Chapter 8: The Broken Fret
The dining room table stretched out beneath a massive crystal chandelier that cast a cold, glittering light over untouched silver and bone china. Celina sat at the opposite end, her shimmering gold evening gown catching the dim illumination every time she lifted her fork. She moved with an eerie, mechanical grace, cutting her roasted chicken into precise, square pieces without ever taking a bite. Vincenzo sat at the head of the table, his sharp black suit blending into the dark mahogany shadows of the high-backed chair. He hadn't touched his wine glass all evening; his long, pale fingers rested flat against the white linen tablecloth, drumming a slow, rhythmic beat that echoed through the silent room like a ticking clock.
I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, pushing a single green bean back and forth through a smear of cold butter. My heart was still hammering against my ribs from the encounter in the attic, the folded parchment from my grandfather pressing against my thigh like a branding iron. Every second that ticked by felt stretched to an impossible length, burdened by the unspoken knowledge that Vincenzo knew I had been where I shouldn't have been. He hadn't punished me yet, but that was his preferred method of psychological torture—letting the tension build until the air grew so thin you felt like you were suffocating on your own breath.
"Maisy," Vincenzo’s voice cut through the heavy silence, smooth and low like oil spilling over broken glass.
I stopped moving my fork. "Yes, Father?"
"Your posture is slouching again," he said, not raising his voice, yet every syllable carried the weight of an iron gavel. "An artist—or anyone who aspires to walk upon a stage—must carry herself with absolute discipline. A crooked spine reflects a crooked mind. Sit up straight."
I straightened my back instantly, my muscles locking into place. Across the table, Celina didn't look up from her plate, but I saw her shoulder muscles tense beneath the glittering gold fabric of her gown. She had spent a decade mastering the art of non-existence in this house, fading into the gilded woodwork whenever Vincenzo’s temper flared. She wouldn't save me. She couldn't even save herself.
"Your performance at the winter gala is approaching," Vincenzo continued, leaning forward into the light, his dark eyes narrowing as they bore into mine. "Audrey has been practicing her concerto for three hours every day under the best instructors in the city. And you... you spend your afternoons wandering through drafty, forgotten rooms collecting trash."
"I was just looking for my winter coat," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level despite the dry panic burning the back of my throat.
Vincenzo’s lips parted in a cold, humorless smile. "Do not lie to me, Maisy. It insults your intelligence and tries my patience. I told you what would happen if I found you in the attic again. Do you take my warnings for idle threats?"
"No, sir," I whispered, staring down at my lap.
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"Good. Because next time, there won't be a warning." He picked up his water glass, took a single measured sip, and set it back down with a sharp clink that made Celine flinch. "Finish your meal. Then go to your room and practice the piece Maestro Vance assigned you. No deviations. No improvisation. You will play the notes on the page, exactly as written, or you will not play at all."
Dinner ended in silence. I pushed my chair back, murmured a polite excuse, and walked up the sweeping grand staircase with heavy steps. But instead of going straight to my room to open the standard sheet music on my stand, I locked my bedroom door from the inside, walked over to my mattress, and pulled the old wooden violin case out from the deep shadows beneath the bed. The brass latches felt cold against my trembling thumbs as I popped them open, eager to verify that the parchment I had risked everything to steal was still safe. It was there, resting right beside the scarred neck of my grandfather's violin, glowing faintly in the moonlight that filtered through the lace curtains.
