The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) Read Free Page B

affected moods, but even more persuasive was color. That’s why, even if it were just the two of us sharing tea, we would always don our brightest gowns and hats.
    Now that I was in mourning, I’d not have the privilege of wearing anything other than mourning weeds for several months, and my mood would be as drab as the black fabric that imprisoned me.
    As the room gradually lit, the porcelain dinnerware glistened along the cupboard’s velveteen lined shelves. Each platter had a story … each plate and bowl held a memory. Some had been used for grand meals with friends, others for cozy family suppers with Uncle, Mama, Enya and me.
    Uncle had only been seventeen when Papa married Mama. When Papa died nine years later, he carried mama’s heart with him to heaven, leaving no other man a chance to claim it.
    Mama had known Uncle loved her. She helplessly watched it happen as he stepped into Papa’s shoes to keep us afloat after his death. Mama tried to discourage his feelings tenderly. Out of respect, Uncle hid his affection away, tucked within his heart like a feather in a pocket—waiting to come out one day if the winds were favorable for flying.
    He’d never married anyone because of that hope, yet still he took care of us, not holding a grudge, even giving us a healthy percentage of the monthly earnings from the family’s baronet service.
    Because of him, we’d never had to auction any of our heirlooms. And now they were even more precious, yet at the same time, harbingers of change. For if I was forced to sell my home, they would all be boxed up and wrapped in cloaks of dust and grief.
    I felt so deeply alone, until beside the bay windows, my pet nightingale fluttered to life and rocked her standing cage. Moonlight filtered through the mossy green curtains behind her, casting shadows of her performance across the Turkish rug.
    Smiling at Aria’s antics, I set aside the stolen flower on the window seat’s cushion so I might remove my gloves. The petal from Mama’s rose fell out of my wristband and fluttered down beside my plunder.
    I left it there and nudged my finger between the nightingale’s wire bars. Her beak nipped me in greeting.
    Uncle discovered the bird three years ago, hidden beneath his cottage’s foundation. Her song gave her away. She was little more than a fledgling then—half of her left wing chewed off by some predator. Yet somehow, she’d escaped alive.
    Knowing she would never fly again, Uncle brought her to me and Mama. She adjusted to the life of a captive, coming to love and trust us as we nursed her back to health.
    She pecked my finger with vigor now, hungrily seeking a snack. She hadn’t any idea of the agony I faced today—no inkling that Mama wouldn’t be coming back, or that someone wished to take our home away. As long as she was fed and coddled, life assumed its natural slant for her.
    I looked down at Mama’s fallen rose petal again. How I envied the bird’s singularly-minded outlook.
    A chunk of stale bread waited upon the table, hidden among the ribbons, feathers, and dried flowers I’d strewn about in a vain attempt at work earlier this afternoon. I picked up the stolen flower to carry with me on my search for the bread. The prickled stem caught my bare finger, puncturing it.
    An ache wound around my knuckles and joints. The strange pain lasted only an instant—yet long enough to remind me this delicate treasure needed to be planted. Carefully, I wrapped the stem and scraggly roots in a length of grosgrain ribbon. A small droplet of blood oozed from my finger and I sucked it away.
    After feeding Aria, I took down my waist-length hair and stepped out of the dreadful crinoline which had caused so much trouble today, both tripping me in front of the viscount and nearly getting me kicked in the teeth by a horse.
    I crinkled my nose, wishing I could shed the strictures of society just as easily … the mores and virtuous ignorance pressed upon us that influenced our clothes