Chapter 10: The Threshold of Vance
The afternoon air was biting and gray as I slipped out through the side service gate of the estate, keeping low behind the tall privet hedges that lined the perimeter. I wore my heavy wool coat with the collar turned up to hide my face, clutching the black violin case in my left hand as if it were a shield. The walk to the old arts district took nearly forty minutes on foot, my boots crunching over frozen gravel and cracked urban sidewalks as the glittering skyscrapers of Vincenzo’s financial district gave way to older, more modest neighborhoods where brick row houses leaned together like tired old friends.
Number 44 Elm Street was smaller than I had imagined. It was a narrow, two-story brick terrace with peeling white paint on the window frames and a small, overgrown patch of winter grass out front where a rusted bicycle frame lay half-buried in dead leaves. The front windows were dark, but a faint curl of white smoke drifted lazily from the brick chimney, signaling that someone was home inside.
My hand hovered over the wrought-iron gate for three long seconds. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to go back to the golden cage on the hill before Vincenzo’s security cameras tracked my absence or Mrs. Gable decided to report my disappearance. But then I thought of the heavy dining room table, of Celina’s vacant eyes, and of Vincenzo’s cold, absolute control over every breath I took. I pushed the gate open. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges, breaking the afternoon silence.
I walked up the three wooden steps of the front porch and raised my hand to knock on the peeling green wooden door. Before my knuckles could touch the surface, the door swung inward with a soft click.
An elderly woman stood in the dim hallway, framed by the warm, amber glow of a single floor lamp behind her. She wore a thick cable-knit woolen cardigan over a dark skirt, her silver hair pulled back into a neat, severe bun that reminded me instantly of the woman from the backstage auditorium on the night of my failed audition. Her face was lined with age, but her eyes—a striking, piercing shade of blue remarkably like my own—locked onto me with an intensity that took my breath away.
"You took your time getting here, child," Evelyn Vance said softly, her voice carrying a dry, melodic cadence that sounded like music even when she wasn't playing. "I’ve had the kettle on for twenty minutes."
I stood frozen on the threshold, the heavy black violin case slipping slightly in my numb fingers. She didn't look surprised to see me; she looked like she had been waiting for this exact knock on her door for the last ten years.
"How did you know I was coming?" I managed to whisper, stepping cautiously past her into the warm, cluttered hallway that smelled faintly of old paper, rosin, and brewing Earl Grey tea.
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Evelyn closed the front door behind us, sliding the heavy brass bolt home with a solid, echoing thud that shut out the cold world outside. She turned back to me, a faint, knowing smile touching the corners of her lips as she gestured toward the cramped parlor ahead.
"Because your grandfather was a stubborn old fool," she said, her eyes gleaming with a fierce, indomitable light. "And you have his exact same stubborn look in your eyes. Now come inside, Maisy. It’s time we talked about what your father buried."
