Chapter 4

“Is that Alex Henson?”

The whisper came from a woman beneath the eastern pack’s silver banners.

“Goddess. She looks years older.”

“Where has she been hiding? And why would she come here wearing that?”

“Why does she keep hiding that hand?”

I straightened my back and kept walking.

Once, these people had fallen silent when I entered a room because they wanted to hear me play. Now they leaned toward one another, studying the repairs in my gown.

I found an empty chair near the wall.

Across the hall, Rowan stood among the visiting Alphas in a black formal coat. Sophia held his arm, her white silk bright beneath the chandeliers.

His eyes settled on me.

His jaw tightened, but there were too many guests watching for him to say what he wanted.

Sophia gave his arm a gentle squeeze and came toward me.

“Alex. You came.”

She smiled for the people nearby.

“Sit somewhere you can see. The performance is about to begin.”

Then she leaned close enough that her perfume caught in my throat.

“Look around,” she whispered. “They all think I’m his Luna. You’re a stray he let through the gates.”

Her smile never faltered.

“Did you really imagine you could come back and take my place?”

I looked at her.

“How’s your practice coming along?”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

“Try not to lose your place.”

For an instant, the smile disappeared.

“Enjoy the performance,” she said.

Then she turned away.

A bell sounded beside the stage. The master of ceremonies stepped into the light and waited for the conversations to fade.

“Tonight, in support of our border healers, we are honored to welcome Sophia Pruitt, performing Liszt’s ‘La Campanella.’”

Applause filled the hall.

Sophia gathered her skirts, climbed the steps, and bowed. She settled at my piano with the easy confidence of someone who had never been refused an audience.

The opening was clean enough.

I watched her hands.

She had practiced the first passage carefully. Each movement had been rehearsed until she could make it look effortless.

Then came the wider leaps.

Her right hand landed short. She hurried to catch the rhythm, missed another note, and slowed.

A man near the front lowered his glass.

Sophia tried the next phrase. The melody faltered again.

She stopped.

For a moment, she sat with her fingers resting on the keys. Then she rose and approached the speaking stand.

“Forgive me,” she said with a small, embarrassed laugh. “My hand has been troubling me today. I thought I could manage.”

Sympathetic murmurs answered her.

“But an old friend is here tonight. Someone many of you will remember.”

She looked directly at me.

“Alex Henson, our former prodigy. Perhaps she would be kind enough to finish the piece.”

An attendant tilted one of the enchanted lamps toward me.

White light swept across the hall and stopped on my chair.

I blinked against it.

Sophia knew.

Of everyone watching, she was the one who knew exactly what had happened to my hand.

“Alex Henson?”

“I haven’t heard her play in years.”

“Well, let her up. This should be interesting.”

I remained seated.

Rowan approached through the tables.

“Go on,” he said. “She’s giving you an opportunity.”

I looked past him at the stage.

“It might do you some good to play again. You can’t spend the rest of your life grinding roots in that miserable shop.”

“No.”

His expression changed.

He bent toward me, lowering his voice.

“Don’t embarrass her in front of everyone.”

“I said no.”

His hand closed around my right wrist.

Pain flared where the bones had healed badly. I caught my breath, but he only tightened his grip.

“Enough.”

He pulled me to my feet.

For a moment, my knees refused to hold. I caught the back of the chair with my left hand.

Rowan mistook it for resistance.

“You’re going to walk up there and play,” he said. “Unless you want your employer to lose his shop before morning.”

Then he released me with a shove toward the steps.

I stumbled, steadied myself, and climbed.

The light was hot against my face. Beyond it, the guests had become rows of indistinct shapes.

My piano waited in the center of the stage.

I knew the weight of its keys. I remembered how the lowest notes had once vibrated through the floor beneath my bare feet.

Sophia stepped aside.

“Thank you, Alex.”

I sat down.

My right sleeve slipped back as I lifted my hand.

Someone gasped.

In the unforgiving light, there was nowhere to hide the scar or the swollen joints. My two bent fingers hovered uselessly above the keyboard.

“What happened to her?”

“Those fingers. How can she possibly play?”

Below the stage, Rowan frowned.

“What are you waiting for?”

I laid my left hand on the keys.

Then my right.

They had seen my hand.

Still, no one stopped him.

I pressed down.

My stiff fingers slipped. Pain tore through my hand, and several keys sounded together in a harsh, ugly chord.

I tried to lift my wrist.

Another cluster of notes rang out.

Then silence.

I withdrew my hand and held it against my stomach.

Sophia covered her mouth.

“Alex. Why would you do that?”

Her voice carried clearly through the hall.

“If you didn’t want to help, you could have told me. There was no need to ruin the performance.”

I stood, holding my right hand against my stomach.

Below the stage, Rowan’s face darkened.