Chapter Thirty
Kolfina
As it turns out, Lord Macabre is a lovely conversationalist. While he had few answers for me in regards to my past, his knowledge about spirits in particular is vast and well researched, a byproduct of his blood magic expertise, according to him.
And despite myself, I find it all terribly interesting.
Moreso than I thought I would, considering the dreary topic.
“Necromancy is a delicate practice, and it can be quite dangerous if done incorrectly,” he tells me, flipping the pages of his little book to a detailed drawing of a human body, spiderwebs of red ink bursting from the heart and spreading across the torso and limbs.
“It is easiest if one has the blood of the person they wish to bring back, but truly any part of the body would do. It’s simply a matter of how much work one wishes to put into it. ”
“Can anyone practice it?” I ask in return, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Could it be why I’ve returned the way I have?”
Lord Macabre shakes his head and offers me an apologetic smile.
“I’m afraid it’s unlikely. In theory, anyone can perform necromancy, that is true.
However, the practice is not only to return a spirit to this world, but to reanimate a body as well.
You have of course managed to do so,” he says, gesturing towards the borrowed body I am currently inhabiting, “but you’ve done so on your own by means of possession rather than reanimation. ”
“Would you be able to make it permanent? The possession?”
“An interesting consideration. I assume over time the body begins to decay, is that correct?” I offer the man a nod, and he scratches at his beard in contemplation. “Theoretically it should be possible, though I’m unsure if it’s ever been done before. Or at the very least, been documented—”
“Kolfina!”
Lord Macabre falls quiet as Theodore appears beside our table, an eager sparkle in his eyes as he looks down at us.
“Apologies for interrupting, my lord, but I would like to steal away my date for the evening, if you wouldn’t mind. You’ve a lovely grand set up in the adjoining room, and several of us would like to hear Kolfina play.”
Play? It’s been decades since I last played for other people—others aside from Theodore and Azizi, that is. And even then, I have no way of knowing if I played for anyone else before my death either. Was I a performer? Or was music simply a hobby I practiced to keep me busy in my birdcage?
Theodore must see the hesitation on my face, because he crouches beside my chair and takes my hand in his, his fingers warm and soothing as they brush across the back of my knuckles.
“You do not have to, of course, but we would very much like to hear you play. Your music is beautiful, and others should hear it.”
There is no pressure to agree, I know that. Despite his argument, if I decline the request, I know Theodore would hold no grudge about it. Still, there is always a part of me eager to please him. To see him light up with joy, to see that ugly melancholia that always seems to cling to him disappear.
I spare a glance toward the gentleman across from me and the book still sitting between us on the table. There is so much the man could teach me, and yet—
“There is nothing we are able to do right now, Lady Kolfina,” Lord Macabre says in understanding. “I will need to do more research before I know for sure if it would work, but I swear I will reach out as soon as I have an answer for you. Go on, now. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Thank you so much for your time, Lord Macabre. I am in your debt.”
Theodore’s smile shines like the sun through the trees as he helps me from my seat, barely giving me a moment to hand the pen and book back to our host before he is guiding me to the adjoining room.
Lord Macabre follows close behind—I can hear his shoes schlick on the bloody carpet—and by the time I’ve sat down on the piano bench, I am sure the entire party is gathered in the humble smoking room.
No more than fifteen or so people, but it is more eyes on me than I can remember ever having.
I force myself to swallow the lump of nerves building in my throat and search for my lovers in the small crowd. As promised, they both sit at the front of the room, Azizi lounging comfortably with her brother on one of the sofas, and Theodore perched atop the arm rest by her side.
They both offer me encouraging smiles, and it is only that which gives me the courage to place my fingers upon the keys and begin.
Though there is music on the stand before me, I do not bother looking at it. If I’m to play for the first time outside of my home again, then I will do so with my own music, my own voice—silent though my tongue remains.
The notes fall out of me like petals from a wilting flower, breaking off from my fingertips to flutter down to the keys in gentle waves.
They settle there in quiet adagio, parched and sun-baked, before the wind picks them up again.
It carries them through swooping andante and a spiral of wistful allegro, the harmony skipping alongside them in playful refrain.
My borrowed heart does not beat in my chest, but I can almost imagine it clicking away inside me like a metronome. Keeping time as I let the music sweep around me, swallowing me up in a mouthful of bloody symphony.
It has always been easy to lose myself in my music.
Azizi once suggested that her father’s Muse must have blessed me at birth with how effortlessly the music fills me.
Oh there is surely years of practice and hard-earned frustration behind my skill, of that I have no doubt, but the music itself comes as naturally as breathing to me.
I hardly notice how quickly the time has passed until I’m picking away at the final notes of the coda and the flower petals have found their way to the ocean, soaking in the much-needed water as they sink deeper into the endless depths.
The room falls into silence, allowing the final note to linger and hang in the air.
I do not wish to open my eyes, content to drift further and further toward the horizon, but the polite claps and quiet whispers of praise pull me from the waters and back to shore before I’ve the chance to fully sink.
When I find Theodore in the crowd, I am surprised to see tears in his eyes, his sunshine smile replaced with something softer, more proud and affectionate. Azizi looks much the same, with her gloved hand pressed to her chest and a fond look in her dark eyes.
“Remarkable, truly remarkable,” Jonas says beside her, wiping his fingers beneath his eyes in such a dramatic fashion that it makes me giggle.
He pushes himself to his feet in an instant, straightening his vest as he steps up to the piano.
“You must let me play with you at once. Make room, petite fleur. The people deserve to hear our combined skill. It’s not every day two musical geniuses are in the same room, you know. This is a gift!”
With no reason to say no, I slide to one end of the bench, giggling again when Jonas plops himself down with all the excitement of a puppy earning a treat.
It does not take us long to choose a song we both know from the manuscript on the stand, and before I know it, music fills the air again as we both dive into the piece with equal enthusiasm.
I find it invigorating, the act of playing with another person.
Jonas plays as if he is choreographing a dance, his fingers light and sure as they blur across the keys, his body swaying with every rise and fall of the melody.
I expected us to trip over each other at one point or another, especially considering we have never practiced together before, and yet playing with Jonas is as easy as a waltz.
Should my feet stumble, he is there to carry me into the next twirl without hesitation, his hands steady and his passion evident.
It takes me a moment to recognize it, that passion of his, the way it ebbs and flows from him with such ease. It is the same passion I see in Azizi when she paints, but without the cage of her anxieties keeping her locked away.
Azizi holds her passion close to her chest, protecting it from the forces in the world that would see it squashed beneath their boots.
Jonas on the other hand wears his like a second skin.
He shines with it, letting it radiate around him like a halo, drawing attention and praise from all directions.
Is that what Azizi would look like, I wonder, if she did not let her fear hold her back? Would she glow like Jonas is glowing? Would she light up the whole room with her pride and skill?
Is that what I look like? Is my passion for music as bright as Jonas’?
I try to imagine it as we play, try to imagine how light my soul feels as the hammers hit the strings to produce a sound.
Try to feel the vibrations in the keys and pedals and imagine them filling me to the brim with their melody.
And I do feel lighter, for a moment. Just as when I was playing alone, it is as if the wind has picked me up and carried me off. Like there is no birdcage to contain me anymore. No attic door to lock me away.
Yet when I glance down at my hands, when I watch my fingers dance across the keys, weaving between Jonas’ in a complicated duet, I do not see a light shining from within. I see only my hands, covered in blood-soaked gloves, struggling to keep up with steps I suddenly cannot remember.
My chest aches as the song comes to an end, stuffed full with weeds that grow between my ribs and threaten to poison my veins. The rising applause from our audience is muffled in my ears, the praise Jonas offers me nothing but the creaking of old floorboards beneath my bare feet.
“Lady Kolfina?” A hand settles on my shoulder and I jump slightly at the touch, whipping my gaze around to find Jonas staring at me with a worried furrow in his brow. “Are you quite alright?”
Am I alright? I never can tell.