Way of the Sword by J. D. Brink

Author:J. D. Brink [Brink, J. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fugitive Fiction

22

Lovers of the Arts

Jenna Knox could not sleep. The music was on her.

The bow of her viol rushed back and forth over the strings, furious and swift, her hand guiding it by its own will. Her eyes were clenched shut, her teeth grinding. The bow whipped, the strings trembled faster than eyes could follow. The result: beautiful music, though the tones were angry and tempo twice what it should be.

Her mother-by-law was asleep in the next room; Tess Knox slept like the dead. Jenna knew her playing would only encourage deeper sleep rather than wake her, though she almost hoped Tess would wake, if only to keep her company.

Low notes growled from the instrument beneath her chin. She imagined her song resonating beyond the walls of their meager home, storming into the streets of Redfield. Maybe it would call someone else to the house, draw them from their dreams and bring them knocking on the door just to listen and enjoy some late night tea.

Late night... Too late.

All at once the song stopped. Jenna’s arms dropped to her sides, exhausted. The bow scraped the floor, the viol nearly clipped her chin as it fell from under it. I should go to bed too, she thought, staring at the fading candle flame in front of her. The wax was nearly depleted, now a growing red puddle on the desk top. Like blood.

She remembered Jake’s bloody shirt, a blotch of red that grew to claim more cloth as he moved. It was the third tunic he’d ruined, Jake said, trying to joke and pass off the severity of his wound. It had taken days to travel from Fellwater back to Redfield, the rend in his flesh reopening along the way, his fever worsening every day. He was sweating when Cromwell Steward and Master LeRouge helped him down from the wagon, lips trying to smile while his teeth bit down his pain.

“No,” Jenna said aloud. “I’m not... I’m not going to do this. I’ll never get to bed that way.”

But she wasn’t going to sleep anyway and she knew it. Her fingers twitched excitedly where she held the bow. The music was on her. That’s what Jake used to say. It came on during emotional or trying times. Tonight she had taken his things out again; sipped Lady Steward’s wine and sat staring at his things. That’s what had started it. Jake’s unfinished paintings, his tiny jars of homemade paints, his bundle of brushes. She sipped the wine and felt its bitterness tangling up inside her belly, growing like briars and scratching her guts. Eventually she was forced to play it out.

But she wasn’t done yet; she hadn’t gotten it all out.

Jenna got up and paced her small room, laid the viol and bow on the bed (what used to be their bed), and reclaimed the glass of wine. It was one of two glass cups in the house, the rest ordinary wood or clay, them and two bottles of wine having been wedding gifts from the Stewards.

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