The Devouring Gray(43)

“Anyway,” she said hastily, “what I’m trying to say is that I have the right to feel whatever I want. And so do you.”

“I’m sorry about your dad,” said Harper quietly. “But…thanks.”

“For what?”

“For listening,” said Harper, clearing her throat and gesturing toward the journal. “And now…don’t we have some work to do?”



Violet and Harper had yet to make any progress on the connection between the blackouts and her ritual, or the location of the rest of the journal. But she felt better anyway after their conversation, even though everything was still a mess.

After Harper left, Violet walked automatically to the piano, the composition book clutched in her hand. Orpheus trailed behind her as she entered the music room. One thing Stephen’s diary had made her feel better about was growing attached to the cat—getting closer to her companion could only mean that she was getting closer to understanding her magic. And she had to admit, undead or not, having Orpheus around made her feel a little calmer. A little safer.

She studied the piano from a distance at first, then approached it, laid a finger on the keys. Let a single note ring out through the air.

Violet had been on edge the past few days, but there had been no signs of turquoise hair. No waking up in strange places.

But that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen again.

“You haven’t been practicing lately.” It was Juniper, fixing the clip at the back of her bun. Today she was more dressed down than usual—jeans and a blazer instead of a pantsuit. Violet figured that meant she didn’t have any video conference calls.

“I didn’t realize you paid that much attention to when I played,” said Violet, sliding the notebook onto the piano bench—out of Juniper’s line of sight. She didn’t want to answer questions.

Juniper’s smile was sad. “I was going to ask if you’d play for Daria. She requested it. But if you don’t want to, it’s all right.”

Daria slid out from behind her, as if on cue. “Your mother says you’re very good.”

Violet eyed them both suspiciously. When she had seen them hanging out before, on the porch, she had assumed it was a fluke. Now she wondered if maybe it wasn’t. If they were actually learning how to be sisters again.

The thought made her chest hurt.

But she missed the piano. And at least, if she blacked out while there were people watching her, they’d be able to stop her before she did anything dangerous.

“Fine,” she said, sitting down and flipping her sheet music open to Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 in G Minor, op. 23, her favorite piece of her old audition program. “But I’m going to make mistakes.”

As promised, it was far from a perfect performance. She hadn’t warmed up, and it had been weeks since she’d properly played. Once, auditioning for music school had felt like the biggest challenge she would ever face. Before Rosie’s death, before all of this, she’d even put together a list: the Eastman School of Music, Juilliard, the New England Conservatory, Curtis, Oberlin. But none of that would ever happen now.

Violet channeled that frustration into her playing. It flowed into every incorrect chord and fumbled fingering, and when she was done, she felt lighter somehow, as if she had exorcised some part of herself through the music.

When she lifted her hands from the keys, Daria clapped enthusiastically. But it was Juniper who made Violet pause.

Over the years, Rosie had made sure Violet went to her lessons, had kept her practicing, had held her hand and yanked her up the stairs at her first-ever recital, when she’d been scared she was going to throw up.

Juniper had barely seemed to notice any of it.

But today she was looking. And smiling. Like she was actually proud.

Violet remembered what Daria had said, about her parents being the ones who’d started her on the piano because Stephen had played it, too.

“Well done,” Juniper said softly. But before she could say anything else, her phone began to buzz. She looked down at it, frowning, and hurried out of the room.

Violet swallowed down a twist of hurt.

“Anyway,” Violet said, standing up and grabbing the notebook. “That’s…yeah. That’s it.”

But Daria blocked her exit.

“That notebook,” she said hoarsely, clutching Violet’s hand. “Where did you find it?”

Violet swallowed, disarmed. “The town archives. It was Stephen’s.”

Daria’s head inclined. “I know.”

“Do you…do you know where the rest of it is?”

Daria’s brow furrowed. Then she reached into a pocket of her dress and extracted a dark brown cylinder.

“I might be able to help,” she said, her eyes shining, while Violet swallowed her disappointment. She’d been hoping for more pages. “After my brother died, my father wanted to get rid of the journal. But Mother hid it first. Half of it in the town archives. And the other half…she gave me this. Said it was the clue to finding it. Said to keep it safe. I keep it on me, mostly. But here.” She pushed it into Violet’s hands. “It’s yours now.”

Violet gaped at her, the weight of this gift settling in her chest. “Thank you,” she said.

Daria smiled. “You’re welcome, little bone.”