79. Viola
Viola
In the solitude of my room, I sat before my dressing table, waiting.
So much waiting. I held the bundle of alfalfa in trembling fingers, as if the dusty stems could bridge the silence between us.
They crumbled to powder in my hands. The dust clung to my elbow, irritating the skin as I propped my heavy head on my other hand.
It tickled my nose, but the scent was only a faint suggestion—nothing like the heady sweetness that filled the hay shed when his lips first found mine.
Jacob had gathered these stems, tied them with purple ribbon, held them in his hands. For me.
But I couldn’t feel the echo of his touch—only a hollow ache in my chest, like the brush of dragonfly wings. He carried my heart with him. Only a ghost of a heart remained in my chest, barely enough to pump my blood. Shouldn’t I feel some whisper of him out there?
A whole day, and still no news. Nothing.
A rap sounded at my door. The familiar dance of hope and dread swirled in my gut. Father’s careful footsteps crossed the floor. His warm hand settled on my shoulder as he stopped behind me. As the light faded outside, my room sank into shadow, but his eyes glowed blue.
“It’s good news. Jacob’s name is not on the list of those confirmed dead.”
But there were thirty names on that list. Poor souls. Could their loved ones sense the loss? Many more had certainly been injured, but there was no list of survivors.
Jacob was alive—or not. It was one or the other. “Yes, good news.”
“Our man will be on-site tomorrow. We will find him,” Father said, squeezing my shoulder.
If only finding him meant finding him alive.
In less than twenty-four hours, Mr. Muntz would arrive at the wreckage.
He had boarded a train early this morning.
Such a terrible errand. Father hadn’t said, but I knew why he had sent him.
My breath tore free from my hollow chest in a ragged gust that scattered the alfalfa dust. He had met Jacob.
He would recognize him. And if needed, he would be able to identify his body.
Idid not sleep. Could not sleep. Somewhere out in the world, Mr. Muntz drew closer to the crash site.
I perched on my window seat and pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching, waiting.
My breath fogged the glass. I traced the letter J and surrounded it with a heart.
It faded, then reappeared as if by magic with each warm breath.
In robe and slippers, I haunted the chill halls through the night, quiet as a held breath.
When dawn approached, I sank cross-legged before Mother’s portrait in the library, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
The artist had captured her youthful beauty with a small, knowing smile and unreadable deep-green eyes.
It was the portrait Father spoke to. I’d never been desperate enough to try—until now.
I stared into those eyes—so like my own. “Please… help him. If you can. Send him back to me.” I watched for a sign, though I didn’t expect a reply. It was only paint.
I sighed. Perhaps I should’ve asked the Lady of the Lake instead. At least she’d given me an answer once. I drew the heart-shaped rock from my pocket, cradled it in my fingers, and ran my thumb back and forth over its smooth surface. Find your way home, Jacob. Please.
I rose and wandered again, unable to stay still. The light rustle of others unraveled the night’s silence. A distant door opened. Voices murmured. The house breathed to life. But my breath stayed shallow. I slipped away.
Sunrise lit the conservatory windows. Dust motes drifted in the dawn light as I padded toward the piano, faltering when I reached the place where we had kissed.
I brushed the cool rock against my lips.
The piano bench scraped against the floor, tightening my throat.
I lashed out with sound, striking a tritone—F and B.
Unstable. Unresolved. Avoided by composers because it was too unsettling.
The devil’s interval, they called it. But the aching clash was nothing compared to the dissonance vibrating in my bones.
No. Play something else.
I propped a thick stack of music before me. My fingers moved across the cool, familiar keys, and I escaped into the rhythm of finding the next note, the next chord, the next phrase.