Sonata (North Security 3)

As for me, I’m not sure what a regular life looks like. My tidy little future filled with violin concerts and international acclaim? That shattered along with the wood on the stage of Carnegie Hall.

Bullets have a way of doing that.

I force a fake, bright smile. “Who’s running the show?”

“Some investor in the theater. It might be okay, though. He seems to be more about the skill than the showiness. He let us come up with a new routine.”

An image forms of some old, stodgy man in a vest with balding white hair. Maybe he has a more classical taste. He probably won’t want something that would be fit for a pop concert. That actually appeals to me. Something more sedate means I won’t be flying around the stage doing stunts. Instead I’ll wear regular black concert clothes and play songs that—my stomach clenches. This isn’t good.

Even the idea of playing makes me feel sick.

Bethany pulls me close to her side as she starts a soft conversation with Isa, as if she understands that I’m too worried to speak right now. They have the patter of comfort. They must have spent time together in the past two weeks, getting close, being friends. While I was a few hundred miles away, trapped alone in a small room with a man who resents me. No, he resents my choices. Is that the same thing? It’s hard for me to tell. A discussion of dresses lulls me to the decadent room.

“I had the costume department send something over,” Bethany says. “It will fit in well enough, even if I look eccentric. And the skirt falls away so if I need to perform unexpectedly I can.”

Isa appears to take the offer seriously, like maybe there are frequently situations where emergency acrobatics and dance take place. “Will Romeo also be in costume?”

Bethany smiles. “He’s got a tux.”

“What are we dressing up for?” I ask, shivering a little at the re-entry into the conversation. I’ve grown accustomed to my prison. I find myself missing those walks along the sea. I miss his shadow following me—stalking me and keeping me safe. “I basically just brought jeans.”

“It’s a ball,” Isa explains. “I have a few we can alter for you.”

I make a face. Isa has a small frame with voluptuous features. I can only imagine how bean-pole thin I’ll look trying to wear something made for her. “Maybe we can find something at the mall.”

For the first time Isa looks hesitant. Not exactly unsure, but maybe a little embarrassed. “Formal wear would usually work, but since it’s Frans, that means actual ballgowns. I don’t want you to feel out of place in a regular dress. Especially since you’re the guest of honor.”

“The guest of honor?”

“Oh.” She looks dismayed. “Liam didn’t tell you?”

Unfortunately there’s a lot Liam doesn’t tell me. “I just don’t want to put you through any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Isa says in a confiding tone. “Besides, it will give the maid something to do besides spy on me. Now what do you think looks better on her, Bethany, a royal blue or red?”

Soulful brown eyes examine me. “What kind of red?”

“I’d prefer the blue,” I say quickly, mostly because it sounds a little more sedate. I don’t necessarily like being at the center of attention, even if the violin often makes it so.

“Bright red,” Isa says as if I didn’t speak.

“I propose we do something a little fun. Let’s use the ballgown but also make it a costume. I have this idea in my head, and I can’t shake it. She will stand out so well.”

A blush warms my cheeks. “Umm… I don’t want to stand out.”

Isa smiles. “Your soldier would like it very much. Actually, he would probably hate it. All the men admiring you in such a bold color. We could make him jealous.”

That has a strange appeal—proving to him that I’m admired by more than him. I know that he wants me, even that he loves me, but he can’t shake the old sense of control. Another man wouldn’t seek to possess me. That’s not how modern relationships work.

Then again, this is hardly the place to explain a modern relationship.

“This is a rebirth,” Bethany says in her casual wisdom. “Both of the tour and of you. It shouldn’t be a soft sound on the world’s stage. When this night is over, everyone will know that you’re alive.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. And it’s what needs to happen.

Liam

Frans leads me through a series of broad hallways until we turn toward his library. A low rumbling warns me from entering. An Irish Wolfhound bares his teeth as I turn the corner. Wiry gray hair rises on the back of his neck. Standing at four feet tall, he would be intimidating to anyone, which explains why the Irish once had an army of three hundred hounds. This particular one lets out a whine when he gets a good sniff. Then I’m attacked by ninety pounds of wriggling happiness, two large paws almost reaching my shoulders. Wolf manages a long lick across my cheek before I playfully push him off. “Down, Wolf.”