20. Black Swan
Black Swan
Louna had always had an active imagination.
She’d dreamed herself into and out of hundreds of improbable situations, but this—exploring the secret passages of a castle the day before a daring prison break—did not live up to her expectations.
If she had been alone, she would have been able to focus on the task at hand, leaving the excitement of her upcoming theft to bear the brunt of her fantasies.
But she wasn’t alone. She was pressed into the darkness with a beautiful man at her back, whose presence distracted and frustrated even as it reassured her.
His breath warmed her neck as they squeezed through the narrow tunnels, but he was careful never to touch her.
After a while, she turned it into a game—tripping to see if he would steady her, stopping quickly enough to make him bump into her back—but he caught on quickly and left her to catch herself against the wall.
It took a disappointingly short amount of time to find a door to the music hall, which Louna closed almost as soon as they’d opened it to keep him from noticing the missing harpsichord.
“The passage this way leads outside,” Tennyson said, guiding her back along the way they’d come and pointing down the black passage. “In case you can’t get out through the door. But use it as a last resort. The exit is on the southern side of the keep, close to the cliff.”
Louna tucked the information away as she followed Tennyson back to the study, watching the darker form of his silhouette in the passage before her.
His shoulders skimmed the walls, and she had to push down the memory of how strong they’d felt under her hands when he danced with her at the Valentine’s Gala.
She’d thought that would be the last time they saw each other, but he’d surprised her.
Could he surprise her again?
Tennyson paused outside the passage into the study, hesitating in the dim light, but saying nothing. When several moments passed in silence, Louna offered him a small smile and reached to push the door open farther.
He caught her hand, and she suppressed a yelp as his thumb grazed the tender skin beside her cut.
“How did you get this?” he asked, holding her palm open to the light.
“A splinter was sticking out of one of the beams,” she said, tugging her hand back.
He didn’t let go. “Did you clean it?”
“I will,” she said. “I promise. I don’t want it to get infected any more than you do.”
Tennyson’s gaze lifted to hers, his fingers still cradling her hand. “You don’t have to hide things like this,” he said quietly.
“It’s just a scratch,” she said, setting her other hand against his bruised cheek. “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m not hiding it,” he answered.
A prickle of beard shadowed his jaw, giving his face a sharper, more angular look. Wolf-like. He watched her study him, his eyes as dark as a night without a moon. They could consume her, if she wasn’t careful. If she didn’t resist. One moment of letting down her guard, and she’d be lost.
“Cristian is waiting for me,” she said, stepping back.
Tennyson let go of her hand. “I’ll check on the staff.”
He held the panel open while she climbed out, then carefully closed it in on himself again. He kept his gaze down, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and her chest tightened at the sight. But it was for the best. Flirting with him wasn’t fun anymore, not with so much at stake.
It was safer for them both to keep their distance.
With nothing else to occupy her, she left the study in search of Cristian and continued her preparations as best she could.
Her contacts from the day before began filtering in around noon, bringing decorations and food, lights and fog machines—and masks.
She’d had to spread her purchases out between different shops in different cities, and had called in several favors among Ilya’s cousins to get them all delivered to the castle in time for the party.
Some of them wouldn’t arrive until the following afternoon, but Louna rushed to show Cristian when the first few boxes showed up.
“Yours will be black,” Louna said, holding one up to his face. “I will alter it myself. Your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
Cristian had beamed at her, and she felt a bubble of satisfaction inflating in her chest as the details came together.
Now she only needed to tie up the rest of her loose ends before the dance.
While Tennyson continued to prowl through the castle and the Verdiers toiled among their flower arrangements, Louna retrieved the wheeled cart from the closet where she’d hidden the evidence of Hartmann’s attack, took one of the cars Ilya’s cousins had left, and drove back to the city to prepare her costumes.
And find a new harpsichord.
She went to the Nest first, gathering some art supplies and sending another text to Polina, hoping to set up a meeting before she returned to the castle.
She ate a few pastries from Jean-Claude’s stash and noticed a new jar of crunchy peanut butter in the pantry.
Ilya had been here, then. She smiled and took out her phone, ran a few searches while she ate, and sent him a text comprised of a single phrase in Russian.
Ot lebedya k gusyu.
Swan to goose.
He answered immediately.
No Stone?
No Stone, she replied.
What do you need?
She sent him an address and a request for a delivery van, changed into black sheath dress, added a few necessary items to her go bag, and slipped away.
She spent about an hour shopping while she waited on updates from Polina and Ilya, gathering materials from various craft and clothing stores throughout the city.
She needed to alter her gown, and there were a few details she wanted to add to Cristian’s, Tennyson’s, and Lindsey’s masks.
If they were going to throw a masquerade, after all, they should do it right.
Finally, just as she was starting to worry, her phone buzzed with a message from Ilya.
Ready.
She’d been on her way to The Snow Maiden, but she turned around and drove to the Romanian Athenaeum, home of the George Enescu Philharmonic and, according to the pictures on its website, a beautiful concert-black harpsichord.
Louna parked on the side of the building and walked around to the public entrance, pausing to take in the white columns supporting a classic Greco-Roman fronton.
Then she straightened her coat and smoothed down her hair, removed her earbud, and walked inside.
The foyer was round, supported by pink marble pillars arranged in a circle between two spiral staircases.
Directly across from her, another grand staircase swept upwards and split to encircle the foyer, wrapping around the space toward the concert hall above.
A short iron gate blocked the way, but Louna strode without hesitation, projecting confidence.
She had almost reached the gate before a woman in a black uniform stopped her. “Excuse me!” she said in Romanian, waving. “Can I help you?”
Louna turned and gave her a strained smile. “Grace Eaton,” she said, answering in Romanian, but over-pronouncing her French accent. “Piano technician. Though I’ve also trained as a luthier, so the general manager wanted me specifically for the harpsichord. May I see it?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I don’t understand. What general manager?”
Louna gestured around the room. “Yours. Monsieur Albescu. He contacted my company about your harpsichord after the review.”
The woman’s lips went flat. Louna had gotten the general manager’s name from the website, but she’d made up the rest. She’d spent a few weeks working at a theater when she first came to Paris, and she’d learned more about the pressure of the public than she had about being in a stage crew.
There was always a negative review.
“Apparently the harpsichord was ‘tinny’,” Louna said, lowering her voice.
The woman huffed. “This is why I said we should use piano instead. But I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about a technician being scheduled for today.”
“I wasn’t scheduled,” Louna said. “I had a cancellation, and since Monsieur Albescu wanted the harpsichord serviced before your next concert, I thought I should stop by. But if you would prefer to reschedule, I am happy to do so—I should have openings in April.”
“April!” The woman looked her over, taking in her professional dress and plain bag. “No, no, there’s no need to wait that long. Please, let me show you to the harpsichord.”
Louna smiled and followed her up the stairs to the grand auditorium.
It, too, was round, ringed in a fresco depicting various moments in Romanian history.
The room was dimly lit beneath its high dome ceiling, but the woman turned on a light over the stage, which was set with various music stands.
A thick red curtain had been drawn back to display a wall of organ pipes behind the stage, as well as a grand piano.
And the harpsichord.
“You may work on the stage,” the woman said, leading Louna past the rows of empty red seats. “If you need anything, please let me know.”
“Thank you.” Louna climbed the stairs to the stage and made her way to the harpsichord, peering at the strings and opening her bag. The woman hovered nearby, making sure to stand out of the way, but with a clear view of what Louna was doing.
Louna took out her phone and sent a text—a simple Now—and opened a tuning app. She played a high C, then touched the harpsichord key for the same note and listened to the sound reverberate through the space. “This may take a while,” she said apologetically.
The woman smiled. “Please, take your time.”
Louna proceeded down the keyboard, playing keys and their corresponding notes on the app, listening for differences in pitch. She removed a palm-sized sketchbook from her go bag, meant for quick drawings when she was on a job, and made a show of taking notes as she played.
She was half-way down the keyboard when a voice echoed up the stairs, and the woman glanced over her shoulder with a frown. “Excuse me,” she said, moving toward the door. “Let me check on that.”
Another shout followed the first, and the woman hurried from the room.
The door closed behind her, and Louna dropped her sketchbook back into her bag and cleared a path through the music stands.
This harpsichord had wheels at the bottom of its slender legs, and she wheeled it carefully across the stage to the ramp behind the curtain, then to the service elevator at the back of the room.
Ilya’s distraction would buy her a few minutes, which would give her enough time to push the harpsichord through the side door where she’d parked, and where Ilya had hopefully left his delivery van.
The elevator doors opened to reveal an empty hall—whatever Ilya was doing had drawn the staff to the foyer, leaving the path to the side door clear.
Thankfully, the door had been built to admit instruments, and Louna was able to maneuver the harpsichord through with only one pinched finger between the keyboard and the doorframe.
The van was there, parked behind her car with its back open and the ramp lowered.
Louna paused on the sidewalk, catching her breath and frowning at the angle of the ramp.
It would be hard to do alone, and she wasn’t dressed for the work.
She looked up the street as she guided the harpsichord over the pavement, and smiled as her gaze landed on two men in jeans and work boots walking in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me!” she called in Romanian. “I’m so sorry—could you help me?”
The men turned, and when she waved to them, they glanced at each other and crossed the street toward her.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I work for the orchestra, and I’m supposed to take this in for repairs, but the company sent a van without movers. Do you have a moment to help me get it inside?”
“Typical,” one of the men said, coming to take her place at the harpsichord’s side. “I work construction, and they do the same thing. They’ll send the equipment to the site, but not the operator. Come on, Andrei, take the back.”
Louna retrieved the wheeled cart from her car, and the men lifted the harpsichord carefully onto it and pushed it up the ramp.
They even secured it with straps they found inside, waving away her effusive thanks with charming blushes and assurances that they were happy to help.
Andrei handled the ramp while his friend closed the back of the van, and they wished her a good afternoon as they went on with their business.
Louna got into her car and dialed Ilya’s number, combing her fingers through her hair as it rang. He didn’t answer, but she hadn’t expected him to. She waited one minute and called again, and this time he picked up on the first ring.
“I’m on my way out,” Ilya said. “Just in time. Any longer and I think they might have called the police. Where are you?”
“In the car,” Louna answered.
“I’m on my way.”
Louna started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “I could hear you shouting from upstairs. What were you doing?”
“Pretending to be drunk,” Ilya said.
“Like Baudelaire!”
“What?”
Louna sighed. “Pick up a book, Ilya. What then?”
“I think they didn’t believe me at first, so I had to escalate. I’m almost around the corner. Once we get the harpsichord in the van—”
“It’s already inside.”
Ilya paused. “You got it in by yourself?”
“Of course not,” Louna said. “I asked for help.”
“From who?”
Louna turned, leaving the Romanian Athenaeum behind. “A couple of very sweet boys who were passing by. They took care of everything.”
“Unbelievable,” Ilya grumbled. “You may as well have just walked inside and asked nicely if they would give the thing to you.”
“If you are nice first, that is generally what happens.” Louna held the phone away from her ear, checking her messages again. Still nothing from Polina. “Can you make the delivery? I have a few things I still need to do.”
“Misha’s going to do it,” Ilya answered. “You promised I wouldn’t have to deal with Stone on this one.”
“Coward,” Louna teased.
“You’d say the same thing if he’d punched you in the face,” Ilya mumbled. “I’ll text you after the delivery.”
“Thank you,” Louna said sweetly.
He grunted a reply and ended the call, and Louna turned toward The Snow Maiden.
It was time to talk to Polina.