Chapter 14
The next morning, Prudence placed a tray into my outstretched hands.
Breakfast was another sober affair and while Flora furiously scrubbed the dishes, I prepared to bring a meal up to Abby, who was laid up sick in bed—a frequent occurrence according to Prudence.
Doctors had been sent for in the past, but no one was ever certain what ailed her as she struggled to find the strength to leave the bed.
“I usually do it, but it’s getting rather difficult to carry the tray,” Prudence said, stroking her fingers down her stomach. The apron barely covered it anymore, and the sight brought a frustrating pang of envy.
Edward clung to her leg and eyed me suspiciously.
“You’re still here,” he said, his young tongue tripping over the words. He stared up at me, as though intent on dissecting and solving me. For only three, he had far more insight than my own siblings ever showed at this age.
“Where else would I be? Do you want to take me on another tour of the house?” I teased.
“Only if we go to the attic.”
“There’s an attic?”
Flora slammed the pot against the bottom of the sink. “Edward, mind your tongue and stop spreading nonsense,” she scolded. He shrank back against his mother’s leg.
“He’s fine, Flora, only a child,” Prudence said.
“You give him too much freedom. He needs to be taught,” said Flora as she continued her washing, murmuring not so quietly about Prudence’s deficiencies as a mother.
Prudence ignored her. “We don’t have to be so old-fashioned. Children don’t need to be perfectly quiet at all times to be well-behaved.”
This wasn’t the first argument I’d witnessed on the topic, but it was a fight I didn’t dare to enter. I needed to do as I’d always been taught—be agreeable, sweet, and never contentious.
I rebalanced the tray on my arms and cleared my throat to change the subject.
“What if Abby is sleeping when I knock?” I asked.
“I should ask if you’ve been sleeping, Sister Hazel. Your eyes are nearly bloodshot.”
Could she see through me, like her son did? Did she know of my tortuous nightmares splashed with blood and Abby? I held back an urge to spill everything out. “Oh no. It was a bit drafty last night, that’s all. I’m fine.”
Prudence considered me for a moment as if she didn’t believe me. “If Abby is sleeping, simply leave the tray on her table. She’ll be able to get it when she wakes.”
I imagined myself sitting beside her bed watching her sleep the way I watched her in my dreams. My heart sputtered.
Flora clicked her tongue. “Well? What are you waiting for? She’ll want her breakfast sometime this morning.”
I hurried out the door. Fearful or not, it was my duty to care for Abby and I couldn’t let my imagination get the better of me.
All too soon, I stood before Abby’s door, my fist outstretched and ready to knock. She would be asleep, surely. I wouldn’t have to speak to her. Confess to her.
My knock echoed loudly in the hallway, but no one responded. I pushed it open and stepped inside despite the pounding in my chest.
Abby’s room was silent. I watched her sleeping form on the bed, her chest slowly rising and falling, then rushed to place her tray on the side table. As I stepped back, I took a moment to glance around.
Her room was the mirror to my own at the other end of the hallway. A large canopy bed took up most of the space, and a shuttered window leaked tiny streaks of morning light. I didn’t have to open it to know it offered a beautiful view of the surrounding valley, the same as mine.
Every piece of furniture in her room was abandoned to the dust. Her items lay strewn across the floor. Shoes cluttered in an uneven heap in the far corner. Her wardrobe was left open wide, dresses hanging over the tall door. Brushes, books, and cups cluttered the vanity.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
A sudden sense of dread clung to me. An unwelcome presence hovered nearby. Or perhaps, it was I who was unwelcome. This was Abby’s domain and, just like in my dreams, I pried too much.
I stepped backward, praying silently that Abby would stay asleep and I wouldn’t have to account for lingering.
Piano chords reverberated from above. My head shot up, tracing the sound. Stumbling back through the doorway, I shut the door harder than I intended, but I didn’t wait to see if the noise woke Abby. A tugging sensation wrapped around me, bidding me follow.
Somewhere in this house, there was a piano, and I needed to know where.
As I moved briskly down the hallway, the music pounded louder. Notes danced up and down in a kind of jig, but the melody embedded within it was unmistakable—“Come, Come, Ye Saints.”
Glancing back over my shoulder, I checked the hallway for others.
Noise came from the designated classroom where the children were reading at Prudence’s instruction, but the hallway remained empty.
I turned the corner. The empty wall leered at me, the faint outline of the forgotten door almost glowing.
What if this was the attic?
This was madness and stupidity, chasing after unheard music, but I couldn’t leave it be. Jacob swore to me there was no piano in the house, but I couldn’t be going mad.
I knew I pushed toward a boundary I shouldn’t cross, but for once, I didn’t let my guilt stop me. I pulled the handle. The wall groaned and shuddered, but the door didn’t open. Employing the other hand, I tugged it again with more force. It creaked open with a moan.
A passage with a wide set of stairs appeared.
And the prancing hymn played on, louder than before.
I picked up my skirts and started upward. Each step sagged beneath my weight. Musty air stung my nostrils as I climbed into the dark. I wished I’d brought a light, but I couldn’t turn back now. The blackened walls thrummed around me. Every note of the song reverberated through my bones.
At the top of the staircase, a doorway streamed with muted sunlight. There was an attic. Holding my breath, I obeyed the beckoning sounds, the primeval need, the sinful curiosity, and stepped into the hidden room.
Light filtered in from two small windows, illuminating the filthy room.
Fetid air potent enough to burn my throat choked me.
A few pieces of discarded furniture sat covered in what must’ve once been crisp white sheets now stained dark with mildew.
Several wooden crates stacked beside them like they were hastily placed.
The music stopped. Slowly, I spun around to take in the full room.
No one was up here.
In fact, it appeared no one had been up here in many years. There was nothing here of interest. Nor an answer. There wasn’t even a piano. Frustration welled up and tears pricked my eyes.
Then a large wooden piece of furniture in the corner caught my eye. Despite its filthy surroundings, it was a lustrous brown.
I glided toward it, my shoes leaving a trail of footprints in the snow-like dust coating the floor. A long-neglected embroidered bench sat in front of it. Without thinking, I sat down, sending up a wave of dust. My fingers tracked the groove across the top of the box.
I slid my hands along the bottom and lifted the wooden lid. It moaned as it flipped open and revealed its long set of pearled keys. My heart jumped with the confirmation.
It was a small box piano.
The keyboard was beautiful ivory, untouched by the grime of the attic.
It stood out from the deep walnut color of the instrument, in perfect contrast. Relief washed over me.
It was real—the piano was real. But there was simply no way someone could’ve sat here and played it only moments before I came in without leaving a trace.
A hunger spread through me. My hands hovered over the keys, heat pulsing in my fingertips. The warmth climbed. I didn’t know how or why, but I sensed the piano had been waiting for me. Invisible threads coaxed my fingers to the keys.
I blinked back unexpected tears. I could make music again. Possessiveness overcame me. This piano would be mine.
“What are you doing?” A serrated voice cut through my bliss.
Flora stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. Anger simmered in her eyes. Her face doused whatever euphoria had been growing inside me.
“I’m sorry. I only thought I heard something.” Reluctantly, I reclosed the piano lid to show I was penitent, though of what transgression I wasn’t entirely certain.
“Probably a rat. There’s no reason to poke around a private attic.”
“But this is my house too. Jacob said—”
“Jacob isn’t here.” Her scowl seemed to issue a challenge and I didn’t dare to question her.
“It’s only that—there’s a piano. He said there wasn’t a piano.” I didn’t add the words that punctured my thoughts—that he’d lied to me.
She glanced at the box piano, seemingly unimpressed. “He must not know it’s up here. No one comes up here. There were so many things left over after the previous owner abandoned the house that it all got shoved wherever it could go.”
“Are you certain?”
“Are you truly questioning your husband? You’ll be as wicked as Abby if you aren’t more careful.”
The guilt was a physical blow. I recoiled and bowed my head, ready for confession, but a voice in my head stopped me.
For once, the frantic one was drowned out.
There was a piano. Perhaps Jacob didn’t know about it, but still, didn’t that make him wrong?
I didn’t know what to do with these thoughts.
“Forgive me, Sister Flora,” I replied, though I wasn’t certain I meant it.
Self-loathing and confusion pulsed in every step as I slipped past Flora and started down the dark staircase. There was a piano and someone had played it. I couldn’t be going mad.