The Rose Labyrinth by Titania Hardie

Author:Titania Hardie [Titania Hardie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2008-11-18T00:00:00+00:00

HE TELEPHONED MAX—WHO WAS DRAGGING SIN TO ALL OF HIS FAVORITE pleasure spots—while Lucy cut shallots and lemons and arranged the St. Peter’s fish from yesterday’s market in a dish. The kitchen was lovely to work in—good light and space, properly equipped, a huge variety of herbs. She put the fish into the oven and set the steamer whirring with some rice, then picked up her water glass and strolled back into the living room, walking straight to the piano. Alex had explained it was effectively Will’s; and she wanted to touch it. It was years since she’d played, though she’d once been quite good, but she needed to know if she could pick it up again. She glanced at the music on top and gulped.

“Will you try it then?” Alex rejoined her.

“This is a bit out of my league. The Waldstein, Schubert Impromptu…all this impossible Chopin. Not one simple nocturne in sight. Was he this good?” Alex nodded his head decisively, and she shook hers: “I’ll have to practice then.” She moved the cello, and glanced suddenly at Alex. “This was yours. Property of the god Apollo.” She laughed, but it wasn’t put as a question.

“I’ve given up now. No time. We played trios together—and I was the weakest. But my mother was a first-rate fiddler. When she got too ill to play, I stopped altogether. Will would always play for her. He’d spend whole days there when it rained. I don’t suppose she was ill, the last time we all played here.” His words lost volume and clarity. “Please, make some music. It’s sad for it to be silent. It’s a lovely instrument.”

“Don’t expect too much.”

She said this self-consciously, but she desperately wanted to play. She looked at Alex long enough to form a thought, then sat; and her hands sure enough found their way without embarrassment. Alex listened: she played Debussy. Not an especially difficult piece, well within her range; but she performed with great feeling. What affected him was her choice. It was short; and he nodded approvingly when she’d finished.

“‘La fille aux cheveux de lin,’” his voice trailed. “‘The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’ Will used to call it ‘The Girl with Horse’s Thighs.’” Lucy laughed. “I forgot how pretty it is. Can I hear it again?”

She was happy to comply; and the years eroded. It was his wedding day; he was marrying Anna, whose hair Will had said was like “wind in the cornfields.” He’d played this piece for them in the church of Anna’s Yorkshire village, told Alex to hold very tight to her if he really loved her. Alex found himself wondering what Will might be telling him now, through Lucy—not to repeat the mistake and lose hold of her? Her hair was dark silk and she couldn’t have been physically less similar to Anna, but he felt the thinness of a veil he’d never have imagined even a day ago, and it surprised him. He walked over to her and kissed her hair.

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