“No pressure,” she whispered.
The room seemed to settle around her. The crickets outside continued their song, but now it felt…deliberate somehow. It was music. Lulling her to sleep. And damn it all, it was working.
Her eyes grew heavy. The branches overhead created strange shadows that danced between reality and something else. Between memory and possibility.
She was so tired.
So very, very tired.
Just before sleep claimed her completely, a whisper—like wind through dead leaves—brushed against her consciousness. Someone she didn’t know.
A woman’s voice.
We’ll talk soon, Ava.
And then, darkness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ava became aware of herself standing in Serrik’s grand library. She was wearing her own clothes once more, and her hair was dry—and back to its curly ridiculousness that she both loved and hated. She was in her dreaming state.
And she was listening to a moody harpsichord melody being deftly executed by someone who clearly had a great deal of practice. Turning, she found the source—and shouldn’t have been surprised to see who it was.
Serrik.
Seated at the keys, a golden candelabra perched atop the black lacquered instrument. It was inlaid with ivory in the pattern of spiderwebs in a detailing she had never seen before—and it was her job as a historical architect to recognize these kinds of things.
But she wasn’t in Kansas anymore, she had to remember that. Or Massachusetts. Or Earth, for that matter. He had an open bottle of wine on a mirrored tray beside the lit candelabra, with two crystal goblets next to it. One was half empty. The other, full.
He was waiting for her.
It was…fascinating to watch him play. His fingers were long, accentuated by his pointed fingernails. She was amazed, as she slowly walked up to him, staying out of his line of sight, that he didn’t click his nails on the black and white keys.
God, he wasgood.She supposed being locked up in prison would give him nothing else to do. But she felt like she was in the presence of a true master of the instrument. She was sucked up into the piece, and the otherworldly beauty of him as his hands moved over the keys.
His expression was impassive. Expressionless. Whatever emotions were in the piece didn’t seem to affect him at all. His long, wild green hair flowed around his features and down around his tailored, eccentric, and antiquated black tailored clothing. Black lace dangled from the cuffs of his coat. His shirt was black silk, but over it dangled gold necklace after gold necklace, each one delicate and ancient.
Golden earrings swayed with his movements as he moved his way through the music. She noticed the jewelry he wore was etched with symbols in a language she didn’t recognize. Magic, she assumed.
He was a wild animal, dressed up in the trappings of a gentleman.
When he finished the piece, she stood there in awkward silence, not sure if she was supposed to applaud, or announce herself, or if he even knew she was there.
That was until he loudly pounded out the opening notes ofToccata in Fugue in D Minor.
She laughed without meaning to. “I know that one.”
“I am not without recognition of my own melodrama.” He quieted his keystrokes, but kept playing. “Hello, butterfly.”
“Hello, Serrik.” She walked up beside the harpsichord, and gestured to the full wine goblet. “For me?”
“Of course.” He did not take his glowing yellow-gold eyes from the keys.
She took the glass and sipped it. She was going to get spoiled by his extremely expensive wine. The cost of the bottle he had—which was entirely in French and hand-written—was probably more than she would see in a bank account in her lifetime.
If she lived.
And got a job.
