After seeing hundreds of clocks dangling from the walls in the other room, Anne had expected to find just as much clutter in this one as well.
But the entire space, from the black marble stone of the floor to the towering white ceiling, was empty.
Despite the fact that the walls were bare and there wasn’t a stitch of furniture, the room somehow felt full, as if the very air tingled with something that couldn’t quite be seen.
And then Anne noticed it, a closed silver box small enough that she could have held it in both hands sitting atop the mantle of an unlit fireplace.
The tune dancing just beneath Anne’s consciousness was spilling from it, growing stronger and stronger with every step she took.
“It’s a music box,” she murmured in comprehension as she glimpsed the cylinder catching against the delicate metallic teeth through the intricate cutwork along the lid.
“It’s much more than that,” Vincent whispered from behind her shoulder. “It’s a heartsong.”
Anne nearly gasped then, catching her breath just before it had a chance to slip from her lips for fear the sound might disrupt the melody.
A heartsong was an extraordinarily rare magical artifact, forged from the hopes and dreams of a witch whose power rested in the strains of music. Each person who happened across one would hear something different, a score that matched the pace of their deepest fears and desires to a perfect pitch. They were crafted to draw out fantasies that had grown silent, tempting those who heard the notes to discover pieces of themselves that were buried beneath the weight of their reality.
Though Anne knew that such things existed, she’d only heard of them in the confines of fairy tales.
“Where did you find one?” Anne asked in surprise, her gaze still fixed on the gears turning within the box.
“My family acquired it long ago,” Vincent answered. “From a witch who made one specifically for our purposes. Heartsongsare usually crafted to help guide the living, but this one draws out the deepest longings of those who aren’t tethered to the present, pulling them back to moments when all seems possible. That’s why only the spirits can hear it.”
“And me,” Anne said to herself, so softly that she was certain Vincent wouldn’t hear her.
“And you,” Vincent replied before reaching forward to lift the lid, causing the strains of music to grow even stronger.
The shocking familiarity that danced from each and every note made gooseflesh rise along Anne’s forearms. It seemed strange to think that the sound pouring from the music box had rippled beneath the everyday rhythm of the Crowleys’ lives for generations without being truly heard by any of them.
“What should I do now?” Anne asked, already entranced by the sense of possibility that beat beneath the rhythm.
“Close your eyes and listen,” Vincent instructed as he turned her gently to face him. “Once you think the tune is strong enough, start to drift backward and see if the spirits have anything to share. They’ll be drawn by the way the music makes you feel and want to show you moments when they experienced the same thing. It will seem like they are pulling you back in time.”
“You said before that they sometimes grasp too tightly,” Anne said, trying to keep a sliver of fear from slipping into her voice.
“There shouldn’t be many of them to contend with,” Vincent said. “Ghosts are solitary creatures, so coaxing them out takes time. And if you let me anchor you, I’ll be sure you don’t get too drawn into their memories.”
He lifted his hands then and turned his palms upward in silent expectation.
Though Anne still hadn’t yet decided to accept Vincent’s help, she found herself reaching for him, drawn to the memory of how it had felt to grasp his wrist amidst the sound of clicking clocksand hushed whispers. Even if she had no plans to open her mind to him, what harm was there in letting the warmth of his skin make her feel more grounded in the present?
When her hands came to rest on his, Vincent turned his palms and wove their fingers together, instantly making Anne feel like he was drawing her closer though neither had taken a single step forward.
“Just listen,” Vincent whispered, the gentle hue of his tone encouraging Anne to let her lids grow heavy.
She did just that, allowing the darkness to heighten the song that felt just as if it were slipping beneath her own skin.
At first the melody reminded her of the steady ticking of her own clock, a faint beat that encouraged her shoulders to ease and the tightness in her chest to drift away with every exhaled breath.
But then a stronger strain that felt just like the slow pull of a bow against strings entered the score, tugging at the hopes that she’d buried deep within herself. It reminded her of hidden desires tinged with the heavy texture of danger and the promise of discovery: the pieces of herself that didn’t quite fit the picture she wished to present to the rest of the world but were always pulsing there beneath the surface of each and every intention.
Her magic felt the shift and danced along with the music, drawn to the way it was making Anne feel more and more alive. If she opened her eyes, Anne wondered if she would see the glow of it flickering beneath the dark cotton of her sleeves.
As she let her powers awaken, Anne could sense the presence of Vincent’s magic. The strength of it vibrated through their clasped hands and seemed to sink into her bones. She could feel him starting to open his awareness to her, the texture of the spells he was crafting growing so tangible that it felt like she could touch them.
“Drift back,” she heard Vincent murmur, though his voice was more distant than it had been before, as if he were speaking to her through a current of water.
With a final release of breath, Anne did as he instructed, eager now to see what would happen if she let herself go, just this once.
