06-05-2014, 04:41 PM
2040
She didn't like the new house; its modern white walls and vast open spaces were soulless, lacking either memory or history. Summer sun filtered through the many windows, spinning dust-motes over the unpacked boxes set atop furniture. Natalie wandered barefoot across the white varnished floor as her mother spoke with the art dealer, discussing the prospects for bringing inspiration to the house, to make a home of blank bricks and mortar.
A home without her father.
The lawyers argued over a court date. Alistair was not allowed to see his family, and though she was assured every time she asked that he was kept comfortably, in the brief media snapshots she had caught of him, tension froze his stern face to defiance. Natalie's lungs still burned from the aftermath of the fire, though she'd been discharged from hospital for over a week now, and her body still felt frail, like the flames had scoured more than her father's office. It was the first time she'd harnessed the strength to make it down the stairs.
Her piano stood against one wall. Her fingers tested the ivory keys, coaxing a few discordant notes across the conversation that drifted in and out of her attention. It still needed tuning after the move, but she'd not managed to gather the motivation to do so yet. The escape felt hollow while her family lay broken; they should be fighting to clear her father's name, not decorating a new house, hiding behind the glamour of their illustrious name. It keened something sharp in her chest. Her hands slammed down hard. The dissonance jarred.
She never noticed the voices had stopped.
The sense of someone standing behind her lifted her head. He was tall, light-haired, with a mournfully contemplative cast to his features. "Miss Grey."
His accent had a foreign cadence, Scandinavian perhaps, and he scrutinised her with what seemed an academic interest, as though she were one of the pieces he had in mind to barter. Shadows impressed the pale pallor of her face, the tightness of passing fever; she was hardly a work of art.
He produced a folded dossier from a pocket in his suit jacket, selected some papers from within, and laid them gently on the piano keys where the pressure of her hands finally eased. Paper. "Burn it afterwards."
A faint smile curved the edges of his lips. The fire was no secret, if its presence in the news had been vastly overshadowed by her father's betrayal, but something in his words prickled unease as he turned his back to continue examining the walls. "Ah, Ms. Northbrook."
Who are you? Her eyes narrowed, confused, but she didn't get the chance to speak. She pushed the papers in with her sheet music, gathered the pile and walked out without a single word as her mother returned with two cups of tea.
--*--
The simple beauty of Bach's Prelude No.1 drifted to the desolation of Beethoven's Sonata No.14, to the decadence of Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu, to the innocence of Mozart's Sonata No.16, and endless on. The music shivered against her skin unnoticed. The door to her room was shut, though her siblings knew better than to disturb her when she'd cocooned herself from the world and her mother would at least offer a pretense of formal privacy by knocking. Natalie sat with her legs drawn up at the top of the bed. Her head was bowed, pale blonde hair strewn over her shoulders, a faint frown pinching her brow. Her mother's art dealer had left her with a notion of secrecy, but the papers were spread about her carelessly.
No cohesion joined them; he'd given her a mess, and she couldn't fathom why. He was a stranger, but suspicion burned warily in her chest. He'd called her Grey. Odd medical reports surrounded her. Articles on unexplained arson, impossible feats of healing, and various other phenomena scattered across the globe. In isolation it meant nothing; a cursory scan of the internet might find any of those stories, and a thousand more besides. It was only when she reached the personal accounts that a cool feeling began settling in her gut. Light. Joy. Power. It was upon reading the last section that she finally let the papers scatter. Natalie hugged her legs, rested her chin on her knees, pale gaze unfocused.
She couldn't burn them even if she wanted to.
But she could feel something inside, something changed, the faintest light that stirred with will. Perhaps the fever hadn't yet gone. She closed her eyes, buried her face, frowning.
She didn't like the new house; its modern white walls and vast open spaces were soulless, lacking either memory or history. Summer sun filtered through the many windows, spinning dust-motes over the unpacked boxes set atop furniture. Natalie wandered barefoot across the white varnished floor as her mother spoke with the art dealer, discussing the prospects for bringing inspiration to the house, to make a home of blank bricks and mortar.
A home without her father.
The lawyers argued over a court date. Alistair was not allowed to see his family, and though she was assured every time she asked that he was kept comfortably, in the brief media snapshots she had caught of him, tension froze his stern face to defiance. Natalie's lungs still burned from the aftermath of the fire, though she'd been discharged from hospital for over a week now, and her body still felt frail, like the flames had scoured more than her father's office. It was the first time she'd harnessed the strength to make it down the stairs.
Her piano stood against one wall. Her fingers tested the ivory keys, coaxing a few discordant notes across the conversation that drifted in and out of her attention. It still needed tuning after the move, but she'd not managed to gather the motivation to do so yet. The escape felt hollow while her family lay broken; they should be fighting to clear her father's name, not decorating a new house, hiding behind the glamour of their illustrious name. It keened something sharp in her chest. Her hands slammed down hard. The dissonance jarred.
She never noticed the voices had stopped.
The sense of someone standing behind her lifted her head. He was tall, light-haired, with a mournfully contemplative cast to his features. "Miss Grey."
His accent had a foreign cadence, Scandinavian perhaps, and he scrutinised her with what seemed an academic interest, as though she were one of the pieces he had in mind to barter. Shadows impressed the pale pallor of her face, the tightness of passing fever; she was hardly a work of art.
He produced a folded dossier from a pocket in his suit jacket, selected some papers from within, and laid them gently on the piano keys where the pressure of her hands finally eased. Paper. "Burn it afterwards."
A faint smile curved the edges of his lips. The fire was no secret, if its presence in the news had been vastly overshadowed by her father's betrayal, but something in his words prickled unease as he turned his back to continue examining the walls. "Ah, Ms. Northbrook."
Who are you? Her eyes narrowed, confused, but she didn't get the chance to speak. She pushed the papers in with her sheet music, gathered the pile and walked out without a single word as her mother returned with two cups of tea.
--*--
The simple beauty of Bach's Prelude No.1 drifted to the desolation of Beethoven's Sonata No.14, to the decadence of Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu, to the innocence of Mozart's Sonata No.16, and endless on. The music shivered against her skin unnoticed. The door to her room was shut, though her siblings knew better than to disturb her when she'd cocooned herself from the world and her mother would at least offer a pretense of formal privacy by knocking. Natalie sat with her legs drawn up at the top of the bed. Her head was bowed, pale blonde hair strewn over her shoulders, a faint frown pinching her brow. Her mother's art dealer had left her with a notion of secrecy, but the papers were spread about her carelessly.
No cohesion joined them; he'd given her a mess, and she couldn't fathom why. He was a stranger, but suspicion burned warily in her chest. He'd called her Grey. Odd medical reports surrounded her. Articles on unexplained arson, impossible feats of healing, and various other phenomena scattered across the globe. In isolation it meant nothing; a cursory scan of the internet might find any of those stories, and a thousand more besides. It was only when she reached the personal accounts that a cool feeling began settling in her gut. Light. Joy. Power. It was upon reading the last section that she finally let the papers scatter. Natalie hugged her legs, rested her chin on her knees, pale gaze unfocused.
She couldn't burn them even if she wanted to.
But she could feel something inside, something changed, the faintest light that stirred with will. Perhaps the fever hadn't yet gone. She closed her eyes, buried her face, frowning.