The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(65)

Tereza was alive and uninjured.

But broken.

She sat on the piano bench, everything about her posture correct and perfect, and her hands were even on the keys, arched and poised. She looked like she could burst into music at any point.

Unless you looked at her face, at the tears that tracked silently down her cheeks, at the absolutely vacant look in her eyes, and understood that whatever made her Tereza wasn’t there anymore. Sometimes it happened as quickly as a blink, as a heartbeat, as anything that should have been normal from one to the next.

I straddled the bench next to her, one hand against her back. Still staring straight ahead into nothing, she shuddered. “If you can come back, please try,” I whispered. “I know it’s bad, but after this there’s nothing. Worse than nothing.”

“Do you think we would make it worse by trying something?” Desmond asked carefully.

“Try what?”

“Here, come off the bench and hold her on the very edge.” He sat down on the far end and carefully scooted over until he had the full range of keys. Tereza didn’t fight or struggle when I took her hands away. Desmond took a deep breath and started to play, something soft and gentle and full of pain.

Tereza’s breath hitched, the only sign that she heard.

I closed my eyes as the song continued, my chest tightening with tears I didn’t know how to shed. He didn’t just play, he effused, and the more he went on, the more Tereza shook in my arms, until finally she burst into heaving sobs and buried her face in my chest. Desmond kept playing, but now the song changed to something light and airy, not cheerful so much as comforting. Tereza wept, but she was there, still a little broken, with a few of the essential pieces missing, but responsive. I hugged her tightly, and for an agonizing moment I wondered if it would have been kinder to let her stay shattered. To let her die.

When we didn’t show up at dinner or send for trays, Lorraine told the Gardener. We were still in the music room, coaxing Tereza to play something for us, when he appeared in the doorway. I noticed him there but didn’t spare him much thought, too intent on the girl who was still shaking like a leaf. Desmond kept his voice soft, made no sudden movement, and finally she put her hands back on the keys, depressing a single note.

Desmond pressed a note lower down.

Tereza hit another one, which he answered, and gradually the notes became chords and progressions, until they were playing a duet I almost recognized. When it was done, she took a deep, slow breath, let it out, then took another.

“You get used to it,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

I very carefully didn’t look at the doorway. “Yes, you do.”

She nodded, used her skirt to wipe off her face and throat, and started another song. “Thank you.”

We listened to her for a couple of songs, until the Gardener stepped into the room to get my attention. He crooked his finger and I bit back a sigh, getting to my feet and joining him in the hallway. Desmond followed.

Desmond had saved her, but wouldn’t admit to himself what he’d saved her from.

“Lorraine said you skipped dinner,” he said quietly.

“Tereza was having a rough patch,” I answered. “She was a little more important than dinner.”

“Will she be all right?”

She had to be, or she’d be in glass. I glanced at Desmond, who took my hand with a light squeeze. “I don’t think this will be the last rough patch she’ll have, but I think this will be the worst. Delayed shock, I guess. Desmond got her playing again, though, so that’s a good sign.”

“Desmond?” The Gardener smiled, the concern replaced with pride, and he gripped his son’s shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything I can do to help her?” I bit my lip and he actually shook his finger at me. “Maya, the truth now.”

“It might be best if you didn’t have sex with her for a little while,” I sighed. “Spend time with her, fine, but I think sex is going to ask more of her than she can give right now.”

He blinked at me, somewhat taken aback, but Desmond nodded. “And keep Avery away from her,” he added. “He’s always liked breaking things.”

“How long?”

“Couple of weeks, maybe? Mostly we’ll just need to keep an eye on her, see how she’s doing.”

Too aware of his son to give in to what was in his eyes, the Gardener pressed a kiss against my forehead. “You take such good care of them, Maya. Thank you.”

I nodded because it seemed safer than talking.

He moved past us into the room and Tereza’s song faltered, but gained strength when all he did was pull out a chair from the corner to listen to her play.

Desmond and I stood in the hallway for several songs, waiting to see if the choppiness would return, but she sounded like she was at a recital, all smooth grace and memorization. When there didn’t seem to be an immediate threat of a new breakdown, he gently tugged on my hand to lead me down the hall. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m really not.”

His father would have insisted on my eating anyway, because skipping meals wasn’t healthy. His brother would have insisted on my eating because it would have amused him to watch me force the food past my nausea. But Desmond simply said, “Okay,” and led the way to the cave.

It was empty, everyone else still in the dining room, and when we were in the center of the damp room, he stopped, turned, and put his arms around me, holding me close. “He’s right about one thing,” he said against my hair. “You do take good care of them.”