Chapter Six
The note was sitting on Raven's doorstep when she got back from the village shop, under a tin of what she could already tell were homemade biscuits. She didn’t need three guesses to know who’d left the little package on her step.
She stood there for a moment, carrier bag in one hand, staring down at the cream-colored paper with its cheerful floral border like it might explode if she got too close.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered.
With a sigh, she picked up the note, reading it with increasing disbelief.
The aggressively cheerful handwriting was bad enough, but the content, complimenting her music, making a perfectly reasonable request about the noise, all wrapped up in so many exclamation marks and understanding phrases that it made her teeth hurt.
She could practically hear the woman's sunny voice reading these words aloud. Honestly, couldn’t she just get to the damn point and say what she wanted to say?
And of course there was a smiley face at the end. Of course there was.
Raven looked at the tin of biscuits. Then back at the note. Then at the biscuits again.
She should throw them away. She should march straight over to next-door and tell this relentlessly cheerful woman to stop leaving things on her doorstep, stop being so understanding about everything, and absolutely stop acting like they were going to be friends.
Instead, she unlocked her door, carried everything inside, and opened the tin.
Fine. She was hungry. So sue her.
The biscuits were perfect-looking. Lemon, by the smell of them, with a hint of vanilla and what might have been a touch of lavender.
Raven took one. Bit into it.
"Damn it," she said aloud.
They were delicious. Perfectly balanced, not too sweet, with that satisfying crunch on the outside and a tender center that practically melted on her tongue.
These weren't just good biscuits. These were the kind of biscuits that made you reconsider your entire position on whether or not you liked your neighbors.
Raven ate three more in rapid succession, standing at her kitchen counter, glaring at nothing in particular.
The guilt settled in her stomach alongside the biscuits.
She'd been rude. She knew she'd been rude.
The woman, Annabelle, she had a name, had apologized profusely for the shower incident, had left a kind note, had made an entirely reasonable request about the noise, and Raven's first instinct was still to push her away.
But that was the point, wasn't it? She was here to be alone. To write. To figure out who she was without the band, without Alissa, without the constant noise of fame and expectation.
She didn't need a cheerful neighbor bearing gifts and sunshine.
Even if the biscuits were exceptional.
RAVEN WAS STILL thinking about the note, and trying not to think about the note, when there was a knock at her door the next afternoon.
She'd been attempting to write, which meant she'd been staring at her guitar for an hour while mentally composing increasingly bitter lyrics about people who couldn't take a hint.
She'd come up with exactly two lines, both terrible. They didn’t even rhyme.
One of them had the word ‘fuckwit’ in it, which she was pretty sure had never been used in a song before.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
Raven dragged herself to the door and opened it to find two women on her doorstep.
One was perhaps in her sixties, draped in so many colorful scarves she looked like she'd gotten tangled in a fabric shop explosion.
The other was younger, extremely round, wearing a postal service uniform and practically shaking with excitement.
"Hello!" the younger one chirped. "You must be Raven. I'm Daisy, I deliver the post. Well, obviously I deliver the post, I'm wearing the uniform, aren't I?" She laughed at her own observation. The older woman cleared her throat. "Oh, and this is Gloria Cunningham, she runs the Am-Dram society!"
The scarf explosion swept forward with dramatic flair.
"How wonderful to meet you properly," she proclaimed, as if they'd had some prior incomplete meeting.
"I saw you arrive, of course, but one mustn't intrude immediately.
I know we public figures do like our privacy.
Though I must say, the music we've been hearing has been absolutely divine. "
Raven's grip tightened on the door. Gods. "Thanks. I'm actually quite busy right now…"
"Oh, we won't keep you long," Daisy interrupted, bouncing slightly on her toes. "We just wanted to invite you to join the Bankton Players. That's our amateur dramatics society. We do all sorts of productions. Shakespeare, pantomimes at Christmas, sometimes we get really adventurous and do musicals. Gloria wanted to do a piece of performance art but Blossom at the cafe put her foot down, she’s mostly our director, and said that Bankton wasn’t ready for painted nudity and shenanigans with spanners and pipes, so we didn’t do that one. "
"I don't act," Raven said flatly.
Gloria waved a dismissive hand, her scarves fluttering. "Nonsense, darling. Everyone acts. Life itself is a performance, wouldn't you say? Besides, we don't just need actors. We need musicians, set designers, costume makers."
"I'm not a joiner," Raven tried again.
"That's what they all say," Daisy said cheerfully. "But Bankton has a way of pulling people in. Just wait, you'll see. Before you know it, you'll be at the pub quiz on Fridays and helping with the village fête and probably joining the book club."
"I won't," Raven said, more forcefully this time. "I appreciate the invitation, but I'm here to work. That's all."
Gloria studied her with eyes that were far too knowing for Raven's comfort. "Work. Yes. How terribly important." She smiled, a slow, theatrical thing. "Well, darling, when you decide you'd like to be part of something again, and you will, you know where to find us."
"The community hall," Daisy supplied helpfully. "Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven. But also Gloria's usually at Blossom's café most mornings if you want to chat about it."
They left in a flurry of waves and scarves, Daisy still talking about the wonders of village life as they walked down the path.
Raven closed the door and leaned against it.
She wouldn't join their am-dram society. She wouldn't go to pub quizzes or village fêtes or book clubs. She wasn't here to become part of this place.
She was here to work.
She just wished she could actually do some.
FOR THE NEXT three nights, Raven made an effort. She really did.
She kept the volume down. She tried to stop playing by midnight, just like Annabelle had politely requested. She even used her headphones, which she hated because they made everything sound flat and disconnected.
But the insomnia didn't care about her good intentions. Neither did the creative block that had been choking her for months.
By the fourth night, she'd given up on sleep entirely. It was almost midnight, and she was pacing her sitting room like a caged animal, guitar in hand, frustration building with every step.
Her phone buzzed. Again.
Claire had been texting her for three days straight. The messages had gone from concerned to pushy to downright aggressive.
The label wants an update.
You can't just disappear, Raven.
At least post something on social media. Your engagement numbers are tanking.
And then, twenty minutes ago: At least do an Instagram Live. I don't care what you play. Just show them you're still alive and making music.
Raven stared at her phone, then at her guitar, then at the empty room around her.
Fine. She'd do a stupid Instagram Live. She'd play a few songs with headphones, mumble something vaguely reassuring about the album, and Claire would get off her back for at least a week.
She set up her phone on the bookshelf, angling it so the camera caught her and her guitar, the backdrop of the open living room door peering into the hallway behind her. She pulled on her headphones, opened Instagram, and hit the button to go live before she could talk herself out of it.
Comments started flooding in immediately. She ignored them.
"Hey," she said, her voice flat. "It's late. I'm awake. Figured I'd play something."
More comments. She still ignored them.
"Dunno what you’re gonna get yet," she continued, tuning her guitar with more force than necessary. "We’ll see how things come out, shall we?"
She strummed a few chords, adjusted the tuning.
"Also, if any of you are considering moving to a small village for peace and quiet, be warned: your neighbors will bring you biscuits and invite you to am-dram societies and generally act like you're going to become best friends.
" She played a minor progression, something dark and restless. "It's exhausting."
The comments were going wild now. She could see them scrolling past on the screen. But she wasn't really paying attention anymore.
The music was pulling her in.
She closed her eyes and just played. No plan, no structure, just following wherever the chords wanted to go. It felt good. Better than good. For the first time in days, weeks, she felt something loosening in her chest, some knot of tension finally starting to unravel.
She didn't notice when her head started moving with the rhythm. Didn't notice when the headphones shifted, slipping back slightly on her ears.
Didn't notice when they fell off completely, clattering onto her shoulder and then down to hang around her neck.
She just kept playing, the amp behind her switched off, the sound acoustic and raw and filling the cottage. Old songs, but good ones, other people’s songs, but ones she loved, ones that had always inspired her.
A comment flashed across her phone screen, bigger than the others: CAN YOU PLAY KRIMSON KHAOS???
Raven opened her eyes, saw the request, and made a split-second decision.
Why not? It was one of the band's biggest hits. The fans loved it. And maybe playing something so familiar would help shake loose whatever was blocking her from writing new material. She grinned.
"You got it," she said to the camera. "One condition though. I'm plugging in the amp for this one. You want the full experience, right?"
The comments exploded with excitement.
Raven stood, still playing, and crossed to where her amp sat against the wall. She picked up the cable, checked that her guitar was ready, and looked back at her phone one more time.
"Fair warning," she said, a hint of her old stage presence creeping into her voice. "This is going to be loud."
She plugged in the amp.
And turned it on.