Pulling Strings - Theodore Nott

23. Suspension of hostilities

The garden at Nott Manor was just as bleak and lifeless as the rest of the estate. Part of that, she supposed, was the snow's fault. A storm had rolled in the night before, burying everything beneath a thick, heavy layer of white. But even so, Ophelia had the distinct feeling that the garden wouldn't look much different in spring — just a little greener, perhaps, but no less cold.

She had woken early and decided to take a stroll, desperate for air after being cooped up inside the manor for two straight days. The weather had trapped them indoors, and though the house was enormous enough to avoid its inhabitants except during mealtimes, the walls had started to feel as stifling as the company.

New Year's Eve loomed closer with each passing hour, and the thought of another social gathering made her stomach twist — more pureblooded aristocrats exchanging false pleasantries, more desperate attempts at civility. And worst of all, more pretending that she was perfectly content being engaged to Theodore Nott.

She hadn't really spoken to him after Christmas day, but this time, it had been her choice. Normally, how it would go would be that Theodore would decide out of the blue to stop speaking to her, give her an icy attitude and expect her to just deal with it. Well, now after a lot of internal debate with herself, she had decided that she was tired of playing that part. Of always being available when he wanted to speak –or fight, most likely– but when he didn't, he was free of all charges to treat her like shit and ignore her as he pleased.

That was no longer true. In the days since their last argument, after that disastrous kiss and the following awkward conversation while opening presents, Theodore had done as he always did and stopped talking altogether for a time, that was until he had found an excuse to annoy her that day during dinner. Clearly looking to rile her up.

But she had not taken the bait. She had ignored him, and his clear attempts to start an argument again. It made her a bit proud, even though she had found it excruciatingly hard not to reply to him, more than once, with a biting remark for some stupid shit he was saying.

So, after more than enough times when he had tried to get an answer from her, and she didn't comply, he had stopped trying.

It had been a weird experience, being a whole day without any interaction with Nott. At lunch they sat side by side and quietly ate and that was repeated once more during dinner. They'd even spent an entire afternoon in the library, each camped on opposite sides of the room, not acknowledging the other once.

Merlin, when did her life get so messed up that she found it weird not to fight with Nott for a day?

A sudden shiver ran through her, raising goosebumps along her arms — and she told herself it was from the cold. The snow, after all, had finally begun to seep through her coat and boots. She had worn a path back and forth across the garden, the once-pristine white now broken by a muddy trail of brown, evidence of how long she'd lingered outside. The cold was settling deep into her bones, and though she loathed the idea of returning indoors, she knew she had no choice.

With a sigh, she turned toward the manor and made her way back inside. Once in the manor, she found that the cold was still there, the same dim, lingering chill that seemed to haunt every corner of the house. She pulled off her gloves slowly, brushing stray flakes of snow from her sleeves, and moved down the hallway with no real destination in mind. Then she heard it.

Soft at first. Barely there. A few tentative notes drifted through the corridor like they didn't quite belong.

Piano.

It was an old sound, slow, uncertain, like something remembered rather than performed. Not a cheerful melody but something that spoke of melancholy. The kind of tune one might hum absentmindedly when no one was around to listen. She could hear the hesitation in it, the pauses between chords, the careful, almost reluctant way each note fell.