Look Beyond What You See

Music swirls in the air, floating effortlessly from the instruments under my slender fingertips. My old friends--Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Mendelssohn, Bizet, Brahms, Rimsky-Korsakov, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, and all the rest--are with me now, my escape from reality. These strangers who call themselves my family, without exception, appreciate my talent for the music it provides them but place little value on me. Whatever Kyla might be warning me of, I cannot help but be eager to leave this place and never look back. I’d rather leave like her than stay here like Zira and Norbert. Sometimes I think I cannot endure it another minute. Whenever I pause in playing I can hear them constantly bickering with each other, and hear Father with Delilah under the floorboards of the music room.

Despite such disturbances, my musical sanctuary here is the one thing I’d miss about this chateau if I had to leave it. I love the view outside the massive windows: the gently rolling fields studded with livestock and the occasional farmer. Trees beyond that, dark green and filled with the songs of countless birds and insects. Beyond that, barely visible, are the blue misty shapes of the mountains. Besides the view, all the instruments reside here, and the room itself is bright with shining wooden floors and white walls with subtle padding for better acoustics. Wispy white curtains frame the windows, giving the room a more whimsical feel. The only space I like more is my own sleeping quarters, which Grandmother let me decorate like a peasant’s cottage against my parents’ wishes. I’ve always preferred simpler things to the luxuries here. I envy the freedom of the farmers outside. But they do not speak to me when I go on walks outside, even when I speak to them. I feel they must have been instructed not to, else they are afraid of Grandmother. She is not always here, but I know rumours circulate that she is a witch.

I know for a fact that Grandmother is actually a sort of sorceress, though how she acquired that ability I know not. I’ve watched from hallways as she’s flicked her fingers at a candle to light it, seen her turn common household objects into rats, which she sends to Zira’s room. I suspect she is also responsible for the cockroach infestation that perpetually has my eldest sister screeching. It is no secret that Grandmother dislikes Zira as much as I do.

“Aerys! Please come downstairs. Your playing is lovely, but it is quite past midday, and your siblings have need of that room for lessons,” my mother orders in that snotty, insincere tone that I hate. I know she doesn’t like anyone, except Father. I wish she’d stop halfheartedly pretending to like me.

“As you wish,” I reply after playing a particularly jarring chord to express my frustration at being interrupted. Nothing irritates me more than being stopped in the middle of a song. I rise from my seat and slip out of the room through a secret door in the wall paneling. I know Mother will not expect me to follow her. I generally reach the room she has in mind before she does, another of my unnerving habits which she would prefer that I grew out of. Unfortunately for her, I rather like to annoy her.

“Goodness, Aerys, how do you manage these things? I can’t see how you got here before me, nor how you knew this was my destination,” Mother gripes after being startled by my presence in her sunroom.

“Special talents you have graced me with, no doubt, Mama,” I answer with only a hint of irony in my tone. I’d rather appease her and figure out what she wants of me before deciding to be outright subversive. She rolls her eyes, still displeased with my halfhearted groveling.

“Your father and I have a special birthday gift for you,” she tells me, getting straight to the point as always. That brittle smile she wore at breakfast is back. Is she ever genuinely happy? She hands me a small box, perhaps twelve centimetres square. It looks suspiciously like the jewelry boxes Kyla showed me on her eighteenth birthday. My blood chills slightly, remembering the warning from her letter. Is there a connection between these gifts and arranged marriages? What awaits me at the banquet tonight? But my worries fall away as I remove the lid from the box and let it fall to the floor.

“For me, Mama?” I breathe, admiring the antique silver necklace in the box before me. It is of remarkable craftsmanship, quite old-looking but exactly to my taste. It consists of a thick chain adorned with three coin-charms: one French, one British, and one I cannot identify. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, for you, dear. You’re a proper young lady now and ought to have a piece of jewelry that shows it.” This second remark is absolute rubbish; I have more jewels than I can count in a box in my room, mostly gifts from Grandmother, but not a one is as much to my liking as this, with the exception of the owl-shaped earrings I always wear.

“Thank you very much.” I clutch the box tighter, hardly daring to believe that they actually found something I like.

“You’re welcome, dear. You should put it on. Grandmother helped us pick it out, and I’m sure she’d love to see you wear it at dinner.”

“I will put it on when I dress for dinner, if you don’t mind. It just matches my dress, too...” Her smile tightens; is that malice in her cold dark eyes?

“Fine, but do be sure to wear it.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to offend Grandmother in any way. Is she bringing any special guests tonight?” Mother’s face hardens. Of course I should have known better than to ask questions. Mother prefers to be instantly obeyed and for all curiosity to be quashed in her presence. A pity she produced a daughter like me.

“Yes, indeed, and you must be on your best behaviour. Offending them would be most unwise.”

“I will be a perfect angel tonight, Mama.” Her face softens to its usual bitterness (instead of antagonised bitterness). She must want something (else) from me.

“I had no doubts about that, darling.” Darling? She’s never this nice to me. What is she looking for? “Now, you had best run along and start getting ready for tonight. I want you to look your best. Zira might be willing to help you get dressed, if you ask her nicely.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Mama, I’d rather not disturb Zira. Her condition is so delicate these days.” This is the only appropriate way to say that since she became pregnant, Zira has been more unbearable and volatile than ever. I think she’s in her sixth month. She’s definitely showing her condition, at any rate.

“Ah, yes, of course. I’ll send a maid to help you, then. You’re dismissed. Dinner will be one hour hence.” I leave by the normal door, which is quite unusual for me. I only do this when I know my movements are being watched. I don’t want anyone, especially Mother, learning how I move quickly, quietly, and undetected through that chateau. That would spoil all my fun.

It would also be the one downside to leaving this place. I’d have to learn all the secrets of whatever building I ended up in to keep up my skills. Although, on second thought, that might be a welcome challenge. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything truly challenging. Perhaps tonight’s dinner will be sufficiently trying, though, I hope not. I’m rather curious about these “special guests” Grandmother is bringing. But I won’t meet them until we’re in the dining room and dinner is being served, as is my habit. I prefer to stay out of sight and watch and listen to our guests from the shadows, learning as much about them as I can before I am forced to interact with them. I really don’t like people much.

That’s why I love it so much here, in my room. The whitewashed walls glow cheerfully in the afternoon sunlight that pours through my windows, along with a pleasant summer breeze that ruffles my white lace curtains. My handwoven rugs on the wooden floor are bright and colourful like my quilted bedspread. The whole room is positively, delightfully cheerful. It’s quite a pity that I am not permitted to spend much time here. I am always kept in other rooms, doing my lessons, playing music, being lectured.

“I want to see the necklace,” Zira’s sharp voice demands, jolting me from my reverie. The box is still clutched tightly in my hands, but that doesn’t stop Zira from waddling over to me (her walk has been made awkward by her protruding belly) and snatching the necklace from the box to examine it closely. Her lip curls in disgust. I dislike her intensely. “Huh. Old and tacky, just like everything you wear. Plain and utterly tasteless.” She discards it carelessly into my lap. Rude.

“A blessing that it was given to me instead of to you,” I respond coolly. “Now, I do believe you are invading my privacy. Next time you wish to visit me, please at least knock. It’s common courtesy.” She snorts in reply.

“What would you know about common courtesy? You’re little more than a vulgar brat, yourself.” Here we go.

“Did you come here for any important purpose, or simply to hear the sound of your own voice? Because I feel that you could fill that latter purpose just as easily somewhere else, perhaps with a more appreciative audience.” She rolls her eyes at me but finally catches the hint and moves to leave.

“Mostly I came to see the necklace. And to see if you wanted help getting ready for tonight. But since you’re being such an irritating twit, I think I’ll withdraw that offer.”

“It’s just as well, though I do appreciate your kindness. You should focus on getting yourself and your husband ready.” She rolls her eyes.

“I’ve been getting ready all day, but thank you for your concern.” And with that she leaves, slamming the door behind her. Good riddance. Although I should have known she’d been primping all day, from seeing her; her dress is a lovely light pink Grecian style creation that drapes becomingly over her enlarged torso, but her hair has been contorted into a sky-high sculpture and her face appears to have been painted on. I’d be a fool to ask her for help in getting ready. She has no sense of what actually looks good, only of the fashions.

It doesn’t take me long to get ready, in spite of my constant daydreams about another life in another place with people who actually care. The dress fits like a dream and is long enough that I can wear flat shoes instead of heels without attracting the disdain of all of my female relatives. All of my flat shoes have “clickers” in them, special studs in the heels that make them sound as ladies’ shoes are meant to, to satisfy societal demands. The noise is hardly a concern for me. I can move silently with bells tied to my limbs. I simply brush my hair with my fingers and leave it down; the wild auburn tendrils defy entrapment of all sorts anyway. I don’t use cosmetics, either; I don’t need them to be confident or to be pretty. The final touch before I leave my room to spy on the drama as it unfolds is to clasp the necklace around my neck.

***~O~***