Harmony

Octavia dreamed of Priscilla.

She was perfect in every way. She was, had been, and would be forevermore, in death or otherwise. She was stubborn. She was flexible. She was brave, yet unafraid to admit to fear. She was kind, yet firm all the same. She was immaculate. She deserved every ounce of awe and praise the world had to offer. She was beautiful. She was beautiful. She was beautiful, and so, so loved.

The loveliest tints of autumn leaves that crumbled to dust were immortalized in Priscilla’s every step. The striking reds streaming down her back were just as memorable as the way by which they’d tickled the case of a familiar violin. Even in her dreams, Octavia would be remiss to surrender the specter of autumn’s blessing, splendorous as it was and inseparable as could be from the purest soul to ever walk the earth. She had her autumn. She basked in it. She treasured it in the dark, and she surrendered to its warmth.

She wondered if Priscilla knew. She wondered how much Priscilla knew, let alone if Priscilla would be proud. She wondered what Priscilla would’ve said, were she to see the hands that Stradivaria now called home. She’d asked in prayer after prayer. She wondered if her voice could reach.

Darkness was soft. Darkness was warm, painted by the loveliest reds of autumn as it was. Every gentle, silky memory of Priscilla’s purity was more than she was willing to surrender. If this was death, Octavia wasn’t entirely certain it was unwelcome. If Priscilla would be waiting for her, that, too, could’ve been a blessing in disguise. She’d done her best. She’d truly tried. If Priscilla awaited with open arms, she could never ask for more. Death was okay.

Death came with pressure. Death came with the confiscation of red and the offering of only black. Death came with a distant roar she couldn’t ignore and distressing sensations she couldn’t describe. Death came with an awareness beyond that which she would’ve expected. The pain that assailed her body in full spoke to something far opposite the afterlife at last. She longed for the darkness that slipped through her fingers, clutching at soft dreams she couldn’t keep hold of.

She lost Priscilla. She found herself. She tasted the sand.

She outright refused to open her eyes for a moment, each and every one of her five senses under simultaneous assault. Everything hurt. She didn’t dare move, and she initially doubted she could at all. Even with her eyes screwed shut, the scorching sunlight battled its way past her lids and seared her however possible. She pinpointed the roar, at least, given the wet sensation lapping against her waist gently.

The sand was ever-present, crawling its way into her soaked braids and dry mouth in the worst way. No amount of coughing was sparing her, nor was it doing favors to her aching chest. Opening her eyes hurt nearly as much as thinking did, for how it wasn’t the brutal sunshine alone that left her head throbbing.

It took an exorbitant amount of effort to find her footing, by which she staggered and nearly stumbled in the shifting sands at least thrice. Her head spun and her muscles burned. On all sides, the ocean had been unkind to her, salt-flavored air stinging her lungs where the sea hadn’t ravaged her clothes. Were it not for the cresting sun, perhaps she’d be shivering. As it were, struggling to process the shoreline at all, disorientation took precedence over physical suffering--for a moment, at least.

Octavia’s eyes chased the horizon behind every foreign wave. Beyond her gaze was endless blue, unfamiliar in every way. She was alive. She could move. She couldn’t remember, if her life depended on it, how she’d gotten here. As to where “here” was, she couldn’t so much as begin to guess.

She tore her eyes from the sea, and instead found a child.

Where she froze, he mirrored the same. He was equally as unfamiliar as the sprawling ocean at her back, wide-eyed and small. He drank in her pitiful visage, and Octavia stared him down with just as much befuddlement. The sands were not hers alone, and it was not the relieving revelation it should’ve been. If she was to be told she was still dreaming, she would believe the concept in an instant. He blinked slowly. She blinked back.

It took a moment to peel her eyes from his, round and inquisitive as they were. It was a lush place, the flourishing greenery contrasting pleasantly with the unsteady sands below. The little abodes were not to be ignored--humble, speckled and yet uniform as they were. With certainty, she could now say she’d never been here. She’d never imagined a shoreline commune in the first place, gentle and surreal as the sight still was. Octavia's eyes flickered down to the boy once more. He still watched her endlessly, devoid of words or motion. In his defense, she wasn’t much better.

She heard voices in a tongue she didn’t recognize, indescribable in every way. For each pair of eyes she drew, sparse and yet notable, she could only offer the same wide-eyed confusion in return. Their garments were plain, the fabrics ensnared in the salty breeze. They weren’t quite as thick, elegant, or pristine as one which she’d seen recently, just barely offset of pearly ivories as they were. Octavia couldn’t place her nostalgia. It hurt fiercely each and every time she tried. Again and again, she did so regardless. It was all she could do to remain still upon the sand, with only the roar of the ocean at her back and unfamiliar words at her front to distract from the pounding pain in her head.

There were five. There were ten. There were no less than twenty, and all eyed her up and down in equal measure. She held no fear, disconnected from the situation as she was. Even now, she was surely in a dream in a place she’d never seen. The smallest, most humble part of her felt guilty for intruding upon the home of those she’d never met, puzzled as they seemed to be in turn. It wasn’t as though she would’ve had the capacity to apologize, the language barrier more than daunting. In a thousand ways, she was out of place, pinned by gazes she could only meet one by one. She shivered, and not from the cold sting of the ocean’s prior embrace alone.

There was one who approached more closely, fearless of the Maestra who’d so suddenly washed up upon their precious shore. She, too, was incomprehensible, even as she neared Octavia directly. Her firm words were lost. For how Octavia only stared her down, the pitch and cadence of every word changed in turn. It was no less than twice more that the same pattern occurred, each new dialect still lost on the girl shaking beneath the sunshine. Octavia clung to silence. It was as safe as it was a default. There was little room for frustration, and her head still hurt even now.

The woman inhaled deeply before speaking once more. “What is your name?”

The spontaneous shift into words she could process was incredibly jarring. It took the Maestra more than a moment to even recognize them at all. She blinked, forgoing her silence altogether in surprise alone.

“O-Octavia,” she spoke plainly.

The woman nodded. “Where have you come from?”

The pain was striking and searing, and it was a reflex to clutch at her head futilely. To remember her own name at all was a privilege, she supposed. Finding a language she could understand, let alone a person she could communicate with in such a foreign place, was nothing short of a miracle. The fluency this woman possessed was almost admirable. Octavia had half a mind to wonder if Madrigal still outdid her skills.

Madrigal. Viola. Harper. Renato.

The rupturing pressure threatened to split her head in half. It was rapid. It was their names alone, flashing and flashing yet more. It was a rush she couldn’t resist, a tidal wave that slammed into her in full and battled to drown her. She couldn’t breathe.

Samuel. Cadence. Velrose. Velpyre. Blossom. Flame. Sonata. Selena. Josiah.

There were ever more indecipherable murmurs, rippling somewhere so far off. Every thought was infinitely louder, deafening as they crushed her in turn. Someone was calling her in the one tongue she’d understood. It hardly mattered. Her own name, above all others, was of least importance. It was overwhelming. It was inescapable.

Drey. Priscilla. Drey. Priscilla. Drey. Priscilla.

And when it returned at last, it was agonizing.

Drey.

Priscilla.

Priscilla.

Priscilla.

The most precious reds of autumn were tinted black, poisoned with every passing second. She didn’t want to think of Priscilla. Priscilla was all she wanted to think of. She didn’t want to remember. Remembering was all she could beg for.

He’d hurt her. Drey had hurt her. Priscilla. Priscilla.

Octavia hardly registered the sea streaming down her face, challenging that which still surged at her back. She hardly registered the way each tear scorched her skin as it fell, nor the way her circulation had surrendered to her own ruthless grip. Her shoulders burned fiercely. It paled in comparison to how her head felt. Her vision was a mess, blurring and swimming as it was. There was a voice that wailed, screamed, cried out there somewhere. It sounded oddly similar to her own. It was so, so distant.

He’d hurt her. He killed her. He killed her.

He hadn’t said it outright, and yet she still knew it to be true. There was no other explanation. There was no other interpretation. He’d been so willing to send her plummeting to her death. As to what he’d seen fit to bestow upon Priscilla, the concept alone was enough to burn her alive from the inside out. Death would’ve been kinder than entertaining the idea. Death would’ve been preferable to thinking at all. Her shoulders stung more with each passing second, her blood bubbling and throbbing in a way indescribably painful. It was most definitely her own voice screaming so viciously. She’d established that much.

“Summon the priestess!”

It was more distant than even her own wailing, blunted as the sounds of the world were. What voice had called the words with such urgency was of absolutely zero importance, nor to whom they’d pleaded. Her pain was relentless and indescribable, mental or otherwise. She couldn’t decide which sensation was worse. The ache in her shoulders was borderline unbearable, her entire body shaking violently in the grasp of such horrific suffering.

It was a hurt she’d never felt in her life, all-consuming and coursing through every vein. If she were to be told she was pain itself, she would believe the words in a heartbeat. No amount of clawing at her skin was helping, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her clinging fingernails were drawing blood. Her ears rang. She found the screeching, blighting her eardrums remorselessly as she trembled.

It took far longer than it should’ve to process what was happening. If the fall hadn’t killed her, this surely would.

She would be her own killer, then, for how every last corrupted blessing of a perfect smile tore into her heart. Octavia was still screaming, just as she was still suffering. That much was true. Still, she was at least conscious of the disgusting reality that came with her condition. If this was how Viola’s father had felt, she pitied him in every way. If this was how Selena felt, she regretted it all the more.

She wanted to die. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to die this way, specifically. She didn’t know what she wanted at all. Her throat was raw, and still she screamed. She could hardly hear it above the torturous screeching, regardless. The world itself was a blur, and her silent plea for peace was more than drowned out beneath the noise. Part of her wondered what she looked like from afar. Most of her could hardly wonder anything at all.

The girl that stole her way into Octavia’s blurring world was hardly visible, her visage murky at best. She was small. She was alone, for how they’d blessed her with space. Her eyes met Octavia’s, round and still. She was undaunted, and Octavia could do little more than cry out before her. Every unhurried step towards the suffering Maestra left bare feet kissing shifting sands, a calm demeanor offered in stark contrast to Octavia’s own.

Remaining still was Hell, for how severely Octavia wanted to do anything but. Lashing out would’ve been a reflex, given the way it could more than distract from the pain. She wanted to. She so, so desperately wanted to, and it hurt all the more to resist. The universe was spinning. She was dizzy. Again, she wanted to die.

And when the girl’s lips moved calmly, the screeching was cut short with such sudden silence that, for a moment, Octavia believed she had truly died. Where agony had writhed into every pore and nestled into her bloodstream, the incomprehensible melody that tumbled into the open air dulled her suffering yet more with every angelic note. It was crystalline and sonorous, the sole souvenir Octavia could steal as her vision erupted into blinding brilliance. She could hear it, heavenly and clear as it was.

The light that cursed her sight, in turn, stole the blurring world and the girl out from under her. It didn’t hurt as severely as she’d expected it to, nor did her pupils scream and burn. She, too, no longer screamed, surrendering her sorrow and suffering to a song that crawled into her soul. It was comforting. It was inexplicable. It was the most beautiful relief offered by the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard in her life.

Octavia surrendered to the luminous melody for as long as she could cling to it, cherishing neutral and painless sensations she’d taken for granted so recently. It took time to escape in full, and her newfound warmth inside and out was with her every step of the way. The moment it waned, she lamented its loss. To return only to the gentle ambience of the unbending ocean in the wake of both the agonizing screeching and the voice of an angel was a startling peace. When she found her sight, so, too, did she again find her savior. The blazing sun paled in comparison to the splendorous light that had overtaken her, and Octavia didn’t flinch. Once more, she could only gaze at the child in utter awe.

“Praise be to the priestess,” her prior interpreter spoke. “You are lucky to have escaped with your life.”

Finding her words was a trial, and no amount of blinking was easing the soreness behind her eyes. “Where…am I? What’s going on?”

“To see a Dissonant one here is unheard of,” the woman persisted, ignoring the inquiry entirely. “It is of no matter. The priestess will tell all.”

Battling tears was still difficult. They seeped through largely without control, Priscilla’s heinous truth still more than freshly unraveled. Even now, it would’ve been far too easy to break down and sob upon the shore infinitely. Pressing, by comparison, was exceedingly strenuous. “Who’s the…priestess?”

In lieu of a verbal answer, the woman’s eyes instead fell to the same child once more. Once more, the girl’s calm gaze captured Octavia’s own silently. This time, Octavia didn’t have the drive to look away. When her little hand rose to beckon, Octavia was still. The motion was lost on her. She stared further.

“Follow her,” the woman spoke quietly at her side.

She was disconnected, her soul surely floating high aloft in the clouds and looking down upon the Maestra on the shoreline. It was a dream she couldn’t awaken from, confusing and disorienting in every way. Only the uncomfortable sensation of her wet socks soaking the linings of her boots with every soggy step kept her tethered to reality. For how lightly and silently the girl moved, Octavia’s body was made of lead by comparison. It was all she could do to oblige and trail behind a child half her size, silky cascades of blonde that ran far too long acting as her only beacon. It was still entirely possible that none of this was real. She would’ve believed it in a heartbeat.

She found her vivid greenery, lush and abundant in every way. It was a far cry from the rich, sturdy foliage she’d come to know in Silver Ridge or beyond. Her path was shockingly clear, undeterred by floral obstacles or otherwise. She had her atmosphere, granted, for how the sweltering sun slipped through faulty canopies and left her salt-stained clothes clinging yet more uncomfortably to her skin. Each step deeper into the unfamiliar forest still left her struggling to focus exclusively on her navigator.

She was as emotionless as she was silent, never once turning to face Octavia as she pressed onwards. Were she not fatigued and overwhelmed in every way, perhaps the Maestra would be pelting her with questions. If the circumstances weren't so surreal, perhaps the ambience might even be peaceful. As it was, Octavia was lucky she could walk at all. She trailed her little guide ever deeper into uncertainty.

The voyage was not tremendous, although the crumbling architecture she’d been led to so casually was no more self-explanatory. The standing structures weren’t abundant, and yet what decaying stone remained spoke to what had once been in excess. Blessed by moss as every limestone column was and cursed by time as the scattered masonry appeared, she could make no sense of it. If she truly squinted, she could hazard a guess at an altar--decaying in its own right, if the creeping flora and cracking stone was any indicator. The clearing was vast, and each solid step left her soaked boots clacking against yet more stone underfoot rather than packed earth. There was a brief moment where she entertained the idea she’d left Mezzoria entirely. Whether such was possible, she had no idea.

By comparison to her own audible footsteps, her speechless guide was equally silent in her movements across every raised stone. Her bare feet touched lightly below, and she walked with an ethereal grace. It was only the unflinching breeze that snuck its way past which brought any semblance of sound, the rustling leaves filling in where the girl was quiet. Small as she was, wrapped up in the wind with flowing locks and rippling fabrics ensnared in turn, Octavia feared she might blow away. It would’ve been fitting, given the way by which the Maestra still wasn’t fully convinced the child was real. When she stilled in her tracks at last, she had only archaic ruins for company. Octavia, too, stilled.

“Who are you?” she finally asked. She feared the answer, somewhat.

There was a delay of more than a moment, by which Octavia briefly wondered if the girl would ever speak at all. The words that left her lips at last were abnormal in every way.

“This child goes by Rani. I do not.”

It was not the voice of a child, let alone a voice she could expect of a girl whatsoever. The deep, calm, and unmistakably masculine tone that offered up her answer was jarring enough to physically startle Octavia. For a moment, her eyes scanned the general vicinity of the child, both before and beside. She found nothing, and the alternative concept that settled into her head was impossible to fathom. It was a match that couldn’t be. She somewhat regretted asking anything at all, and she was tempted to still her tongue entirely. It wasn’t quite enough.

“Then…who are you?” Octavia asked.

Again, the girl hesitated. “You will learn in time,” the deep voice within relented at last.

“Where am I? What is this place?” Octavia continued.

Her questions were lost once more. “There is a story you are to hear.”

“A…story?”

Even now, she was robbed of the girl’s face. It was her back alone that Octavia bore witness to, cursed only to yet the same voice that shunned her questions and left her with more. Given how she tilted her head in the slightest, it was just barely enough to grant a hint of fair skin beneath the sandy veil draping her shoulders. Upon her neck was a symbol Octavia had seen exactly once before, crude and grotesque as the blackened scar had been. Here, it was soft. It spoke little of violence, for how naturally the familiar pattern had settled into the child’s pores.

A priestess and an acolyte were close enough in titles alone. Octavia began to rethink whether or not she should be grateful to those who’d received her peacefully along the shoreline. If it was a natural burden, it was forgivable. If not, they were perhaps no better than the Velpyre clergy. It made too little sense regardless. For how she’d surely be deflected once more, she declined to ask.

“I will tell it only once. You must listen carefully,” the deep voice went on.

Whether or not she could be seen, Octavia nodded. Given the way hearing spiels of blossoms and flames once more would leave her blood cold and her heart dead, she prayed her waking dream would harbor anything but. It was raw. In contrast, she was lucky.

“Where once was none came all. From nothing, light cut through the black and brought life into being. He of all above spread his reach far, his legacy a mark upon the world he created. The spirited winds ravaged the mountains so carefully crafted. Upon the green, fire raged with a will untethered. Atop the highest peaks, ice born of the soul coalesced. The lightning struck the earth, its essence a testament to shining grace. When they who remained sang, the strength of their sound could move the earth. Above all, the light of the heart watched onwards. From his blessing came those who would guard they who existed below.”

Octavia could only blink. Some part of her mind could fill in the blanks, if she tried. It was almost nostalgic. For what inquiries bubbled to her lips immediately, she was forced to swallow them just as soon. The same mismatched voice stole them away once more.

“Man flourished. Man blossomed into a force of its own, walking upon his world. From the hearts of their own came love, thrust upwards ever higher. Peace settled upon all.”

When she found the same round, empty eyes offered to her at last, they were chilling in tandem with a darkened tone. Octavia didn’t dare look away, nor did she dare speak. She carried every word with equal parts disorientation and puzzled fascination. Even now, she had no name for the one who spoke to her so clearly. It was its own frustration.

“But it was she who brought the world to ruin, enamored with the charms of man. Malice in the hearts of few dragged her from the throne above, clawed to earth with powers unfit for this realm. In her sorrow followed the agony of men, given form.”

She knew the phrase. It almost clicked. It didn’t quite make sense in full. She so, so desperately wanted to ask.

“Splintered, they above could not remain, tears beating upon the earth as they fell to mortal hands. The ninety-six took refuge within, until the chosen time should come.”

Every question she held fast to was torture. Even now, she wasn’t free of what continued to fester. Her storyteller only cursed her with more every second.

“There are those below who would yet receive their grace. Upon them, the struggle may still meet its end. In time, their pain will be witnessed, and they shall return to the throne at last.”

Fragments made sense. As a whole, it did not. Her thoughts were abuzz, for as murky as they still were. She had the slightest of silences, and she thought to seize it with everything she could beg to know. She never got the chance.

“Stratos. Now is the time.”

Her name was Octavia. She blinked.

But…my Lord, so soon? She is not ready!

And where she’d never once heard the voice leaving Rani’s lips until today, she’d heard that one several times over.

Don’t.

It had always been brief.

Stop!

It had always been direct.

Protect him.

She’d never once heard it offer a full sentence.

Octavia!

At this point, she had a feeling she could no longer be mistaken.

“Stradivaria?” she mouthed silently, a guess she feared to gift with her voice.

“Cease your foolishness. She will be the one,” the voice surely not Rani’s own demanded.

It wasn’t as though she had either half of Stradivaria with her to begin with. Her eyes flickered down to her hands, empty as they were. Still, it could be no other. She’d replayed those fleeting words she’d been offered far too many times before. She knew the tone. She knew the pitch. She knew her partner. If this was truly a dream, then this was the one thing she prayed she could take to the waking world.

The moment the child drew near, it was a reflex to reverse in turn. Standing her ground was difficult. “We will meet again, and you will know my name,” the unfamiliar voice offered slowly.

For how every last desperate inquiry had been shoved back down her throat and locked tightly in her heart, frustration paled in comparison to bleeding dissatisfaction. She needed the name now. She needed Stradivaria. She needed her location, companionship, clarity to the tale. Priscilla, perhaps. Herself, in turn. Whatever “the one” consisted of. She earned nothing.

Her patience was rewarded only with the lightest touch upon her head, one small arm stretching high to graze her hair. Where she’d craved the peace of darkness before, she found it yet again. It was a plunge of another kind entirely that sent Octavia spiraling into a blackened world once more, every thought spiraling much the same all the way down.

The second time around, she’d surrendered a salty embrace in favor of a gasp that threatened to destroy her lungs. Octavia had her ocean. It was distant, with only the gentle embrace of the plush earth below to cradle her instead. She could move, as could she feel. Sunshine still sank into her saturated clothes, sticking to her skin just as uncomfortably. It was perhaps genuine dirt that now prickled the back of her neck. It was raining, and shade spared her the full brunt of the sun’s ire. It fell down her cheeks in bitter droplets, one by one and sparse as they were. Her rain came with sobs, and her sobs were far from her own.

She opened her eyes and found her storm, so close and so sorrowful. She, too, owned tears, slipping sporadically over the edges of her face of their own accord. They were little match for Viola’s, given how much more fiercely the girl wailed the moment their eyes met. The moment her head was so carefully cradled in Viola’s arms, it was all she could do to throw her soaked sleeves around Viola in turn.

“Octavia! Octavia!” Viola cried time and time again. “Octavia!”

The urge to simply break down in Viola’s embrace was overwhelming. It took too much effort to raise her eyes elsewhere. Velrose was at her back still, the rear gates looming high behind her as they once had. The ocean lay below, and she was safely above. Were it not for the salty remnants of the writhing sea that still coated her at every angle, she could easily have never left the cliff. Her personal rain was not born of a soul of ice alone, for the three Maestros that had huddled just as near. Even with Madrigal and Harper giving her space, their own hysterics were more than audible. Renato wasn’t immune to blinking back tears, futile as the effort quickly became.

She had a fourth observer, his shoulders shaking and his breaths rattling even from afar. He was wordless. His tears were few and far between, and yet more than unrestrained when they fell. The moment Octavia’s eyes met his, soft and broken as they were, she scrambled to straighten up in full.

Every apology she could’ve dreamt of wouldn’t have been enough. Everything she could’ve offered up in her entire life wouldn’t have atoned. For how much his gentle gaze, devoid of judgment in the slightest, sliced her heart to shreds all the same, it was tempting to dive from the cliff of her own accord. It came out regardless. There was so, so little else she could give him.

“I’m sorry! Josiah, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

“I know,” Josiah whispered, his hushed voice shaking. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, it’s not! It’s not!” she cried out, her voice cracking instantly.

His tearful eyes fell closed, and he inhaled deeply. When he offered nothing more, she, too, had nothing left. It was the worst punishment she could ever receive. It was perhaps deserved.

“I thought you died! I thought I would never see you again!” Viola sobbed.

There was one punishment greater than the sting that came with failure. When it hit once more, wrath was stronger than grief. Octavia hadn’t forgotten. It hadn’t dulled. It burned, as did she, and she gripped Viola’s arms far too tightly with trembling hands. She couldn’t help it.

“He killed her!” she nearly screamed. “He killed her! He killed her!”

Viola recoiled in the face of Octavia’s spontaneous ire, her tears briefly scared into submission. “W-What are you talking about?”

Simply saying it was Hell. “Drey! It was Drey! He killed Priscilla!”

Viola fell silent for a moment, only soft hiccups escaping her throat on occasion. “Your…sister? Drey?”

Octavia nodded frantically. “He killed her!” she cried yet again.

Viola shook her head in disbelief. “How do you…know that?”

Recounting the highlights of the situation between sobs was a challenge. She didn’t mention the crisis atop the bell tower, for how it had come to speak for itself. She didn’t dare look Josiah in the eyes twice over. She kept the visions of a pristine shoreline to herself, just as she swallowed the truth of what agony had plagued her with upon its warm sands.

Rage was of interest. Vitriol was of note. Every word, every action, every implication from the once-kind lips and once-gentle touch of the man from SIAR was retold with hatred. She could hardly do the pain in her soul justice, regardless, and each sentence left her blood boiling yet more than the last. She was shaking, and no longer was it from sorrow alone.

Octavia surrendered her sobs in favor of venom, and the way by which it so easily painted every mention of his name was almost startling. It was a burn that started in her veins and erupted out through every crack of her shattered heart. It was an unquenchable sensation, an itch that couldn’t be satiated. They were silent, their collective eyes wide beneath every shaky revelation that dripped hatefully from her lips. There were no feeble sentiments of comfort, nor suggestions, nor input at all. It was the worst kind of calm, devoid of screaming bells and filled only with the roar of the ocean so far below.

She didn’t blame them. She could hardly think straight. She could hardly control her thoughts at all, for how they were a magnet to one idea and one idea alone. It was new. It was all-consuming. She didn’t loathe it.

“What…do you want to do now?”

She knew Viola would ask. It wasn’t a difficult answer, in truth, although whether it was taken well remained to be seen. She had Stradivaria, nestled peacefully in the grass at her side. She should’ve been relieved to find the violin, her hands no longer cursed to be barren. In a way, it was a relief. It would be sorely necessary, soon enough. It didn’t quite slip out. It was voluntary, achingly true, and it stung her lips with poison all the way there. She didn’t hesitate.

“I want Drey dead.”