Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson

Chapter 36

Something was different about the small music room. I sensed it as soon as I crossed its threshold. The pianoforte stood in its proper place. The drapes were pulled back, letting in the weak light of an overcast morning. The painting of Icarus hung in its accustomed spot, guarding the entrance to the secret tunnel.

I looked around, trying to pinpoint what had changed in the room. I closed my eyes and stood very still and listened. And then I realized what was missing. There was no sense of stirring here. My eyes flew open, and I crossed the room with quick strides, worrying that Miss St.Claire had already done something—that she had already taken my dark bird away.

The cage stood where it always had. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of its curved bars. But two steps away from it, I faltered, then stopped and stared at the empty perches. My hand crept to my throat. My dark bird lay still, on its side, on the floor of its cage.

I sank onto a chair as sadness threatened to overwhelm me. I felt in my bones that I was responsible for this tragedy. That lifeless body was somehow my fault. Touching the bars of the gilded cage, I wondered what had caused its death. Was it injured when it beat itself against the bars? Was it the night of freedom it had enjoyed? Or was it returning to its cage after experiencing that freedom?

I sat there in silence for a very long time. And after a long time of feeling only sadness and grief over the loss of this bird without a song, I felt something else. I felt some truth rise up within myself. And the truth was that I was just a broken thing who never should have dreamed of having wings. The truth was that nobody was going to open my cage for me and that I was a fool ever to believe I could escape.

Closing my eyes, I considered my options for my future. I could give in to Mama’s demands and speak with Henry’s grandfather. I could ask him to change his will. Or I could continue to fight her and return home with her, where she would wield her persuasive force to make me marry Mr. Cooper. Or I could go home meekly and do ... what? At every possibility I faced another cage. I could be caged by my own betrayal of my feelings, or I could be caged by an unwanted marriage, or I could be caged by going nowhere and realizing none of my dreams.

Everywhere I turned in my mind’s eye I saw cages. And considering my future, I thought, This, too, is death.

“Miss Worthington?”

I lifted my head.

“You are just the person I was looking for.”

Herr Spohr crossed the room to me, gripping a bundle of papers, his hair even wilder than usual. “I hoped you might be here.” He looked at me, then looked harder. “Is something wrong, Fräulein? You are not well?”

I shook my head. “I was just thinking, Herr Spohr.”

“Oh? Of what?”

I could not look away from the limp body and the dark feathers spilled across the bottom of the cage. “I never learned what kind of bird this was. I never heard its song,” I murmured.

“Fräulein?”

I pulled my gaze from the birdcage. “I was thinking of Faust, actually.”

He sat in the chair next to mine and leaned toward me. “What is it you were considering?”

I gestured at the birdcage. “I was wondering if he could have been content, before his bargain with the devil. Do you think it was his restlessness that led to his doom? Could he have bridled his passions? Subdued his restlessness? Could he have been happy in a cage?”

Herr Spohr’s eyes lit up with interest. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his head, further disturbing his already untidy hair. “Hmm. You pose an interesting question, Miss Worthington.” He peered into the birdcage. “A very interesting question. Was Faust’s restlessness the cause of his fall? Perhaps. His yearning for more? Definitely. Could he have changed his nature, fundamentally, so that he no longer yearned for more? So that he was not, fundamentally, restless?” He lifted one shoulder. “That is a difficult question to answer. A pointless one, as well, I think, in Faust’s case. A better question is what he might have done differently with his restless nature. He did not have to make a bargain with the devil, for instance. He might have had just as much success in life by using his own knowledge and wit and talent.”

I thought about his words. This was not the answer I was looking for. I had already made my bargain. I had to live with the consequences. I could not go back in time and remake that decision.

“Well, then, let us say he has made his bargain,” I said. “Do you think it was worth it to him?”

“Is anything worth being damned in hell?” Herr Spohr shrugged. “I doubt it very much.”

I rubbed my nose. This was not helpful at all.

“But I have come with something for you, Miss Worthington.” Herr Spohr handed me the bundle of papers he carried. “I believe this might suit you very well. It might suit your Faustian struggle. That was what I was trying to tell you the other night, at dinner. That your playing reminded me greatly of Faust’s great struggle. I heard that restlessness in your fight with the music. And I think this might be better for you.”

I looked at the sheet music, my gaze catching on the name at the top of the composition. “This is an original? One of yours?”

“Yes.” Herr Spohr stood. “One of my Romantic pieces. Try it. See how it fits with your demon.”

“But I do not know how to play Romantic music.”

He waved a hand, a casual gesture. “Let your demon decide how to play it. There are no rules.”

He began to walk away but then stopped at the door and turned back to me. “I forgot to mention: there is more than one version of Faust’s story. In my opera, he is damned for eternity to pay for his mistakes. He must fulfill the terms of his bargain. But there are other versions—versions that end well for him. He is saved by the innocent and lovely Gertrude, who pleads his case in heaven.” He gestured at the birdcage and smiled kindly. “Something worth remembering. There may be more than one option to what some would consider a foregone conclusion. And perhaps it was not its restlessness that killed the bird, but the cage itself.”

His words burrowed into my mind, finding room to take root among the miseries there. I stared at the cage for a long time before walking to the pianoforte. I sat on the stool and spread out the papers. I took a deep breath, set my fingers to the keys, and began to play Herr Spohr’s “Meine Kleine Vogel.”

It was not Mozart. It was not like Mozart at all. These notes were not obedient little soldiers marching in their proper ranks. These notes were wild things that flew like rooks above a crumbling tower. My inner demon recognized this music as the dark, unleashed thing it was. And after an hour of playing, my inner demon had whipped itself into a fury. It flew into the banished corners of my soul and swept up the accumulated grief and frustration and anger of years. It whipped it all into a torrent until tears streamed down my face while my fingers flew across the keys. And my inner demon told me I must fly. It told me I must make a choice now or else I would always feel caged and helpless and powerless and small. I listened to my demon and my heart, until the fury and the torrent had gathered itself into a great surge of courage. Then I stopped playing, picked up the music, and ran from the room.