Melodic Pressure
There’s a pressure in my ears, or ringing, I’m not sure. Something’s touching my elbow and the world is a blur of colors. No sound.
It takes a moment before the world comes flooding back: tree-shaped things on the edge of my vision, dying grass, specs of dirt, faded, abandoned gingham blanket. It’s Keigan holding my elbow, like a fairytale prince, all big-eyed concern. Someone is singing a lilting melody, high-pitched and it’s not my voice. I shake free of Keigan and my vision scatters and then settles on the sound: that girl, Wynne, at the edge of the cliff, her mouth moving but an angelic voice coming out. Light from the sky spills behind her. The edges of my vision fade out. For a moment the sky warps like it's water.
“Deep breath,” Keigan says gently, and the spell breaks. Colors come crashing back: harsh sunlight, plants bleeding green, Gerti's bright red and orange scarf. Snapping sticks and an ugly, loud bird call. The wind is just wind, and these people are just people. Wynne still stands with her feet mere inches away from the ledge, singing some kind of folk-song with a soft smile, and Gerti’s body sways in time with the music.
I’m looking at Keigan. He doesn’t appear to have anything to say, just raises the corner of his mouth. I cough loudly. “Almost choked on a honeydew,” I announce to anyone who might be listening. When no one responds I blink in time with my heartbeat and lower my voice to ask Keigan, “Where did she learn to sing?”
A warmth washes over Keigan’s face as his mouth pulls up, and he looks at Wynne. Strands of his hair blow away from his face, and I can see the smoothness of his skin and the happy crinkle at the corner of his eye. “Our mother taught her.” His gaze bounces back to me. “Wynne loves to sing. And act. The play’s for her and Roshni and some of the other kids to perform at the Windthrow Fête. Wynne wants a musical but pretty much no one else in town can carry a tune. And it’s fine, by the way, if you’re not interested in the play. I know you’re probably busy; Darian always is.”
I narrow my eyes a little at Keigan. "What's Darian got to do with me?" I ask too defensively.
His expression doesn't change, but I can see the deep rise and fall of his chest before he answers. "I just mean since both of you run on city time. Traveling, phone calls, commitments to everything which means you can commit to nothing. Working fancy jobs and meeting with fancy people." He turns to face me, and I think a blush shades his cheeks. “Sorry, I don’t mean I have anything against you.”
I’m not offended, not really, but I know I’m supposed to be. His tiny, country-boy brain thinks he’s better than me just because he’s jealous. Is what I should be thinking. I bark out a laugh, loud enough that Roshni turns and looks at me briefly. "Is that what you think it's like to be an author? Meeting fancy people?" My voice is sharp, undercut with my own envy at his quiet life, easy smile, soft hair.
Keigan gives a wry laugh, his face pointed at the sun. "Well, the people have got to be fancier than us here, yeah?"
I sniff. Adjust my corset with one hand to allow for better breathing. “They’re not all so fancy, underneath all of the noise. Just shells. Like electrons bouncing around, being pulled in different directions, but wearing expensive suits.”
Keigan lets out an unsettling burst of laughter. I’d been completely serious. “I love the image of little electrons in business suits--holding brief cases, riding public transit, presenting slide shows!” His face is split into a contagious grin, like a small child’s. “Masie, I’ll bet you're a fantastic writer based on that alone.”
I’m tensed up, waiting for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. Just a genuine-sounding compliment. We stand in silence as Wynne holds a beautiful, final note, then lets the wind take it away from her. Gerti hollers, the elderly couple claps, and Wynne blushes the same shade Keigan had and bows.
"I'll do it." My own voice.
"Hm?"
"If you want, I'll write a musical for them."
The sunlight makes his eyes glitter like bronze. “Really? Thank you, it’ll mean the world to them.”
All the leaves rustle, and I can still hear Wynne’s last sung note like it’s swirling around me, and for a moment I forget who I am and what I do and where I’m from. In that moment, it’s peaceful.
Bram isn’t happy when I get back to the Honorary Inn. Bram isn’t happy, but I also question whether he’s ever been happy. I’ve seen him smile, but it’s always in the context of placating or complimenting someone, or otherwise being charming. He’s just an electron in chinos. The sight of him and his perfectly-imperfect sweep of blonde hair is no longer comforting.
Bram, who’s sitting alone in the inn’s tiny lobby, looks up from his laptop, then back down and up again. “It’s after four o’clock.” His intonation doesn’t make it clear whether this is a disappointment or a revelation or something in between.
I think about stomping past him, right up the steps and into the dusty purple cove that is the Violet Room, but I’m an adult so I stand my ground and settle for, “I didn’t realize I had an appointment.”
He sighs. “Can you just explain to me what happened? Or, at the very least, agree to come back home?” He brandishes his phone. “Your mother is very threatening when she wants to be.”
Maybe if he hadn’t shown up unannounced this morning, or maybe if I hadn’t just agreed to work on a musical for a girl that has a voice that is both magical and unmagical, or maybe if I was more in control of the black-inky-watery memories in the recesses of my mind, I would try and explain. But I’m too good at pushing it all down, at being Masie Clements. “So you’re really just here because my mother has said she would… what, dig your spleen out and eat it? What could she possibly say?” I speak in a good-natured tone, and don’t give him time to respond before continuing. “You go. I’m working here.” I tap a finger against my chin and study the wooden beams on the ceiling. “Relaxing? Working,” I muse.
Bram just shakes his head. “I thought you hated it here?” He looks genuinely confused.
I give him a smile as sharp as a five-pointed star. “Oh dear, don’t you underestimate me.” I give the top of his laptop a pat as I walk past, like it’s a dog. I can feel him watching as I go up the stairs, and then I freeze because I’ve just spotted who’s up here.
Mariana’s head turns to look at me, her eyebrows raised in an expression I can’t read. Her back is to me, and she’s blocking the small upstairs walkway, but I can see the man standing just past her. They’re in the process of passing a small device between them--a familiarly speckled rose-gold phone.
“My phone,” I say lightly. Then I make eye contact with Walker.
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pt 15: https://www.theprose.com/post/780631/a-little-bit-of-revenge
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