Chapter 3: The Hidden Score
Morning light filtered through the tall, sheer-curtained windows of my bedroom, casting pale geometric shapes across the white wooden floor. Downstairs, the household was already waking to the rigid cadence of a Vance morning: the chiming of the antique grandfather clock in the foyer, the quiet footsteps of housekeepers moving with practiced discretion, and the faint scent of black coffee drifting up from the kitchen.
I had hidden the black violin case beneath my bed, tucked far back against the baseboard behind a stack of old school binders. But the wooden instrument itself rested on my lap as I sat cross-legged on the rug, turning the pages of a weathered, leather-bound music book I had found tucked away in the lining of the case.
The pages were filled with handwritten sheet music, the ink faded to a soft sepia tone. There were no composer names at the top of the sheets, only small, cryptic initials and margin notes written in a delicate, sloping hand. As I traced the notes with the tip of my finger, I realized this wasn't standard conservatory repertoire. These were complex, melancholic pieces—music that demanded raw, honest emotion rather than the mechanical precision Vincenzo drilled into Audrey and me.
A sharp rap at my bedroom door made me jump.
"Maisy. Breakfast in ten minutes. Wear the gray wool cardigan," Celina’s voice called through the panels, crisp and devoid of any lingering warmth from the night before.
"I'm coming, Mother," I replied, my voice steady.
I quickly laid the violin back in its red-lined bed, closed the lid, and shoved it deep into the shadows beneath the mattress. Standing up, I smoothed down my skirt and pulled the heavy gray cardigan over my shoulders—a garment chosen specifically to make me blend into the background, to take up as little space as possible.
When I entered the formal dining room, the crystal chandelier was catching the morning sun, casting tiny rainbows across the long mahogany table. Vincenzo sat at the head, reading the financial section of the Wall Street Register, a silver coffee cup hovering near his lips. Audrey sat to his right, delicately cutting into a stack of blueberry pancakes while scrolling through a tablet.
Celina sat quietly to Vincenzo’s left, her posture immaculate in a tailored cream blouse. No bruises marked her high cheekbones; no trace of the previous night's violence remained on her physical person, though the tension in the tight set of her jaw told a different story.
"Your posture is slouching, Maisy," Vincenzo remarked without looking up from his paper.
"Yes, Father," I murmured, sliding into my seat at the opposite end of the table.
"Audrey has her private violin tutor arriving at four o'clock," Vincenzo continued, turning a page with a sharp crackle of newsprint. "The spring charity gala is in three weeks. She will be performing the opening prelude. You will sit in the third row and observe. You will learn what proper execution looks like."
I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, watching the butter melt slowly across the edge of a plain piece of toast. Beneath the table, my right hand curled into a fist, feeling the phantom memory of the wooden neck against my palm.
"I understand," I said softly.
Vincenzo finally lowered the paper, his dark, piercing eyes fixing on me with an intense, analytical scrutiny. For a second, the heavy silence in the dining room stretched so thin I thought he could hear the steady thrum of my pulse.
May you like
Before he could speak, a sharp knock echoed from the front foyer, followed by the low murmur of the housekeeper answering the door. Vincenzo’s gaze shifted toward the hallway, a flicker of annoyance crossing his sharp features.
The quiet illusion of our perfect, golden morning was about to crack, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that the music resting beneath my bed was the wedge that was going to split it wide open.
