Asphodel

IV. τέταρτος

IV. Fourth

My mother was an accomplished pianist. The way my father told it, the moment he heard an inspired performance of Haydn's Sonata 44 at a private gathering in Boston, he knew he would marry the musician who played it. He insisted that he never saw mother's face before he declared to have her as his wife, but my sisters and I agreed that her beauty did nothing to dissuade him.

She would often play for us, and sometimes she would sing. Moira and Macaria found enjoyment dancing with one another in our sitting room while mother performed a waltz. The two of them would spin each other around, laughing all the while; I, however, preferred to stay seated on the piano bench so that I could watch our mother's long, nimble fingers glide across the keyboard. I learned to play only a few songs before she died, though I could recall countless more to sing.

I did not speak, in part, because it had merely become a habit; my silence was not established due to any mental shortcomings—disabilities, impediments, or otherwise. I stayed quiet because I had no desire to converse with anyone. In fact, there had been a time—shortly after I was welcomed into my grandparents' home—that I became quite close with my grandmother's cat: Fortissimo. He was an extraordinarily fluffy Angora with odd eyes and an exceptionally loud meow. Fortissimo and I had a number of significant conversations; sometimes it was about the weather, other times it was about the hideous new upholstery grandmother had selected for her sitting room.

My disinclination toward communicating with other people was solely due to my fear. And, perhaps, my stubbornness. Truthfully, I could not bear to speak of the incident, yet that was all anyone ever wanted to talk about. Once I had obliged the officers investigating the case, I vowed never to speak of it again. Evidently, that meant I had vowed never to speak of anything again.

Although, Fortissimo made sure I never completely lost my voice. It took some time—long enough for the shock to dissipate, the wound to scab over—before I desired to remember how things had been before. The most effective way to resolve my woes was through song. My mother's songs. Thus, I would sing very quietly to myself.

When I met Einion Riddlerton, I was singing.

I had been enjoying an afternoon bath. My body had slipped deep into the tub, my face was the only part of me above the warm water. The carpenters were hard at work outside the bathroom window, their sawing and shouting a cacophonous distraction from my rendition of Ständchen. My voice was distorted through the water, but at least my melody was all I could hear.

As the song came to a close, I opened my eyes and sat upright again, gripping the sides of the porcelain. The lukewarm bath had felt wonderful in the season's heat, but there was no use leaving myself to prune in tepid water.

In a mere matter of moments, I lost most of my remaining dignity. As I moved to lift myself to my feet, the door to the bathroom creaked open; I made eye contact with a young man and felt heat spread across my damp skin.

I splashed back down into the water, quickly covering my chest, as the gentleman in the doorway averted his eyes and swore. When he left the apartment, he slammed the door behind him.

Although I was quite embarrassed by the debacle, I felt as though I should follow the man, or at least find Dylan. I certainly had no intentions of explaining the situation, but my presence couldn't hurt. I was confident that the Earl of Mirstone had just seen me in the nude.

I dressed quickly, lacing myself into casual stays and my simplest—which doesn't indicate much, as my wardrobe was almost entirely simple—day dress. I barely combed through my tangled hair before I slid slippers onto my feet and rushed toward the library. On the way, I twisted my hair into a hasty braid so as not to seem entirely disheveled.

"What is she doing in my apartment?"

I could hear him yelling from down the hall, so I slowed my pace as I approached the library.

"You're well aware that the repairs in the North wing aren't yet complete," Dylan said, much calmer than his grandson, though with no less bravado.

"Why didn't you tell me she was staying here?"

"I would have if you'd come to speak with me as soon as you arrived."

The closer I got to the doorway, the slower I took my steps. I was very curious to hear what these men had to say, but this was also the most interesting thing that had happened since my arrival at Mirstone.

"Papa," the Earl said, softer, "why didn't you tell me this before I came home? You should have written me. How long has she been here?"

I heard Dylan sigh; it was the way he always sounded when Mary asked if he'd finished his tea. I could picture his expression, the way he'd peer out the window and wiggle the finger he had keeping the page of his book. More often than not, he hadn't finished his tea.

"A little over a month, I'd say," Dylan replied.

"I could have come home sooner."

"Nonsense. There's barely room for us all until the repairs are finished. Besides, 'Del is no trouble at all."

Before the Earl had the chance to ask his grandfather any more questions, I pulled my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and walked into the room.

"Wonderful timing!" Dylan praised when he saw me. "Einion, 1'd like you to meet Miss Asphodel Erebus."

There was a distinct moment, as he was turning to face me, when I wasn't sure what to expect. I had met Earls before—when grandfather shipped me off to spend a season with the Countess—but there was something so utterly casual about Dylan that I could not for the life of me anticipate who his grandson, the Earl of Mirstone, might be. Obviously I was aware of the fact that his name was Einion Riddlerton and that our initial encounter was of the compromising variety, but the state of everything caught me off guard.

He didn't strike me as the kind of man who liked to stand out from the crowd. His eyes were a tame shade of grey, somewhere in between blue and green. I didn't get the chance to examine much else before Dylan cut in again.

"'Del, this is my grandson, Einion Riddlerton, Earl of Mirstone," the old man grinned.

I dipped into a brief and shallow curtsey, but when I looked up again the informal introduction hadn't seemed to have any effect on Lord Mirstone's expression whatsoever.

"Charmed," he grunted.

"I'm going to see if I can't find Mary to bring us some tea," Dylan said. The return of his grandson seemed to have revitalized the old man; I would have wagered that he'd grown a foot and shed a decade's worth of worry.

With Dylan gone, I tried to make my way over to the window to take a seat, but the Earl intercepted me. He peered down at me, his eyes barely visible under heavy brows.

"Why didn't you say anything when I knocked on the door?"

This was always the most uncomfortable part of being mute: the one-sided conversation—interrogation, in this case—that eventually resulted in the other person's misunderstanding of my silence and subsequent rage. I was curious to see how many unanswered questions the Earl could ask before storming off.

"Miss Erebus," he said, urging me to answer. After a moment, he relaxed his frown. "I'd be tempted to consider the possibility that you might be deaf if I hadn't heard you singing."

Quite literally, I was only capable of staring.