Her.

Chapter II

Haya finally joined the men in the sitting room where Erik Destler was sitting at the piano they had. Henry was pawing through Haya's music, wondering if there was anything the musically inclined mystery hadn't played.

"Here!" Henry suddenly exclaimed, removing a handwritten score from the pile of music.

In her haste to arrange her feelings towards the Monsieur Destler, Haya had forgotten her own composing and ability to play the piano. Skillful hands and fingers aided in her passion of clothing-making, for she certainly didn't want to look plain. Her mother had taught her one skill, her father the other. Her father wasn't an amazing pianist, but Haya was much to Henry's surprise. Eventually, she learned to compose music itself and play for her father, keeping him more than satisfied by her works.

And Erik Destler was not going to be playing her compositions. Not even if he sent her to sea and dropped her into the ocean right where the waves were abhorrent and the blue waters swallowed her whole. Never.

"Father," she said sternly, "he cannot play that common piece."

Her father's blue eyes furrowed the eyebrows above them and looked curiously at the music in his hands with downright confusion.

"But it's-"

"Not good enough, try another," she interrupted, swaying him from admitting that she was the composer of such fine pieces of art. Well, that was what her father would call them anyways, Haya thought they were utter pieces of ignominy to music.

It was quicker than both Haya and Henry could comprehend as Erik took the sheets of paper and began to glance furiously over the notes with little less than a hum. He stacked them neatly, placed the tattered sheets upon the black stand over the luxurious ivory, placed his fingers skillfully over the alabaster keys, and played. And he played well. Haya was surprised to say the absolute least about the visitor. After what her father said about him not being published, when composing was presumably his livelihood, she thought he would be mediocre at best.

With vigor and stamina, the man pulled chords and elongated whole notes as if his mere life depended on his playing. Music fed him through her own composition as he launched over keys in an engulfed manner. The beauty of Erik's playing was immense, more so than Haya could handle as she sat down and gawked at the frail man who made her rather complicated song look like a child's melody.

Henry smirked.

As the melodies drifted off, wafting through the home as though a scent emitting from a tart, Erik turned to Haya whose blush all but hid her. No, the flushed cheeks committed her to the crime of what she thought was an awful sin to music. The ignominy now played by a master who would surely scorn her for its triviality.

"That was an enchanting composition, much similar to one of my own," he said.

Erik's reply was relieving. There was no ruin of how Haya imagined he'd disgrace her for the work, and he hadn't even sneered at the melody at all. No, he had praised her own hand-writing even though she had denied him a handshake before! Haya couldn't describe how awful she truly felt about mistreating him.

"You really wrote it?" It truly wasn't a question, yet the dark-haired girl was overly-compelled to answer.

"Yes."

He pursed his lips and nodded as if that was what he was expecting her to say. Of course, she couldn't truly read his expression, for maybe he had pursed his lips in happy agreement. Just possibly, Erik Destler liked her work.

"Here we are," he muttered as though he'd filed his own music from his archives deep within his head, placing skillful hands upon the unpracticed piano again.