Anne’s Story

Chapter One 

On the afternoon of Paolo Mariano’s murder, I heard the drops of blood hit the stage before the body did. My fae gift of greatly enhanced senses was a curse as often as it was a blessing. Sort of like being the daughter of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh. 

The former meant I experienced sight, smell, sound, touch, and even taste—ten times stronger than anyone around me. The latter meant I lived every moment with soul-crushing expectations weighing on my chest. I was forever striving to present a polished appearance, interact with the “right people” while maintaining impeccable etiquette, and uphold our family’s reputation at all times—even when being pummeled by waves of sensation. This drove me to my room more times than I could count, leading to the rumor that I had a delicate constitution. I was just Anne, the quiet girl with little to contribute. 

Except for my music. 

Half an hour before the murder, I used my key to enter through the lobby doors and locked up behind me. I passed by the poster advertising a concert for the Grey Doors, excitement tingling up my spine. They were my favorite band, big on the coast and getting bigger every week as their music was discovered by more and more people. And they were coming to Austen Heights, no doubt in part because their male lead singer, Ernesto Garcia, was from here. I kissed the tips of my fingers and placed them gently over Ernesto’s handsome face, as I’d done every day since they’d hung this poster. Two weeks from now, I’d be at that concert, standing in the front row where I could lock eyes with Ernesto. I just had to convince my mother. 

I skirted around the magnificent Christmas tree at the center of the room, breathing in the scent of the Douglas Fir. My footsteps echoed through the grand lobby until I reached a side door and moved to the carpet of the rehearsal space behind the stage. I hung my snow-dusted coat on the rack as I entered. 

The backstage area consisted of a large rehearsal room, five smaller practice rooms, and the conductor’s office, where a sliver of light was currently shining through the cracked door. I peeked my head in to greet Fred. “Good afternoon!” 

He dragged his pale green eyes away from the score in front of him and turned to me. At 28, Fred was only a few years older than me—young to be the conductor of the Austen Heights Community Orchestra. He was tall and broad, with a pointy beard and the hoofed feet of a fawn. His hair was a gorgeous shade of auburn, though receding at a regrettable rate. 

“Anne, I’m glad you’re early. I have something to ask you.”

I sat in the small plastic chair in front of his desk, drumming my fingers on the smooth surface. Fred rubbed his hands together briskly. Was he nervous? I took the figurative stopper off of my power, and for a moment, a maelstrom of input crashed into me. I tried to shut out the noise of water rushing through distant pipes and the goosebump-like texture of the chair that my now-sensitive skin felt was not smooth at all.

I focused on Fred, trying to see past the myriad of colors cast on his hair by the various lightbulbs around the room, but the smell radiating from stale, half-finished coffee that had been sitting on his desk for who knows how long, combined with the other sensations, overloaded what I could process, and I quickly blocked my ability.

Fred leaned back in his chair. “One of my hockey buddies came to meet me at the end of our last rehearsal and caught the end of your piece. He asked me who the beautiful singer was.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Usually I played second chair violin in the symphony but for this concert, I had also been offered a vocal part in O Holy Night alongside the featured guest, even though my voice—and my personality—were no match for a renowned tenor like Paolo Mariano.

I thought back to how I had looked at the rehearsal. I’d worn comfortable black leggings and a red sweater, my long black hair pulled up into a ponytail. My skin was a sun-warmed bronze even in winter thanks to my father’s side of the family, the Mexican side, but I didn’t think I’d looked particularly good that night. I hadn’t even been wearing makeup.

The corner of Fred’s mouth quirked up. “He asked me if you were cool.” 

“Oh? And what did you tell him?”

“That you’re decidedly not cool, but in the best way.” He smiled to lessen his teasing. 

I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s rich, coming from a guy wearing a tee with a music pun on it.” 

Fred raised his hands in mock surrender, showing off his shirt where a police officer pulled a burglar under an eighth rest. “I definitely never claimed to be cool. But anyway, he asked if you’d be okay with me giving him your number.”

I didn’t date much, not because I wasn’t interested, but because my mother was always meddling and trying to set me up with the sons of her pompous peers. What would she say if I went out with one of Fred’s friends? She probably wouldn’t forbid it, just imply that such a person was beneath me. She seemed to think that everyone was beneath us, except for the king and his heirs, Darcy and Georgiana, who happened to be her nephew and niece.

“Sure, you can give him my number. What’s his name?”

Fred hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking. “Ernie. His name is Ernie Reyes.” 

Just then, the door to the rehearsal room banged open and an argument spilled into the room just beyond the office.

“—orchestra is massive and we can’t risk losing your sound in all the mix.” 

The voice belonged to DeShawn Carter; he was the sound technician for the concert hall, and was notoriously finicky, but his results were worth it. The reason for this rehearsal was so that he could check the sound for the soloists before the performance tomorrow night.

“You’re such an idiot. Mine is an opera voice. I soar over orchestras every night.”

I assumed the second voice belonged to Paolo Mariano, the tenor who was the special guest at the Christmas concert. He was originally from Austen Heights, but had made a big name for himself in the opera world. I didn’t know what strings Fred had pulled to get him to perform with us, but he’d been gushing about it for weeks.

Fred winced and pushed up from his desk, heading out to smooth things over. I picked up my violin and followed. 

I recognized Paolo from the promotional poster we’d distributed throughout town. He was a tall, fae male with close-cropped black hair and a deep tan. I might have found him good-looking, had he not been staring down DeShawn with scorn-filled eyes. He turned to Fred and I, hands on his hips. “Can you believe this man wants me to use a microphone? A microphone! Sacrilege.” 

DeShawn folded his toned, brown arms across his chest. “It’s non-negotiable.”

“You are no artist. You should quit now before everyone else figures out how worthless you are.”

“Maybe I will.” DeShawn’s voice was low and tense.

Fred placed himself between the two fuming men and spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not questioning the power of your voice, Paolo, but there will be a 35 member orchestra accompanying you and a mic will help ensure that we get the balance of sound right. You wouldn’t want to drown out Anne, would you?” 

Paolo gave me a side-glance that made me feel like my voice being heard was the very last thing on his agenda. He picked a piece of lint off of his bright yellow sweater. 

“Paolo,” Fred said, frowning. “I see you’ve met DeShawn, our sound technician, now allow me to introduce you to the woman you’ll be performing with, Anne de Bourgh.” 

Paolo’s attention caught at the mention of my last name, a response I was used to. He took my hand, his well-moisturized skin even smoother than mine, and bowed over it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anne.” 

I was tempted to snub him for being so rude to DeShawn, but I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, reminding me that a de Bourgh should be above such petty bickering. 

“DeShawn is brilliant at balancing the sound,” I said quietly. 

“If that’s what counts as brilliant at a pops concert.” Paolo sneered out “pops” like it was a dirty word, but it seemed like the crisis was averted.

Half of it, at least. I turned to DeShawn. “Please don’t quit. You’re so important to this show.”

He glanced at me and the anger on his face softened for a moment, but Paolo snorted loudly and DeShawn’s expression hardened again. “I’m not quitting, but I’m done for today. I’ve set everything up so you should be able to handle it without me, Fred.” 

“Don’t you want to—” 

“I am done for today.” He pushed his way out the side door and honestly, I couldn’t blame him.

It was times like these when I wished I had my mother’s ability to manipulate the emotional tone of the room. While she couldn’t directly make someone feel something, she could saturate a room with a particular vibe, thus making people more inclined to feel a certain way. Complacence was her emotion of choice, but I’d also felt her blanket a room in calm, helping ease tension. And the tension in the main rehearsal area was palpable. 

Fred gave Paolo a stern look. “Don’t think you’re not replaceable, Paolo. If you disrespect my team again, I won’t hesitate to get rid of you.”

Paolo raised his eyebrows. “That would be a pretty pickle to put yourself in.”

“Not at all. I’ve got someone on speed dial who would create just as much interest as you.” Paulo didn’t look convinced and though I schooled my features, I figured it was a bluff as well. Surely Fred wouldn’t throw me together with a new partner this close to the big night. But he continued, “This is a holiday concert, not a Paolo Mariano concert. That means I want Christmas spirit and goodwill. If you can’t bring that, you’re out.”  

Paolo sniffed, then grabbed his music from the top of the piano. “I’m going to go warm up,” he said. I tracked which practice room he went to, but decided not to join him until he’d had a few minutes to cool his heels. Before I could settle back into conversation with Fred and get more information about this blind date, a knock sounded from the back door. 

Fred opened it and Cecelia flounced in to the room, her upturned nose red from the cold. Her eyes narrowed as they met mine. “Hello Anne.” She hung her coat on the rack in front of the door and made her way over to us. The tips of her pixie cut peeked out under her beanie, her blonde hair shining in the light. She wore a deep burgundy blouse, three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past her elbows in a deliberately relaxed touch. More like a model than a practical musician, she carried her violin case slung casually over one shoulder and sasheyed across the room in her stiletto ankle boots. 

“Hi, Cecelia.”

She and I had been fighting over position in the orchestra since we were in grade school. She often got the best parts, but on the rare occasions that I beat her out for a violin solo, she was quick to point out that being fae gave me an unfair advantage that her witch heritage didn’t give her. I wouldn’t put it past her to hex me if she thought it would get her what she wanted. 

She turned her doe-eyes to Fred. “If you don’t have time to work with me individually, that’s okay. I’ve got my part down.” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe your time would be better spent helping Anne.” 

“I have no intention of working with any of you,” Fred told her firmly. “We’re all professionals here. As I said when I added this meeting to the schedule, this is simply a sound check. I’ll call you out one by one to come to the stage and play into the mic.” 

“Why you?” Cecelia asked. “I thought DeShawn was the one who wasn’t happy with the sound at rehearsal.” 

Fred took a long, bracing breath, but another knock at the door saved him from having to explain. He opened it for Walter Branwell, the only fae among the soloists besides myself, a man who was at the top of my mother’s list of eligible bachelors she wanted me to consider. He flashed a too-white smile at us, smoothing back his golden blonde hair as he held the door open for James Yoon, who hurried in behind him, loosing his signature scarf. The two hung up their coats before coming out into the rehearsal space. 

“I’ve never seen you come in late before,” Cecelia said to James. “Aren’t you usually waiting by the door by the time Fred comes to unlock it?” 

James tossed his long, black hair over one shoulder flippantly, as though we hadn’t all just seen him rush in. “Where’s Paolo?” he rasped, glancing around the room as he hung up his coat. An accident in his youth that had damaged his vocal cords had rendered his voice permanently rough and scratchy. 

“Already warming up,” I said. 

“Good, we’re all here,” Fred said, tapping a hoof. “We’re going to have to do the check without DeShawn so you’ll have to bear with me. Who would like to go first?” 

“I will,” Walter said, and they walked to the stage together. James claimed the practice room next to Paolo. Though I was eager to get rehearsing, I wanted to give Paolo more time to cool down before going in there with him.

Cecelia eyed the violin case I carried. “Good thing your voice is serviceable enough that your mother could bully Fred into getting you a duet, since you’re not good enough to be featured on the violin.” 

I inhaled through my nose, willing myself to be patient. “Cecelia, my mother has nothing to do with my position in this orchestra.” 

I could see why she didn’t believe me. We were standing in de Bourgh Hall, after all, and my mother was on the board of directors. 

While I believed that Fred had more integrity than Cecelia was implying and usually felt confident that I deserved to be second chair–and to sing this solo–it didn’t mean that the other musicians believed it.  “You can’t just buy your way into a concert,” I said.

“It seems to have worked for Branwell.” Walter wasn’t the symphony’s usual harpist; that was Lillian Daniels. But everyone knew that Walter’s family had made a large donation to the symphony’s foundation, and now he had been selected to play the Nutcracker cadenza this year. So maybe Fred wasn’t above bribery after all.

“Cecelia, we don’t have to do this. You’re the concertmaster. While I would have loved to play your solo, you beat me fair and square.”  

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m ordering food from the Curry Cauldron.” I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. She was almost as good at verbal warfare as my mother. Her statement might be construed as an invitation, but it was one that would require me to ask her if she’d add me to her order and I had no interest in playing her game. 

“Great. Enjoy your food.” I glanced at the clock. 1:08. I’d better get to warming up with Paolo. I found him in the practice room, his fists still clenched from his earlier argument. “Can you believe what Fred said about replacing me?” he asked indignantly. Apparently, I hadn’t given him enough cool down time.

“He just wants things to go smoothly,” I said.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t understand what it’s like to have a great reputation to uphold.”

My reply caught in my throat, so thick I almost choked on the words. Upholding my family’s reputation was the foundation upon which I built my entire life, the measure by which I weighed every choice. Every decision was scrutinized under my mother’s critical eye, every desire and preference and opinion gradually chipped away until all that was left of me was the girl who upheld our family’s great reputation. I swallowed around the lump in my throat and kept the words in.

Paolo threw back his shoulders. “I’m going to go talk to Fred.”

“Can’t you talk to him after we rehearse?” 

“Absolutely not.” He flung the door open and stormed through. I closed it behind him and plunked out some notes on the piano as I ran myself through some vocal warm-ups, trying to block out strains from Carol of the Bells that rang out from the room next to me where James was practicing.

I tried my best to shut out the odd tinny quality of the glockenspiel and concentrate on my own music but kept getting distracted as James made mistake after mistake, all in the same place in the music. Ideally, when I practiced, I would stop suppressing my power and let myself feel every vibration of the strings, hear every subtle variation in tone and resonance, but that was not an option here. Even with the stopper on my enhanced senses I couldn’t block out how James was making a mistake in the same spot, and rather than stopping to correct it, he kept playing it incorrectly over and over again. The longer I kept my power locked up tight, the faster I became fatigued, until I couldn’t regulate it at all. 

I set down my violin and checked my phone. 1:25. The rest of the orchestra would be here soon, and I hadn’t even had a chance to run through my duet. I gave up on the violin and set out to find Paolo, letting the sensation wash over me as I made my way backstage. 

From behind the curtain, I heard a sharp intake of breath, drops of liquid hitting the wood floor, and a heavy thump, followed by hurried footsteps. 

I pushed my way through the thick velvet curtains that blocked my path and stepped into the warmth of the stage lights. A maze of metal music stands and chairs blocked my path but a bright yellow sweater caught my eye.

Paolo lay facedown center stage.

He was dead.