Chapter 1 Sneak Peek
On the afternoon of Paolo Mariano’s murder, I heard the drops of blood hit the stage before the body did. My fae gift of greatly enhanced senses was a curse as often as it was a blessing. Sort of like being the daughter of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
The former meant I experienced sight, smell, sound, touch, and even taste ten times stronger than anyone around me.
The latter meant I lived every moment with soul-crushing expectations.
I was forever striving to present a polished appearance, interact with the “right people” while maintaining impeccable etiquette, and uphold our family’s reputation at all times—even when being pummeled by waves of sensation.
This drove me to my room more times than I could count, leading to the rumor that I had a delicate constitution.
I was just Anne, the quiet girl with little to contribute.
Except for my music.
Half an hour before the murder, I used my key to enter the concert hall, stomping heavy snow from my boots before entering the lobby.
The tension in my shoulders melted away as I locked the door behind me.
This building was my sanctuary, the place I didn’t have to worry about being a de Bourgh.
I was just a musician, like everybody else.
I skirted around the magnificent Christmas tree at the center of the room, breathing in the crisp scent of the Douglas Fir adorned with a thousand twinkling lights.
The tree’s ornaments were all shaped like miniature musical instruments, each one enchanted to play its part in Sleigh Ride.
I hummed along with the music, my footsteps echoing through the grand lobby until I stopped in front of the poster advertising a concert for the Grey Doors.
Excitement zipped along my spine. They were my favorite band, big on the coast and getting bigger every week as their music was discovered by more and more people. And they were coming to Austen Heights, no doubt in part because their male lead singer, Ernesto Garcia, was from here.
I kissed the tips of my fingers and placed them gently over Ernesto’s full lips, as I’d done every day since they’d hung this poster. One month from now, I’d be at that concert, standing in the front row where I could lock eyes with him. I just had to convince my mamá.
I dragged myself away from Ernesto’s dark eyes and entered the rehearsal space behind the stage, hanging my snow-dusted coat on the rack as I entered.
The backstage area consisted of a large rehearsal room, five smaller practice rooms, and the conductor’s office, where a sliver of light was currently shining through the cracked door.
I peeked my head in to greet Fred. “Good morning!”
He dragged his pale green eyes away from the score in front of him.
At 28, Fred was only a few years older than me—young to be the conductor of the Austen Heights Community Orchestra.
He was tall and broad, with a pointy beard and the hoofed feet of a fawn.
His hair was a gorgeous shade of auburn, though receding at a regrettable rate.
“Anne, I’m glad you’re early. I have something to ask you,” he said in his deep baritone.
I sat in the small plastic chair in front of his messy desk and watched as a small Bach figurine tapped his baton against the desk at 150 beats per minute. “Thanks, Johann, that’s enough,” Fred said.
Bach cast him a disapproving look before striking a majestic pose and freezing in that position.
Fred rubbed his hands together briskly, taking a deep breath, but hesitated before speaking. Why was he acting strangely?
I took the figurative stopper off of my power, hoping to read him better, and braced myself as a maelstrom of input crashed into me.
With effort, I shut out the slight variation in warmth from different bulbs and focused on Fred, where an artery on the side of his head pulsed.
His heart rate seemed normal. Did that mean he wasn’t nervous after all?
But there was a slight flush on his cheeks and neck.
Maybe he felt a bit awkward about what he was going to ask me?
The sound of water rushing through distant pipes and the scratch of the cashmere sweater against my skin stole my concentration and I put the stopper back on my power so I wouldn’t get overstimulated.
Fred leaned back in his chair. “One of my hockey buddies came to meet up with me last night and caught the end of rehearsal. He wanted to know who the captivating singer was.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Usually I played second chair violin in the symphony but for this concert, I had also been offered a vocal part in O Holy Night alongside the featured guest, even though my voice—and my personality—were no match for a renowned tenor like Paolo Mariano.
I thought back to how I had looked at the rehearsal.
I’d worn comfortable black leggings and a red sweater, my long black hair pulled up into a ponytail.
My skin was a sun-warmed bronze even in winter thanks to my father’s side of the family, the Mexican side, but I didn’t think I’d looked particularly good that night. I hadn’t even been wearing makeup.
The corner of Fred’s mouth quirked up. “He asked me if you were cool.”
“Oh? And what did you tell him?”
“That you’re decidedly not cool, but in the best way.” He smiled to lessen his teasing.
I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s rich, coming from a guy wearing a tee with a music pun on it.”
Fred raised his hands in mock surrender, showing off his shirt where a police officer pulled a burglar under an eighth rest. “I definitely never claimed to be cool. But anyway, he asked if you’d be okay with me giving him your number.”
I didn’t date much, not because I wasn’t interested, but because my mother was always meddling and trying to set me up with the sons of her pompous peers.
What would she say if I went out with one of Fred’s friends?
She probably wouldn’t forbid it, just imply that such a person was beneath me.
She seemed to think that everyone was beneath us, except for her brother the king, and his heirs Darcy and Georgiana.
But I was tired of the stiff conversation and social posturing that had characterized most of my dating life. If Fred vouched for this guy, I was willing to give him a try.
“Sure, you can give him my number. What’s his name?”
Fred hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking. “Ernie. His name is Ernie Reyes.”
Just then, the door to the rehearsal room banged open and an argument spilled into the room just beyond the office.
“—orchestra is massive and we can’t risk losing your sound in all the mix.”
The voice belonged to DeShawn Carter; he was the sound technician for the concert hall, notoriously finicky but the results were always worth it. The reason for this very rehearsal was so that he could check the sound for the soloists before the big night.
“You’re such an idiot. Mine is an opera voice. I soar over orchestras every night.”
I assumed the second voice belonged to Paolo Mariano, the tenor who was the special guest at the Christmas concert.
He was originally from Austen Heights, but had made a big name for himself in the opera world.
I didn’t know what strings Fred had pulled to get Paolo to perform with us, but he’d been gushing about it for weeks, and we’d all been looking forward to meeting the singer today.
Fred winced and pushed up from his desk, heading out to smooth things over. I picked up my violin and followed.
Paolo was a tall, fae male with close-cropped black hair and a deep tan. I might have found him good-looking, had he not been staring down at DeShawn with scorn-filled eyes. He turned to Fred and I, hands on his hips. “Can you believe this man wants me to use a microphone? A microphone! Sacrilege.”
DeShawn folded his toned, brown arms across his chest. “It’s non-negotiable.”
“You are no artist,” Paolo sneered. “You should quit now before everyone else figures out how worthless you are.”
“Maybe I will.” DeShawn’s voice was low and tense.
Fred placed himself between the two fuming men and spread his hands in a placating gesture.
“I’m not questioning the power of your voice, Paolo, but there will be a 35 member orchestra accompanying you and a mic will help ensure that we get the balance of sound right.
You wouldn’t want to drown out Anne, would you? ”
Paolo gave me a side-glance that revealed my voice being heard was the very last thing on his agenda. He picked a piece of lint off of his bright yellow sweater.
“Paolo,” Fred said, frowning. “I see you’ve met DeShawn, our sound technician, now allow me to introduce you to the woman you’ll be performing with, Anne de Bourgh.”
Paolo’s attention caught at the mention of my last name, a response I was used to. He took my hand, his well-moisturized skin even smoother than mine, and bowed over it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anne.”
I was tempted to snub him for being so rude to DeShawn, but I could hear Mamá’s voice in my head, reminding me that a de Bourgh should be above such petty bickering.
“DeShawn is brilliant at balancing the sound,” I said quietly.
“If that’s what counts as brilliant at a pops concert.” Paolo sneered out “pops” like it was a dirty word, but it seemed like the crisis was averted.
Half of it, at least. I turned to DeShawn. “Please don’t quit. You’re so important to this show.”
He glanced at me and the anger on his face softened for a moment, but Paolo snorted loudly and DeShawn’s expression hardened again. “I’m not quitting, but I’m done for today. I’ve set everything up so you should be able to handle it without me, Fred.”
“Don’t you want to—”
“I am done for today.” He pushed his way out the side door and honestly, I couldn’t blame him.