The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (6 page)

“A man arrived with the sunrise.”

The deep voice nudged at my subconscious, but I kept my eyes closed, basking in the afterglow of fading music. Mama was there by my side, listening to the final notes of the song, a contented smile on her face, the same look she always gave me after we’d spent a day together, stitching on our hats. Then I blinked, and the music was gone. Like a slice of winter wind the reality of Mama’s absence from my life sucked the breath from my lungs. I bunched my knees to my chest and sobbed, willing the pain away.

“Dear Juliet.” Hawk’s compassion broke through my self-pity.

I opened my eyes to find him leaning over me, much like he’d been in my dream; though now I was atop a feather mattress and pillows instead of in an underground world, and there was no serenade.

“A serenade in another world.” He smiled gently, his face close enough that if I but raised my head, I would disrupt his chin’s image for an instant. “Sounds enchanting. You must tell me of this dream later.” It was an obvious effort to cheer me.

I forced a smile, grateful that though he could read my thoughts, at least my subconscious remained private. My fingers clasped the locket pressed against my sternum. “What time is it?”

“A few hours past dawn.”

I blotted my eyes with my quilt. “I slept through the night without waking even once?”

“Didn’t hear a peep out of you,” he answered.

I squinted at him, remembering what he had told me last night about how he no longer required sleep.

“I held true to my promise to sit at the desk and not stare at you. At least for the first few minutes.” He winked.

I smirked, unable to resist his good humor. In truth, I was grateful for his vigil. I had struggled with sleep since Mama first became ill. Each time I closed my eyes, that near-death experience from my childhood resurfaced in my mind. I was only six when it happened, and the details were hazy. But flames of fear had crisped the memory to a nightmare, which snowed like ash over my dreams.

I didn’t make it to bed until well after midnight. Having buried Mama, I anticipated tossing and turning. Yet after Hawk turned his back to allow me to crawl beneath the safety of my covers—proving even a ghost could be a gentleman—I fell away to the sound of his beautiful lullaby. And even if it was only a few hours, it was the most restful sleep I’d had in some time.

Hawk cleared his throat. “As for your visitor … you told me of a maid, but didn’t mention any male acquaintances.”

“My Uncle Owen.”

On Wednesdays, Uncle always came to sort through the greenhouse, choosing blossoms for his fabric dyes: sunflowers, geraniums, foxgloves, and bloodroot. In all of my emotional upheaval, I’d lost track of what day it was. The most tender part of me didn’t think life should resume so quickly after Mama’s death. But Uncle felt most at peace when he worked.

Hawk frowned. “Ah. I thought perhaps it was that Thornton fellow, come early.”

“Heaven forbid.” My heart hammered at the thought of the viscount. I needed every hour and minute of the next two days to prepare for that encounter.

Slipping out from my sheets, I held a blanket across my chemise, waiting for Hawk to look away.

He crossed to the other side of the room and stopped beside my rosewood desk where I’d placed his flower and its pot. His gaze toured the south window. “Well, since it’s your uncle, perhaps we might use his cart and sorrel for our post-breakfast expedition.”

I glanced outside over Hawk’s shoulder. Fog hugged the sky and cloaked the sun, thick and gray like a wolf’s pelt. A miserable day for facing Mama’s grave again. But on the bright side, this weather aggravated Uncle’s back injury, which had inspired him to drive his two-wheeled sprung cart as opposed to walking.

All I needed was a way to keep Uncle and Enya from realizing I was gone until we returned.

Hawk’s feet shifted, swishing the curtains at my window, once again affecting the world around me. “Shall we plan some elaborate scheme? Or would you prefer to follow my lead?”

I secured the steel knob clasps upon the front busk of my corset over my chemise, and eased into stockings and garters. “You wish to be my puppet-master?”

“Hmmm. Me in charge of all your strings? That could prove
most
entertaining.” Hawk threatened to turn around but I yelped at him while slipping quickly into my wide-legged drawers.

His broad shoulders shook on a chortle. One thing I had learned in our short time together: he had a wicked wit and his laughter was infectious. Such a masculine, full-bodied sound. It purred through my ears, pulsed through my blood, and lifted my heart to soar—a refreshing counterpoise to the deep silence I had been wrapped within for so many years.

In that instant the sun broke through the fog. Gilded by the light, Hawk resembled a luminous, human-shaped bubble—even more breathtaking and ethereal than the shimmering silver petals of his flower.

“I’m not sure how to feel about that,” he teased. “Being compared to a flower.”

“Would you prefer a weed?”

He laughed again, and I smiled at his back while arranging a princess panel dress of black crape over my curves. I still hadn’t learned how to hide my rampant thoughts and curiosities about him. For the most part, he was taking it all in stride, and was kind enough to make light of it, to ease my embarrassment.

“I must warn you,” I said, brushing my hair and rolling it to a chignon at the base of my nape. “Chloe will be downstairs. Uncle always brings her.”

“Chloe?”

“His spaniel.”

“Ah. And judging by the way Aria reacts to me …”

“A dog would be even harder to contain. I could wear my locket outside of my dress until I make it out the door.” I hated to suggest it, knowing how he dreaded returning to his dark oblivion.

Last night, after he and I discovered we could connect via a petal within the locket, I learned to keep the necklace tucked beneath my corset so it would be held snug against my flesh. Otherwise, he faded from my vision and returned to his dark gloom until it touched my skin again.

We also realized we had to stay within fifteen feet or so of one another while I was wearing the necklace pressed to my skin, with nothing solid—such as a wall or closed door—standing between us. Otherwise, the petal would wither and have to be replaced with another.

Together, we chose never to be separated, except upon the most personal moments when I required privacy.

“Well thankfully,” Hawk said from his post at the window, “separation won’t be necessary this morn. I see the dog around the corner, secured beside your greenhouse out back.”

Relieved, I smoothed my dress into place. The princess panels hugged my small waist and hips, eliminating the need for my nemesis crinoline. Better we were sneaking out. Enya would never let me leave the house otherwise. She would insist my dress was too form-fitting without the attachable long train connected by its hooks … the one I’d left hanging in my wardrobe to make for ease in walking about.

“You may turn around now,” I said.

Hawk did, and then whistled. The sound tickled my ears and made me feel desirable—a most welcome rarity.

“You are exquisite, Juliet. Surely men have told you that.”

Before Hawk could see into my thoughts, I suppressed the memory of the two suitors from my past. It was a pain too demeaning to share. With my mind a blank slate, I led the way downstairs to the dining room, focused only on our plan for escape.

Seated at the head of the table, I sorted through my milliner materials.

Just minutes earlier, Enya had peeled the cloth off Aria’s cage. The bird fluttered impotently behind the bars, screaming at Hawk. I convinced my maid to cover her up again, that the bird missed Mama and needed a quiet space so she wouldn’t be reminded of her absence, much like Uncle had been avoiding going upstairs in fear of crossing her room.

None of us wished to entertain nostalgia today.

I worked to cover a straw bonnet with periwinkle taffeta, wincing when the needle shoved into my tender thumb pad. I had already pricked that place four times.

Pleats were difficult. The tediousness of their construction bored me. This morning, though, I fought a new battle that had nothing to do with boredom. For one thing, the dusty brown of the ribbons waiting to trim my bonnet reminded me of Mama’s eyes. And each time I thought on it, Hawk comforted me from over my shoulder where he stood to observe my work.

It was strange enough—to not even be safe in my own head with my musings. But even more unsettling was the fact that Enya and my uncle were bustling about like nervous mice. Each time one of them came close to Hawk, I jumped and pricked my finger once more.

I worried they might step on him, or walk through him, or somehow feel his presence. Or worse, cause him to disappear—still unsure of the rules of the dead. In fact, in regard to the unusual flower now occupying the left bay window, I had forbidden either of them to touch it.

I claimed the petals too fragile, that the bloom would die with too much handling. All because I feared they might see him. That I might have to share him and his songs. Hawk was a treasure, more cherished than an extravagant ruby ring I might have stolen to keep tucked away and wear in private moments when I wished to feel decadent.

“You intend to wear me, aye?” Hawk’s voice lowered and he leaned close, his phantom finger tracing an invisible pattern on the table next to my hat. “I believe I’m going to like being your secret.”

Blushing at the seductive imagery, I folded another pleat into place.

While Uncle cleared out some ash to make a place for fresh kindling, Enya prepared his favorite bread pudding for breakfast. Her fingers, frosted with crumbs from the day-old slices she earlier cubed, sorted through a basket of cranberries and tossed out any pitted or specked subjects before adding everything to a heavy cauldron already laced with milk, vanilla, eggs and honey.

“By the way, your strategy to disappear after breakfast for a ‘nap’ is working,” Hawk said, and I imagined the soft weave of his shirt could rake my temple as he pressed his palms on the table’s corner—his sleeve just inches from my face. “They speak of how tired you look.”

With a long needle, I pulled a basting stitch taut and regarded my family, deep in a clandestine conversation by the fireplace where flames now painted the walls with orange and rose-colored flashes. Enya watched my uncle strain to hang the heavy cauldron, patting his back in gratitude upon completion of the task.

Brushing his hands along his trousers, Uncle Owen gimped toward me. Enya studied him while stirring her pudding with a wooden spoon. She caught me watching and her pink skin brightened as she looked away.

Uncle patted my hand after I folded the final pleat in the taffeta and pinned it in place. I didn’t have to look beyond his down-turned mouth to see his concern. His lips moved, and I focused to better read his words before remembering that with Hawk here to translate, I didn’t have to read them at all.

“Did you have ill dreams last night, tiny sparrow?” Uncle asked. “You seem weary this morn.”

“No nightmares. Just … not enough sleep. I will nap later.” Upon securing my pleats with a running stitch and knotting off the thread, I regarded the circles beneath his eyes. “You also appear tired, father bear.”

He grinned at the familiar affectation. Mama had always called him this when he was being over-protective of me. His hazel irises sparkled for an instant, but the whites of his eyes retained evidence of his grief—swollen and veined. “I miss her.”

“Then we are of one heart.” My own eyes also stung on the admission.

He took the chair beside me, opposite where Hawk stood. We held hands for a moment, our foreheads pressed together—linking unspoken memories through osmosis.

Utilizing a trick he had mastered last night, Hawk drifted through the oak table like a knife slicing butter that folds upon itself in the utensil’s wake, leaving no indication of ever being cut. Though it unbalanced me to see him perform such capers, I couldn’t stifle a rush of bravado that he was conquering the challenges of his condition.

Hawk took a seat on the other side of Uncle Owen. “He loved your mother deeply. Much more than a brother-in-law should.”

He did.
I sent the answer back.

Hawk glanced over his shoulder at Enya, then clicked his teeth together in thought—the first I had heard of such a habit. His presence opened a whole new world of sounds for me.

My uncle pulled away and I picked up my scissors, cutting the excess thread from the bonnet.

Uncle nudged me with his elbow to get my attention. “Lovely work.”

Before I could thank him, Enya cleared the table of my hat-making materials and placed a steaming bowl of pudding and dried apple wedges under our noses. Warmth eased through me, along with scents of nourishment and comfort. I had a passing curiosity if Hawk could smell them, as well.

“No.” His answer draped my thoughts. “But it’s all right. I no longer have an appetite or need for food or drink.”

As for me, my stomach growled. Despite my emotional turmoil over the past twenty-four hours, nothing could quell my body’s instinctual will to go on. To rise above it all and survive … whether or not my spirit complied.