CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Lullaby Beneath the Dust

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Lullaby Beneath the Dust

The song continued through the corridor.

Beatrice followed it.

She did not hurry.

Something in the melody made her slow her steps, as though moving too quickly might cause it to disappear.

The tune was familiar.

Painfully familiar.

Her mother had sung it when Beatrice was a child.

Usually at night.

Usually when storms pressed against the windows and the old Manor seemed larger than it truly was.

Beatrice remembered sitting beneath a blanket while Isadora brushed her hair.

She remembered the sound of the brush.

The warmth of the fire.

The smell of lavender.

And that melody.

Always that melody.

Beatrice turned a corner.

The song stopped.

She stood still.

Nothing.

Only the soft sound of her own breathing.

Then she noticed something on the floor.

A small piece of paper.

She bent and picked it up.

It was a child's drawing.

Crude lines had been made with charcoal or dark pencil.

A large house.

Three windows.

A tree.

And beneath the house were three small figures.

Beatrice stared.

She recognized the drawing.

She had made it herself.

A memory surfaced.

"I want the house to have a secret room."

Isadora had laughed.

"Every proper house needs at least one."

Beatrice smiled despite herself.

Then she noticed something she had never remembered before.

There was a fourth figure in the drawing.

It stood behind the house.

A dark shape with no face.

Beatrice turned the paper over.

Nothing had been written on the back.

She folded it carefully and slipped it into her pocket.

The corridor continued.

A narrow wooden door stood ahead.

Unlike the other doors she had encountered, this one looked ordinary.

The paint had peeled.

The hinges were rusted.

A brass handle had been polished so often that the surrounding wood had become smooth.

Beatrice opened it.

A servant's passage.

She recognized it from stories told during her childhood.

The servants used passages such as these to move throughout the Manor without disturbing the family.

She stepped inside.

The passage was narrow enough that her shoulders nearly brushed both walls.

Dust covered the floor.

But not evenly.

There were footprints.

Beatrice crouched.

Someone had walked through recently.

Not many people.

One set.

Small.

The footprints disappeared beneath a bend in the passage.

Beatrice straightened.

"Is anyone there?"

Nothing answered.

She continued.

The smell of old stone gradually gave way to something sweeter.

Wax.

And lavender.

Then music.

A single note.

Beatrice stopped.

Another note followed.

Then another.

Someone was playing.

The melody was the lullaby.

Beatrice followed it to the end of the passage.

A door stood there.

She opened it.

The music room.

She knew the room from childhood.

Or part of it.

The furniture was covered with white sheets.

A tall harp stood near the window.

A violin rested inside an open case.

And against the far wall sat a small pianoforte.

Beatrice walked toward it.

The keys were yellowed with age.

Dust covered the top.

But one key was clean.

Middle C.

Beatrice touched it.

The note sounded.

The lullaby stopped.

She looked around.

"Mother?"

No answer.

She sat slowly upon the bench.

Her fingers hovered above the keys.

She did not know the whole melody.

Only the beginning.

Yet her hands remembered.

She played the first few notes.

Nothing happened.

Then she noticed markings carved into the wood beneath the keyboard.

Not musical notes.

Words.

Beatrice leaned closer.

Three lines had been carved there.

First remember.

Then listen.

Then choose.

Her heart began beating faster.

The Manor creaked somewhere beyond the walls.

Beatrice looked toward the door.

No one entered.

She looked back at the words.

"Choose what?"

A folded piece of paper slid from beneath the pianoforte.

Beatrice stared at it.

She hadn't touched it.

Slowly, she reached down.

The paper was old.

The handwriting was familiar.

Isadora's.

Beatrice unfolded it.

Only one sentence had been written.

The song will lead you where I could not.

Beatrice read it twice.

Then she looked toward the harp.

A small silver ribbon hung from one of its strings.

She crossed the room and touched it.

The music room changed.

Not completely.

Just enough.

The covered furniture disappeared.

The walls brightened.

The fire came alive.

And Isadora stood beside the pianoforte.

She was singing.

Young Beatrice sat on the floor beside her mother's chair.

The little girl was holding the silver ribbon.

"Again, Mama."

Isadora smiled.

"Again?"

"Please."

"Very well."

She began the lullaby.

Beatrice watched silently.

But this time she listened differently.

There were words hidden beneath the melody.

Not obvious words.

A pattern.

Three notes.

Pause.

Two notes.

Pause.

One note.

Beatrice frowned.

The memory faded.

The music room returned.

She looked at the pianoforte.

Three notes.

Two.

One.

She pressed them.

A click sounded beneath the floor.

Beatrice stood.

A narrow panel had opened beside the fireplace.

Inside was a small compartment.

And inside that compartment was a key.

Not an ordinary key.

It was silver.

A tiny symbol had been engraved into its bow.

The same mark.

The one from her mother's unopened letter.

Beatrice took the key.

It was warm.

She looked toward the letter hidden inside her dress.

For the first time, she understood.

The letter was not the beginning.

It was the next step.

The Manor had been leading her toward it.

Not forcing her.

Leading.

Beatrice removed the envelope.

She held it in both hands.

The wax seal had already been broken.

Someone had opened it before.

Then closed it again.

Her breath caught.

"Mother..."

She turned the envelope over.

Inside was a single folded sheet.

She began to unfold it.

Then—

"Beatrice!"

Nathaniel's voice.

Real this time.

She knew it.

Beatrice stood quickly.

"Nathaniel?"

"Beatrice!"

His voice came from beyond the music room.

She ran toward the door.

But before she reached it, the song began again.

Not from the pianoforte.

From somewhere behind her.

Beatrice turned.

The harp strings were moving.

No one stood beside them.

The melody continued.

Softly.

Almost lovingly.

Then the final note sounded.

Silence.

Beatrice looked at the letter.

She had a choice.

Follow Nathaniel.

Or finally read what her mother had left for her.

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

The Manor waited.

Beatrice sat down.

She opened the letter.

And began to read.