Page 3 of Ashen Torment

The first few days after Victor’s arrival, the estate sinks into a strange calm. He is always smiling, waiting for me every morning at breakfast.

My mother accords him a treatment ill-befitting an accountant, allowing him to occupy spaces that do not belong to him.

“Did you sleep well?”

It is his usual question. For several days now, he has made a habit of brushing back the stray locks of hair when they fall across my forehead. Just as he is doing now.

“You ought to have your hair cut.”

He pauses, his fingers lingering at the hairline behind my ear.

“It would reveal more of your face.”

His fingers remain suspended against my skin for an instant, then withdraw abruptly. He smiles again, but his gaze remains cold.

I do not like the way he smiles.

He rises and begins to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back.

When he turns toward me, his expression has shifted; he is tense, almost angry, though I cannot fathom why.

Victor approaches the bookcase, slides out a volume, and returns to his seat. His knees brush mine for a second before he pulls back.

“Greek mythology.”

He places the book between us. “Is there a story you find to your liking?”

I look at the book, then lower my eyes. “Prometheus.”

Victor tilts his head slightly. “The Titan who defied the gods. He knew he would be punished, yet he did it regardless.”

“And you?”

“Narcissus.”

I lift my gaze, surprised. “The youth who withered away pining for his own reflection?”

“Yes.”

He fixes his eyes on me. “Or perhaps he was looking at something he could never have.”

A sharp rap against the wooden door shatters the silence.

“Viscount, it is the appointed hour for your violoncello practice.”

I stand without glancing at Victor and leave the parlour. I walk down the corridor to the study where the instrument awaits, I take my seat, wedge the endpin into the floorboards, and grip the neck.

I begin to play Bach.

The first notes emerge soft, it is the same melody my father used to play on the piano when the house was not so empty.

It feels as though he is near, but he is not.

He is not here.

As the bow slides across the strings, I sense a presence. Victor is there, leaning against the doorframe.

It is not the first time he has watched me play. He says listening to me calms him. At first, that weight upon me was bothersome. Now, something in my chest eases, I like that someone appreciates the sound I draw from the wood.