RoseBlood(101)

“He painted all these?” I ask.

Etalon nods. “There’s more to him than most people think.”

The caretaker must be expecting us, because there’s a kettle of tea steaming on a potholder at the table. Its smoky, caramelized scent fills the room with warmth. Then I realize the hospitality is probably for the mannequins stationed in chairs around empty teacups.

Apparently, the guys’ rumors at school were right about a lot of things.

I shiver in contrast to the cozy surroundings.

Standing over me, Etalon places his cloak around my shoulders so I can absorb his body heat. He cups my face with both hands, soothing my nerves with that ability he has, then skims his fingertips along my braid before moving away, leaving me tantalized in his wake. “Jippetto won’t be joining us until we’re finished up here. He’s waiting in the aviary, on the lower level.”

“Lower level?” I survey the area again, seeing nothing that indicates stairs or a basement. “How can there be room for a bird run in such a small space with a river out back?”

“You’ll see soon. But first . . . tea?” He places the violin case on the floor between the mannequins’ chairs, wraps a potholder around the kettle, and pours a cup.

I thank him and grip the handle as he cautions me not to get burned. “Why are we here?” With a sip of hot, caramel-flavored caffeine sinking into my throat, I finally have the courage to ask.

“To make a plan,” Etalon says between blowing on his tea. “The Phantom avoids coming here, just as he avoids strolls through the forest.” He sets his cup aside. I watch how he moves, flowing grace and sensuality in spite of his height and build, and wonder if it comes naturally to him, or if it’s part of being an incubus. Aunt Charlotte is graceful, too. I always thought it was the dancer in her, but maybe it’s inherent.

Etalon leans over one of the male mannequins and surprises me by unbuttoning its shirt. There’s a black heart in the center of its polished torso, carved of ebony and embedded into the white pine of the chest.

“Recognize the wood?” Etalon asks as he backs toward the chair holding the female to make room for me.

With my free hand, I touch the male’s sleek heart, shimmery like an ink spill. “It’s like the Stradivarius.”

Etalon buttons the shirt back, as if to respect the mannequin’s privacy. “Until two days ago, I didn’t know it was my violin that your father played for you. And now I see he formed a bridge with his love so Christine’s song could find its way into your body. I always thought you were simply born with the voice. Erik made it sound like he’d had the violin since he stole it from the gypsies. Like it had never been out of his hands.”

I study him, confused.

He frowns. “Remember the artisan witch your aunt mentioned? The one who sold Saint-Germain the enchanted Strad?”

I nod.

“Jippetto is the last of that clan. They were known in otherworldly circles for working with a special wood that could trap the essence of a spirit. But the black heartwood they used was rare, and grew only in one place. Deforestation decimated their supply along with their craft. Erik’s violin was the last instrument they made. Jippetto preserved his family with what little wood he had left. Within these three mannequins are his mother, Adella, and his two twin brothers, Kendric and Kestrel, who died of pneumonia.”

I glance from each painted face to the next, seeing new depth to their eyes. I almost expect them to move. Suppressing a shiver, I rest my hands beside a gray cloth napkin, the teacup cradled between them. Steam rises up like a spectral omen. “Poor Jippetto. But what does this have to do with—”

“I came here right after I heard you talking to your aunt,” Etalon interrupts. “I asked Jippetto to be honest . . . to tell me all he knew about Erik’s history with the Strad. Just like what your aunt said—Erik thought he could let the violin go.” Etalon motions me to the empty chair. The one reserved for the caretaker. I sit with my hands on my knees, my body tense. “For three decades, he tried to find a replacement, but nothing could match the purity and resonance of the original instrument. In the 1950s he launched the search for the craftsman, in hopes he could have another made. When it led him to Adella, who was on her deathbed, he learned the truth about the enchanted wood’s capabilities. He explained how he’d played for Christine as she died. How she’d sang for him. Adella told him that Christine’s voice was trapped within, and that she could be revived one day via the instrument. That when her soul was reincarnated, it could be reunited with her voice. He knew then that the violin was irreplaceable.”

I rub my sweater where it covers the scar on my knee. “So why didn’t he steal it back from us? I would’ve thought he’d move heaven and earth . . .”

Etalon props his hands on the table. “Even someone as brilliant and unrelenting as Erik can’t outthink destiny. Adella cautioned him that since a duet of love had trapped the voice, it would take the same purity of emotion to release it. So he was powerless, for he couldn’t predict who would have Christine’s soul, much less make himself love them. The only thing he could do was keep tabs on your family and violin from afar, and wait for any sign of her rebirth. When he heard about me as a child, about my angelic singing, he assumed I was her, reborn. He was partly right. Since you and I are twin flames, I’m one part of her soul, and you’re the other. But that never occurred to him as a possibility. He almost turned his back when he saw I was a boy and that I could no longer sing at all—” Etalon’s tremulous voice cracks.