you.” His fingers furrowed the covers along my ribs.

  I sighed. “What would you do? Were we to have one moment, here and now?”

  His focus shifted to my hair where I struggled to free a strawflower Enya had missed.

  “I would pull the petals from your hair, one by one, and bury my nose in the tangles left behind.” He rolled to his back. “My father said you smell of gardenias and snow.” His palm rested on his chest and a cynical smile trailed his lips. “I always loved the taste of snow. So pure.”

  I propped up on my elbow, the covers drawn to ripples beneath his indention. “Do you truly remember … the flavor of winter?”

  He crossed his arms behind his neck and closed his eyes. “Yes. I do.”

  “Is there anything else you recall? Anything happy?”

  A pause.

  “I remember loving him. I remember loving my brother.”

  I awoke at dawn, sunlight warm on my face, and opened my eyes to Hawk standing in front of the glass doors. I had to squint, his radiance almost blinding.

  “I have doubts.”

  That was all he said. But it was more than enough to give me hope. During the night, I had awakened to find Hawk seated and staring outside, oblivious to me. Reaching between the mattress and bed frame, I withdrew Chaine’s purple shirt and wrapped the silk around my gown to surround myself with his scent.

  When I fell asleep again, I dreamt of wingless fireflies safe within fractured glass jars, and fields upon fields of wildflowers snapped at the stem and waving like rainbow-haired puppets in the wind.

  Any man who could find beauty in the spoils of life and help others see it, would not have killed his brother in c
old blood. Larson’s tale had another side. It had to. But I needed to do more than nurture hope.

  Hawk’s memory had holes that must be filled.

  As often happened, morning brought fresh perspective. I threw the covers off then stood barefoot beside my ghost, still wearing his brother’s shirt. Hawk made no comment. In thoughtful silence, we watched the sun rise; and as streaks of apricot and pink curled like lashes over the wide-eyed horizon, we shared our strategy.

  Together, we would go to the mine I fell into as a child, the one beside the witch-faced tree. There, we would prove Chaine’s innocence … or make him pay for the unthinkable crime he’d committed over seven years ago.

  Without any premeditation on my part, the groundwork fell into place for our plan.

  I snuggled beneath my covers and feigned a headache while several servants cleaned Hawk’s mess from the night before. After they left, Uncle visited.

  The worry on his face pricked my conscience, but I stayed focused, encouraging him to accompany the viscount and everyone else—including the majority of the servants—to Worthington for Sunday morning services. I assured Uncle I would stay abed until he returned. He conceded when Enya agreed to sit with me.

  Chaine didn’t try to visit my chambers, but he did send up a bouquet—sunflowers, hollyhocks, and Sweet Williams from the winter garden. He’d dipped the petals in melted chocolate to fill my room with the delectable perfume. In the flower basket I found the picture he’d drawn of the flawed rose, though this time the stem pierced a bleeding heart. Upon the right-hand corner read the words: Forgive me, in a script now more familiar than my own.

  I watched from my balcony doors as everyone loaded onto berlines, carriages, and fourgones, ducking behind the curtains when Chaine looked up at my window. Even with the distance between us, I noticed the circles beneath his eyes. A pang of guilt wracked me over his obvious sleepless night, along with an even stronger emotion I had yet to name. I shook off the feelings. Today I sought facts, and would let nothing interfere.

  After the forest swallowed the travelers, I allowed Enya to brush and plait my hair into a long braid that swished at the arch of my lower back. Then I convinced her to go down and read a book in the drawing room, as I intended to sleep all morning.

  Miss Abbot almost caught me putting on my riding habit when she came up with tea, biscuits, and apple jelly. But Hawk warned me before she opened the door. I dived beneath the covers, boots and all, and feigned sleeping.

  It worked. The maid set the food upon my vanity and left. Upon Hawk’s assurance she’d cleared the stairs, I leapt out of bed.

  I folded a linen napkin around two biscuits slathered with jelly and tucked them in my jacket. Then, after gulping down the cream, as the tea was yet too hot to drink, I hesitated, fretful of how it would feel to see the mine again. But I had no time for second-thoughts.

  I followed Hawk into the stairway behind the portrait, taking care to secure the picture shut. Finding Aunt Bitti gone, we used her back-steps to sneak out of the house and remained hidden in a labyrinth of icy shrubbery until we came to the stables.

  The snow-clad roof glistened in the morning light. Hidden within the building’s shade, I checked for the stable lads, but they had accompanied the caravan of worshippers to tend the horses upon their arrival in Worthington.

  Though Hawk did not approve of my riding a horse alone, he had no choice but to talk me step-by-step through the tacking of Little Napoleon. My ghost kept his distance, so as not to make the gelding nervous. The bridle presented the greatest challenge. Napoleon kept jerking his head until I opened a biscuit and smeared apple jelly on the bit.

  After Hawk and I studied the map to determine my route, I removed my locket and tucked it in the saddle’s pouch. Then I mounted, and trotted through the gates of the manor with a chilly wind turning the ends of the scarf that covered my hat—not daring to look back … looking only ahead.

  Chapter 33

  A drowning man is not troubled by rain.

  Persian Proverb

  Chaine did not exaggerate his horse’s sense of direction. Once I guided Little Napoleon onto the appropriate trail, he never veered from the snow-covered path, slicing through frozen sedge and undergrowth. I braved eating a biscuit while the shimmering scenery brushed by, keeping one glove on the reins.

  I wasn’t sure how long we trekked, but when the forest thickened overhead and the scent of pine saturated the crisp air, I suspected I’d been gone an hour. Tucking my scarf’s loose ends into my collar, I studied Napoleon’s ears. On my first outing, I had learned that for both ears to turn back signaled annoyance, but only one signaled the horse listened to something that I could not hear. Today, neither possibility soothed my ragged nerves.

  Twice I looked over my shoulder as prompted by the swivel of his ear, wondering if someone followed, if they had noticed my escape. But I saw only trees casting their willowy shadows on the snow along with the sporadic flutter of crows.

  I knew the moment we arrived, for just as I remembered, a large oak, gnarled and aged, stood in the midst of a clearing, a few feet from the mine’s boarded opening. The bark’s knots and ridges formed a distinctive face with a long, crooked nose that tapered to a mouth-shaped hole—cruel and dark.

  An overwhelming sense of dread shaded my thoughts.

  I dismounted and tied Little Napoleon’s reins around an ash tree then turned toward the entrance of the mine.

  My throat felt like sand. Something cold plopped on my nose—an icicle melting from a branch overhead. Balanced on my toes, I tugged it free and put half in my mouth, then gave the rest to Napoleon.

  Desperate for Hawk’s company, I took off my gloves to fish my locket from the saddle’s pouch. As I tried to clasp the necklace around my neck under my scarf, my hands started to tremble.

  It occurred to me, that I was as powerless to my circumstances as the icicles dripping from the branches all around. Alone in the middle of my childhood nightmare, in search of a skeleton belonging to one of the brothers that I loved. Depending upon what I found, I might be exposing the other brother as a murderer.

  And yes, I loved Chaine. Why deny it any longer? I fell in love with the boy of the journal weeks ago. For his artistry and courage … for the ability to see past ugliness or failings and find beauty within. Perhaps even years before that, for being the mud prince who attended and comforted me when I fell into the mine, despite his own torment. And over the past week, I had come to adore and admire the man that boy became—gentle, accepting, patient, and wise.

  Better to admit it to myself before I brought Hawk back. On the other hand, as well as he read my thoughts, I suspected he already knew.

  I tried again to thread the necklace’s hook through the loop, my fingers still fidgety.

  What would I do if Chaine were guilty?

  Were I to go to the local jurisprudence, the pig Larson would win and sweet old Merril would rot away in bedlam. If I kept Chaine’s secret, he would live the rest of his life as his brother, never paying the consequences of his actions, and Hawk would not receive the vengeance he deserved.

  There didn’t seem to be an easy answer.

  At last, the clasp caught. Tucking the locket under my bodice, I scolded myself for failing to bring any rope to help me climb into the mine.

  “Oh no. No. You are not to climb down, my lovely. That was never the plan.” Hawk towered before me, his back turned so he could regard the decaying scaffold over the shaft. “Once you’ve opened the boards enough, I’ll go down and call up whatever I find.”

  He turned to me. Anxiety sucked the light from his eyes. He wanted his brother to be innocent as much as me—for all the same reasons.

  “Get a stick to pry them apart,” he said. “It should be easy enough. Most of them are rotted. There are just a few new slats.”

  I found a fallen branch about the thickness of my arm and the length of my leg. My ghost waited as I wedged the pointed end beneath two boards nailed together.<
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  “Careful now,” he said. “Stand clear of the platform. It might give beneath you.”

  My time in the tunnel with Chaine resurfaced, rasping like claws up and down my spine. I ignored the memory and heaved my weight upon the thick end of the stick. A snapping crack reverberated through my arms, and three of the boards gave way.

  I repositioned the branch and pried away two more. My wrists and elbows ached. Panting from exertion, I stood back to admire the hole, kneading my raw hands.

  “Beautifully done.” Hawk drifted to the edge. “Now say put, and don’t get too close to the opening. I’ll keep you apprised.” With that, he dropped out of sight.

  I tossed my stick aside. “Remember not to put any walls between us.”

  “I’m not a simpleton, Juliet,” Hawk called up.

  “And avoid water puddles.” We had never ruled out if his contact with the water was what had killed those seven petals that night, or if it was in fact our contact with one another. We couldn’t take any chances, having only eight left, including the one in my locket.

  “Anymore instructions, Mum?”

  “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “I’m a ghost, Juliet. It isn’t as if I can die again. Wait, my nose is feeling a bit drippy. Dear me, I fear I’ve caught a chill!”

  “Oh, hah.”

  His answering chortle lifted my spirit, but only a little. Running my fingers along the smooth metal buttons of my split skirt, I leaned over the hole and watched his smearing glow within the depths.

  The mine was deeper than I remembered. I scooted my toes a few extra inches away from the edge. “Look for something shimmery, it might be the watch.”

  “Nag-nag. Leave me be. I know what I’m—” His voice broke.

  “Hawk … what is it?”

  After a torturous span of silence, he answered. “I-I recognize this place. My purgatory.”