Nevermore (Nevermore #1)

Nevermore (Nevermore #1) Page 81

Their footsteps went mute as they sank into plush gold and black carpeting, which trailed all the way up a grand staircase tucked against the wall to her left.

To her right was an open living room area with tall, sliding wooden doors. Inside, a gas fireplace played the role of centerpiece. The walls were lined with shelves decorated with colorful glass knickknacks and more boats. Tall floor lamps with fancy Tiffany-like glass shades accented the space. The lamps especially, Isobel thought, gave the room a very “look but don’t touch” feel.

“You want a Coke?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped from the foyer and disappeared down a narrow hallway.

“Uh, sure,” she said. She made to follow, not comfortable on her own, but stopped when she came to a second, larger room to her right. This one was another no-touchy, done in antique gold and soft pinks with hardwood inlay floors, heavy draperies, and fancy old chairs. In one corner, like a squat gentleman in a tuxedo, stood a polished black piano. As she stepped into the room, it felt almost as though she were crossing through a time portal, leaving one century behind for another. She strode toward the piano and set the bag of food down on a low coffee table with spindly legs. She moved to stand behind the instrument, where she let her fingers trail the keys. Picking one somewhere in the middle, she pressed it softly.

The note—out of tune—boomed around her.

Isobel jerked her arm back. Her elbow plowed into the shelf behind her, knocking over a picture frame. She swung around, picked up the photo—and froze when she found herself staring into the intense gaze of a green-eyed, blond-haired boy, ten years old at the most. The photograph, taken from the shoulders up, showed the boy dressed in a gray vest, white dress shirt, and dark blue tie. His gaze seemed to be fixed in an almost-scowl at the photographer, like he was indignant at the idea of having his photograph taken. Faint half circles underlined the boy’s eyes, giving him the look of being prematurely world-weary. Isobel brought the picture closer, searching that small face for traces of the boy she knew.

She started when a set of slender, ringed fingers curled around the frame. Isobel let go and spun, suddenly trapped within those same eyes. Her heart did a triple-step as he gently took the picture from her, reaching across her to place it back on the bookshelf with the others.

“You’re really a blond,” she said, her tone just short of accusatory.

“And if you tell anyone, I will come to you in the night and smote your everlasting soul.”

Promise? Isobel turned back to the piano quickly, shocked that she’d almost uttered this aloud. She distracted herself from the thought by allowing her fingers to ghost over the keys again. “So who plays?” she asked.

His eyes fell to her hand, then to the keys. “Nobody. Like everything else, it’s just for show. It’s not even tuned.”

Isobel pulled her fingers away. No, she thought, there was something more here. Something in the way his eyes had traveled over the piano’s polished surface before turning inward in thought.

“Nobody?” she pressed.

“My mom did,” he admitted, catching her off guard.

“You mean, she doesn’t anymore?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She might.” His eyes returned from their faraway moment, and he handed her a pair of silver forks he must have retrieved from the kitchen. “She left when I was eight,” he said.

She blinked. Was he joking? Sometimes it was so hard to tell. “Then who did I—?”

“You talked to my stepmom on the phone.” He was serious. Definitely no joke.

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. She wasn’t sure what to say. “I—uh, sorry,” she finally blurted.

“Don’t be,” he said. “It was a long time ago.” With that, he picked up the plastic bag of Chinese food and brushed past her to the hallway. “Grab the Cokes, would you?”

When he was out of the room, Isobel let herself breathe while silence descended anew.

She grabbed the Cokes from where he’d set them on the coffee table and left the room, looking back at the vacant piano seat. She found him waiting for her on the stairs, one hand poised on the banister. The Cokes cradled in one arm, the forks secure in her hand, Isobel mounted the stairs.

She climbed after him, the fingers of her free hand sliding along the mahogany banister. Her eyes focused on the upside-down bird on the back of his jacket, and she tried to resist the urge to say something else, to find words that would make up for the moment in the piano room. But there were none, and so Isobel kept her mouth closed.