40. The Pianist
The Pianist
As I walk towards the kitchen for lunch, I spot Mariane down the hall, her heels echoing off the polished floor with every step. She’s moving quickly, her blonde hair swinging in waves at her shoulders.
I find it hard to imagine her doing anything important all day, but she’s moving with purpose, like she’s running late to something.
“Mrs. Beauchene.”
She whirls around and I catch the scowl painted on her face for a split second, before it's hidden behind her usual facade. “Mallary. Good morning.”
“Can I talk to you for a moment?”
She glances at the watch on her wrist. “I have a couple minutes. What is it?”
Now that I am standing in front of her, anxiety tightens my chest.
I knew you would be rational.
She knows what happened to Bastien—she is responsible. She knows he’s not a ghost. He’s alive and breathing, confined to the shadows.
But confronting her, revealing to her that I know, jeopardizes everything. Baz is a secret for a reason—because she wanted to sweep the problem of him under the rug.
But I know.
Focus on the music. Focus on me. I will take care of the rest.
I can’t ignore how my heart breaks, just thinking about that look in Baz’s eyes when he told me the truth. I know how it feels to be discarded.
“I know about Bastien.”
For a moment, her expression doesn’t change. Then her eyes narrow. “What are you playing at?”
“I know where he is.”
“This is not funny, Miss Doyle.”
“I know what you’ve done.”
She scoffs. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Your son—”
“My son is dead.” The words echo through the hall until it’s silent, the quiet ringing between us. Her lips pinch together. “My son is Henri. Only Henri.”
That she hasn’t left tells me that maybe, maybe, I can get through to her. “Mrs. Beauchene, that’s not fair to—”
A sharp laugh. “Fair? Fair? What would someone like you know about what’s fair?”
I’m not sure what she means by someone like me. A roiling, sour feeling rises onto my tongue.
“What’s not fair is that my son was so troubled. What’s not fair is that we’ve had to make these difficult decisions because of his actions. What’s not fair is that my son is dead.”
I bite my lip so hard, to keep silent.
She blames him, has spent every day attempting to convince herself that her firstborn is dead, rather than the truth—
That they locked him up inside this house. That they stripped him of his identity, his name.
And that is all their fault.
“What’s not fair is that he was ripped away from us just as he began to make something of himself. And now Henri has that reputation to uphold. To beat. He’s only a young boy, and he will never meet his brother, because his brother is dead. Don’t try to tell me what’s fair, Miss Doyle.”
Disbelief is ice in my veins. “Did you even try to help him?”
“You are crossing a line—”
“Haven’t you thought about where he’d be if you hadn’t locked him away?”
Mariane storms closer, face twisting, the prim facade crumbling. “He killed someone,” she spits. “My eleven year old son killed his nanny. Strangled her in a fit of rage. And you’re asking me if I even tried to get him help? He had doctors since he was able to speak. Nothing seemed to work.”
“So you locked him up in this house.”
I see it there under the anger flushing her face—her eyes are glassy, lip trembling. An ounce of regret, or shame. “Yes. To protect him. To protect us.” Her voice cracks, and she turns away from me.
Should I feel pity? Because watching her hide as she dabs her eyes, I feel anything but.
Bastien’s issues are not my own. Even neglected as he was, he still lived in a house like this, still ate meals from a chef.
My own upbringing had none of the luxuries of this manor.
And yet, I’m familiar with the pain of screaming yourself hoarse and still not being heard.
“You weren’t supposed to know.” She sniffles. “No one was supposed to know.”
“He’s living in the attic, Mrs—”
“Ten thousand dollars.” She spins on me again, and if she appeared remorseful before, it is all gone.
“What?”
“Is that not enough for you? Ten thousand dollars. Leave now and it is yours. Put this all behind you. You can put him behind you.”
“You want me to leave.” My throat tightens, because I knew it would come to this, I knew. Telling Mariane what I knew wouldn’t have ended any other way, and still I want to take it all back. Make her like me again. If she even did at the beginning. “What about Henri? What about the party?”
“We’ll find a new tutor. But you—you’ve failed to serve your purpose. I am giving you an out. I can have a car ready for you in ten minutes. You can be home by midnight. Far away from here. Ten thousand dollars. And your life.”
I blink. “You think he’ll kill me.”
She laughs. “Maybe not right away. But he’ll make you wish you were dead. Because if you don’t get out while you can, you’ll be his prisoner, and once he hides you away, no one will dare look for you.”
“You wouldn’t stop him now.” My eyes narrow. She was happy to let him do what he wanted to me.
Bastien, still alive, still haunting these halls, is the ghost reminding her of everything rotten living inside.
“Who’s to say he won’t kill you if you send me away?”
Her bitter smile turns to poison. “You think we haven’t thought this through? He misbehaves, and I’ll have Leo and Desmond handle the issue. We were able to find you once, Miss Doyle.”
Bile rises in my throat.
“If you leave now, you’re free. You can pretend none of this happened. And if you trust him, then you’ll never have to worry about us bothering you again.”
You’ve failed to serve your purpose.
Baz alluded to it before—that they brought me here for him.
Not my music.
Not just to tutor Henri.
“What will it be?”
If I’d left after that first week, all of this could have been avoided. I wouldn’t have caught his attention. He wouldn’t have infiltrated my mind, my body.
A pain sears into my skull, a hot knife piercing straight through my eye. My breath is stolen, a sudden bright flash of panic—
But then it’s gone as quick as it came.
I glare at Mariane. “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
“You think you’ll get whatever it is he’s promised you? Do you really think he hasn’t done this before? You aren’t the first.”
He said this, too. But he also begged me not to leave, not to run—
He wouldn’t have lied to me.
A dull headache springs up in my head in place of the stabbing pain.
He could’ve blackmailed you. Threatened you with it.
“I’ll tell—the media.” I force the words out before I can consider the consequences.
Mariane freezes.
There are no tears in her lashes, and her makeup is just as perfect as it was before. But she can’t conceal her surprise.
She expected me to cower. To play into her schemes, or Leo’s. “What did you say?”
“I’ll tell everyone.” I take one step forward. “Even if they don’t believe me right away, they’ll dig deeper. Your secrets will come out.”
“You signed contracts.” She hisses. “NDAs.”
“Contracts I was misled into signing.” I wonder if Baz is listening. “I don’t think it will matter once everyone knows the truth.”
“You—” Mariane’s eyes narrow. Her lips are pressed tightly together, her manicured hands like talons at her sides.
For a moment, I imagine it, the media circus it would cause: reporters clambering at the gates to get in, the family ruined. They would never have a moment of peace. Not for a long while. “I’m staying.”
“Did he tell you why the last one left?” She takes a step closer this time. “Henri’s last tutor didn’t leave because of a little family issue. He killed her.”
I want to believe she’s lying.
Her hand is shaking.
She’s afraid of him.
And she doesn’t want the truth to get out, even if she’s just given me another secret to spill, more leverage.
“That has nothing to do with me.” I ignore the slicing sensation in my brain, the numbness in my fingers. “I was promised a stipend. Per your contract, I am here until the end of spring.”
“‘The family retains the right to terminate employment for any reason, including if Employee does not meet expectations,’ as per the contract.” She recites as if she has the entire thing memorized, and of course I don’t remember exactly what those documents said.
“You won’t.”
Baz wouldn’t allow it. How many times has he told me not to worry?
She’s afraid of him. And he wants me to stay.
Mariane says nothing. She considers me for a moment, her eyes trailing along my body—as though she can discern every single place he has touched me, every single kiss he has pressed to my skin. One angular brow raised in a cutting glare.
And yet her hands still shake.
“Fine. You’ll finish out your contract. You’ll be one of the few to do so—congratulations.
” She spits out the words, flecks of her saliva landing on my cheek.
I force myself not to flinch. “You will get your pay. But come the end of your contract, you’ll either be dead, or nobody and nothing. And you better hope it’s the latter.”
As soon as my racing heart calms and I regain the feeling in my limbs, I run to find him.
I retrace my steps to the same place the wall gave away last night off the foyer. No one is around to watch me slam my palms against the glossy wood. The polished walnut paneling doesn’t give way.
When my fingers sting, I feel like an idiot. The wall is solid. Impenetrable.
How had he done it?
For a moment I blame myself for not paying attention. It’d been seamless, so quick, when the walls had closed around me.
A sound of frustration rips from me. It’s only when I take a step back that I see it: a light switch, unassuming, with a shining brass plate. Switched off, when the lights in the hall are a bright yellow.
I imagine it’ll be like in the movies when I flip the switch, a door appearing out of thin air, opening up to a secret chamber behind.
But nothing happens.
Running my fingers over the seam proves fruitless. I push on the wall again and am met with resistance.
But there’s a little click a few feet to my left.