In the sleepy town of Slaughtavery, all is not as it seems.
In 1745, boys began to disappear, leaving no trace behind. The town was trapped in a hush of anxiety, gripped by fear too profound to express. After beautiful Madrigal Byrne ran away on her...
A beautiful, melancholic melody reaches my ears when I pass the rearing horses guarding the entrance to my wing, and I have to use all my strength to fight an overwhelming urge to return to Ransford.
His music folds around me in a silky embrace, stirring my heart and releasing a swarm of butterflies in my belly. I stifle a tortured gasp, forcing my feet to carry me onwards, away from the seductive sounds of the piano and the presence of the man running his fingers over the keys.
He is an immensely talented pianist. I am surprised that he lives here on this secluded island, taking care of sewerage, waste disposal, water and electricity problems when he could enchant the world with his piano-playing skills.
Then again, when something you love to do becomes your job, it often loses the joy it once gave you. Listening to all the emotions flowing from the rendition of that musical piece, I believe that Ransford pours his soul into it and finds his heart there. He would never want it to be his job.
Consulting the map on my phone at the junction where I always go the wrong way, I speed up until I'm effectively fleeing from Ransford and his haunting melody.
When I turn the last corner, reaching the main body of the mansion, I can no longer hear the piano, and it is only when the silence envelopes me that I realise that I'm not running away from Ransford anymore; I am running towards something else.
The pull is so strong that I cannot pause to analyse why I'm darting through passages on feet that are sure of their tread and do not stumble even once. My heart is beating like a bird fluttering, trapped in a cage, the excitement growing stronger, searing through my blood.
When I enter through the office's open door, I realise two very important things right away. One, I do not have my laptop with me and have absolutely nothing to do in the office without it, and two, I wish I could exchange desks with Alaric. Not because his desk is bigger or better (mine is rather impressive too), and both the spots have adequate light and a beautiful view of the cliffs and the winding uphill road.
The only reason I want to trade places is because Alaric is the first thing I see when I enter the office. I have to pass his desk to reach mine, which prolongs the exposure to him for far too many excruciating, breathless moments. If that were my desk where he's now sitting, looking up from his work, I could've snuck in and plopped myself in my seat, hiding behind my screen without having to fall victim to his bewitching eyes.
Standing in the door with trembling legs and a heart hell-bent on escaping from my chest, I am mesmerized by those dreaded eyes shining like a cat's in the dark, pinning me where I stand. My breath, as always, is trapped in my lungs, and I can no more move than speak.
I stare at him, helpless in the intensity of his gaze. Tracing the contours of his lips, seeing them part ever so slightly, I finally know with a certainty far beyond normal understanding that I did not dream about kissing this man on the salon floor while he was supposedly kilometres away at the mill.
I know it doesn't make sense, and I don't know how to explain it, but it was real. My memories of many things have been sketchy and broken, cloaked in fog, since my first day on this island, but there is nothing vague about my memory of this man's arms around me and his lips on mine. It is one memory that is not fading or growing fuzzy and surreal; it is steadfastly remaining vivid.
Gazing into his forceful eyes, I know that he knows it too.
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