Harmony

Of the 365 days in a year, a handful were undesirable. The vast majority were holidays. Several were anniversaries, both positive and negative. Of those, the accompanying memories were bitter either way. Celebrations came with an empty atmosphere, and an empty atmosphere came with loneliness. It echoed, literally and figuratively, with every step throughout a manor so devoid of life. Birthdays weren’t an exception.

In a perfect world, she could close her eyes and reopen them to tomorrow in an instant. Again, it was sour, a disturbing taste upon her tongue that was once sweet in the arms of another. She owed it to grandmother to tolerate the day, maybe, for how the woman did her best to do the work of three. It wasn’t as though mother’s company was a tremendous loss, to be fair. Still, smiling was beyond Viola. She’d already tried.

“Close your eyes.”

She’d managed that much, at least. She’d extended her palms where necessary, and she’d accepted the delicate weight that settled into her touch. Crafting a ‘thank you’ would be difficult, given that she was still numb. She probably would be until the stars saw fit to set her free of today.

Whatever pressed against her skin was cold, smooth, and sleek. As to how long she was supposed to keep her eyes closed, she wasn’t sure. Viola ran her thumb over the length of the metallic sensation experimentally, and yet she was no closer to an answer. She threw caution to the wind after more than a moment.

She’d never been much of a musician. She still appreciated the gesture, and she threw together the best smile she could manage.

“Thank you,” Viola said weakly, forcing her tired lips to curl upwards. “It’s lovely.”

Her grandmother’s smile was far more genuine, by comparison. She felt awful for not putting in more effort. “I’ve been…trying to find the right time. I believe now is as good a chance as ever.”

Viola rolled the flute between her fingers in tandem, drinking in every sparkle captured beneath the lights of the salon. It really was pretty. She’d admit to that, if nothing else. Once more was her touch exploratory, trailing along every twisting curve inlaid beyond twinkling silver. The engraving, too, was nice. Some part of her vaguely took the gift as a suggestion, and she wasn’t certain if it came with implications. It wasn’t as though any of her hobbies were particularly captivating, nor that she routinely kept up with any at all. Whether or not she’d be any good at it was debatable. It was surely something she could contemplate alone. She couldn’t think of a solid excuse, for how gratitude was a binding obligation.

“I hope you’ll treasure that instrument just as much as I did. I’m sure it’ll cherish you, just the same.”

Viola raised her eyes. “I didn’t know you played the flute.”

The same smile persisted. “That flute meant the world to me, my dear.”

Again, Viola’s gaze fell to the shimmering silver. Again, too, they came back up. “Then…why are you giving it to me? I don’t feel right taking that from you.”

Her question was answered by action alone. In lieu of words, her grandmother only settled down onto the couch. When she gestured towards the seat at her side, Viola could only stand stiff in place. At this point, there was no trading the salon for the comforts of a solemn bedroom. She wasn’t entirely certain that it was for the better, and she stifled a sigh. With the flute still clutched in her hands, she sunk slowly into the same cushions.

“That is no normal instrument, my dear,” her grandmother began. “And you will be no normal musician.”

Viola tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

Her grandmother gestured to the flute as she spoke. “That instrument carries an incredible power within, as will you. It will be your partner.”

“My…partner,” Viola repeated. “With a flute?”

If it was figurative, her grandmother’s wording wasn’t making it obvious. “Your souls will be connected, it’s true. That flute is called a Harmonial Instrument. You are to be its Maestra.”

Viola stared. “What?”

Confusion meant nothing, apparently. Her grandmother only continued, patting the flute resting quietly in Viola’s lap. “You will be blessed with the ability to do amazing things. This instrument was once my partner, and yet I’ve grown too frail to summon its strength any longer. It is you, my love, who would next earn the right to its companionship.”

“Amazing” was pushing it. She still conceded that it was pretty. Once more, Viola was cradling the flute in both hands, inspecting it at every angle beneath the gentle lights of the salon. “How long have you had this?”

Her grandmother only beamed. “Years upon years. This instrument was handed down to me from my mother. It was passed down to her, as well. It has been in the hands of the Vacantis for as long as you could imagine.”

She’d never once heard so much as a note in the manor. Even if she strongly doubted that grandmother would trick her--today, specifically, for how poorly she already felt--it was odd regardless. The question that bubbled to her lips was instinctive and innocent, initially. It wasn’t as though she was the next generational descendent in line. There had been time. There had been options. If grandmother hadn’t waited, Viola wondered if the Vacanti streak would’ve lasted. Of the two candidates, one had long since surrendered the name, anyway.

A passing Peony brushed against her calves, and she flinched for a moment. It was enough to bring her back to reality, at least. Ultimately, she traded a weighted inquiry for something far lighter. “What makes it so special?”

Her grandmother’s smile was endless, by now. “That’s perhaps for you to find out, my dear. Do you know that instrument’s name?”

“Its…name?” Viola asked hesitantly.

Her grandmother nodded. “If you feel it in your heart, you will surely come to know.”

The concept alone felt silly. It was to say nothing of feeling anything with her heart at all. Ideally, anything pertaining to that could wait until tomorrow. Even so, she was being watched. Expectant eyes came with an exuberant smile, and it was the second obligation she’d found since setting foot in the salon. She resisted the urge to sigh. In a perfect world, the sooner she spat out the syllables, the sooner she’d be free of scrutiny. It wasn’t at all a trial.

“Silver Brevada,” she murmured.

She’d never heard that name in her life. It came out far, far too easily.

With wide eyes, she entrusted her confusion to her grandmother instead. “What is…what does that mean? Silver…Brevada?”

Confusion was met only with subtle, radiant satisfaction. “Wonderful. Already, you share a bond. Be proud of that, Viola.”

She wasn’t particularly sure what she was supposed to be proud of in the first place. She was still considering ways to make an exit, somewhere between overstimulated and curious. The cat was outright snuggled up against one of her flats. That wasn’t helping. “Grandmother, I don’t really…understand any of this,” Viola admitted.

Her grandmother shook her head. “That’s quite alright. I’m aware it’s much to take in. Give it time, love. The two of you will surely--”

“Are you sure you’re supposed to be giving this to me?”

It wasn’t supposed to slip out. She thought she’d contained it.

Her grandmother took it with grace. “It was my decision. As I’ve said, I can no longer--”

“I wasn’t next in line, was I?” Viola asked, every word touched by something sour.

The hint of distress wasn’t intentional. The question wasn’t intentional to begin with. It burned coming out as much as it did internally. She felt bad for interrupting, and yet it was just as much of a reflex. Bubbling sentiments were unrestrainable.

Her grandmother never flinched, even as her smile slipped away. “Order is…irrelevant. Viola, you are a Vacanti. This is your birthright. Your bond with Silver Brevada will be true, and that’s all that matters. Whoever would come before you is…”

She trailed off. That burned just as much. Viola couldn’t help herself. “Which of them would it have been?”

The pain in her grandmother’s eyes wasn’t muted. “Viola, that isn’t…important.”

“Isn’t it?” Viola pressed. “Did they know you had this thing?”

She stiffened. That was enough of an answer, and Viola did the same in turn.

“I…appreciate it,” she forced out, resisting the urge to grit her teeth. “I really do. I just…I’m tired. I need some time alone. I’m sorry.”

Ideally, the swelling tears she could feel threatening her eyes weren’t showing. She had a feeling she wasn’t hiding them well. Her grandmother’s soft tone was a solid indicator of that much. “I understand. Take all the time you need, my dear. Know that I’m here if you wish to talk.”

She appreciated the thought just as much as the gift. It still meant nothing at the moment. It only served to hurt, and she was already hurting enough. Each motion to her feet was painful, and every echoing clack against tile was frustrating. Everything echoed. Everything always echoed, empty as four grand walls would forever be. For more reasons than one, Viola wished they’d invest in installing carpeting someday.

She echoed all the way down the hall. She echoed all the way around the corner. She echoed, and she echoed, and she echoed with every stinging step to the one place that didn’t. It was the loudest silence, and the day was louder for it. Viola loathed it, and her knuckles were strained white around sparkling silver she’d somewhat forgotten she was holding. She kept the tears in, miraculously, hot as they burned against her retinas. The cool metal against her palms was in sharp contrast to the heat in her eyes. She didn’t necessarily hate it.

There was no reason to lock the door. Viola did so anyway, a singular pained click sealing off her grief from an outside world of one. There had been more, once. Of them, there would’ve been no need for isolation to begin with. There came an urge to collapse, although it would’ve helped little. She’d been numb most of the day, and numbness was preferable to sorrowful distress. Words of genuine kindness and glistening gifts had been the catalyst to tip the scale. She restrained the urge to throw the flute, at least. She didn’t restrain the urge to cry.

Viola settled down onto the bed in silence, as was a common theme already. It left her eyes on the floor and an instrument resting atop her knees, trembling in time with her shaky fists. She felt almost bad for it, given that it earned an additional sparkle in the form of falling pain. One by one, her tears speckled the gleaming silver in turn. It wasn’t intentional.

There were implications. The name was of least concern, for how it had rushed to her lips so easily. If he’d known, his hands had perhaps once grazed the keys in passing. Were its transfer such a precious occasion, an audience of two would’ve been a blessing. Where his touch should’ve rested, it was her fingers that hesitantly graced the metal. Where she should’ve smiled alongside him, her own prison was born of a home much too quiet.

She’d been very much trying not to think about it. One instrument alone, tethered even tangentially to his mental image, had undone her labor. Part of her really did want to throw it. Part of her wanted to hold it close, knowing what she now knew.

“Silver Brevada.”

There was no true reason to say it. It was a meaningless title, whether instinctive or otherwise. It was still every bit as confusing as the first time it had touched her tongue. Still, Viola set the name free into the open air, one hushed whisper carrying words she didn’t understand.

“Silver Brevada,” she said again. “Silver Brevada.”

It wasn’t as though it would do anything. It was a distraction from her father’s face, if nothing else.

“Silver Brevada.”

So, too, was it a ward against a silence so poisonous. Given what she held, she could shatter it in a different way at her leisure. She doubted she’d do it well, if she tried.

Viola threw her eyes to the right. The door was still locked. It didn’t matter in the first place, and any amateur song she could cobble together would be no secret. There was an immediate regret that came with the concept of him missing her first attempt, sloppy or otherwise. The idea was almost enough to make her stop.

It took mild effort to scrape her scattered tears from the metal, dotting at her sorrow with the fabric of her sleeves. The closest she’d ever come to any true musical escapades was haphazardly-plucked keys on stray pianos. Whether or not she could elicit sound at all remained to be seen, and she second-guessed her angle all the way up to her lips. It felt natural enough. Her fingers were neatly spaced, draped over every key in positions she was unfamiliar with. That, too, was natural. She didn’t question it.

With hesitation, Viola inhaled. She exhaled, and she earned one note to show for it. It was progress.

It was the tiniest of victories, and she kicked herself for celebrating something so insignificant. The sound was clear, crystal as it wavered upon the open air. She sustained it for longer than she’d expected to manage, and still, it was beautiful. She couldn’t quite consider it a talent. She experimented, pressing downwards along keys she hadn’t yet dealt with. Of those, too, she earned sweet sounds for her troubles. That, by comparison, was somewhat more disorienting.

This was startlingly easy.

Viola didn’t bother playing fast. She didn’t bother with conscious effort at all, mostly. She entertained the idea that her pitiful experiences with pianos had been a fluke. If it truly was a talent, uncovered on the worst of days, it was almost nauseating that she couldn’t share it with her father.

She could share it with grandmother. She very much could share it with grandmother. She repeated the thought inwardly until it overshadowed his visage. For the one Vacanti she had left, she fought desperately to be grateful.

Viola closed her eyes, indulging in whatever effortless melody spilled from her lips and fingertips alike. That was dangerous, maybe, given the risk of contemplation that came with the dark. What was leaving her soul in the form of soft songs was comforting, at least. Turning her attention to it wasn’t particularly difficult, by comparison.

Silver Brevada.

Naming a flute still felt strange. Grandmother had spoken of it with such pride that saying so felt inconsiderate. She didn’t hate the idea of companionship, strange as that was in and of itself. It wasn’t as though she had much of it to begin with.

That flute is called a Harmonial Instrument.

Going back to ask felt strange, too.

You are to be its Maestra.

That one still bothered her.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been playing. Whether or not her volume control was sufficient was debatable, and there was a very good chance she was audible from across the manor. Viola was still grappling with the idea of a secret so well-hidden from her ears all along, supposedly. Why it was a secret at all was still baffling. Her father rarely kept things from her in the first place.

She kicked herself for thinking of him again. Viola played harder.

The idea of him playing the same flute was an outright fantasy. She was aware. She couldn’t help it, and she hated that much.

Viola played harder still.

She was old enough, and there was no true reason for his hands to be guiding her fingers. She was already excellent, apparently. It didn’t matter. If she faked mediocrity, would it be enough of an excuse to warrant his helpful touch? Would it warrant his presence at all?

If she played harder, louder, yet more shrill, perhaps he could hear her from here.

Tears pricked at the edges of her closed eyes once more. No amount of squeezing them tighter was helping. No amount of throwing her soul into her instinctive song was alleviating the pressure in her heart. No amount of beautiful breaths into the instrument stole the pain from her lungs, chilling as it was. Every exhale came cold, tinted with something beyond her burning cheeks. It matched the lead in her veins. She hated it. She couldn’t make it stop.

Loneliness was bitter. Loneliness was painful. Loneliness was frigid. Loneliness stung her lips on the way out.

If she’d kissed the cool steel, it was her fault for being distracted. The sensation made her jump, and her song was nearly sliced in two. Viola opened her eyes by reflex alone, her shrill harmony never quite falling still. The snowflakes were utterly inexplicable.

She blinked. She blinked again. They were still there, aloft and delicate as they caught the streaming sunshine through the curtains. In the depths of a soft spring, the sight was all the more ethereal for it. They weren’t impossibly numerous, and yet the drifting flecks of precious aquamarines were more than enough. As to what part of her didn’t think to stifle notes equally as crystalline, she had no idea. It left them swirling, caught in currents unseen within the privacy of her bedroom.

In isolation, Viola cultivated the smallest of snowstorms, trickling flurries fluttering to the carpet below. She followed every last flake down with her eyes, dissolving into nothingness from where it had come. They were eternal. Where scattered frost faltered, yet more was born to take its place. A chill once gently teasing her tongue now bloomed in earnest across her lips, and her every breath was undoubtedly frozen. It didn’t hurt. If she could feel it this way, instead, she no longer hated it.

She nurtured her little blizzard for what felt like far too long. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have the time to spare. It was only when her lungs began to request reprieve that she hushed her icy song at last. It was a suspicion given credence by their absence alone, for how soft snow only surrendered to nothing in silence. In tandem with fizzling sounds, they fizzled just the same. Every faint sparkle left in the wake of their departure was fragile, and Viola almost regretted stopping.

You will be blessed with the ability to do amazing things.

Part of her was convinced it was a trick crafted for a special occasion.

Your souls will be connected, it’s true.

Whatever was still echoing inside of her chest ran deeper than she could explain. She pulled the flute from her lips, and its frigid kiss was left behind. Part of her considered reaching for the sensation, by which her fingertips would brush against the chill. The rest of her feared compromising the feeling with interloping warmth. Ideally, it would linger yet longer. Viola already missed it, somewhat.

Silver Brevada.

It had been her fault for running, and pressing was an apology of its own. If she was to forever hold a supposed soul so close to her own, the least she could do was ask of more than its name. It was the only cold she’d ever want in this place.