“How long have you been there?” he asked.
“Long enough,” Eliza replied. Her voice was quiet but not hesitant. She stepped forward, the light catching at her sleeve. “You play beautifully, but you look as though you are losing a war.”
August reached for the armor of charm. “I assure you, if I were fighting, I would be winning.”
Eliza’s eyes did not leave his face. “It is a sad song. Were you fighting sadness or only rehearsing it?”
He shifted on the bench, unsettled by the accuracy of the blow. “Why not both?”
She considered then nodded, as if he’d confirmed something.
“You do not sleep,” he observed, grasping for the offensive.
“Neither do you,” she said. “Or is this your usual hour for performances?”
He barked a low laugh. “It is my usual hour for insomnia.”
Eliza moved to the settee against the far wall, perching with the sort of composure that invited confession. “You have a reputation for being tireless,” she said. “I see now it is literal.”
He found himself wanting to ask why she was awake, what dreams or memories stalked her through the hallways. Instead, he pressed the keys again, letting the chords fill the space between them.
“If you would like to request a song,” he said, “I do know two or three that do not end in tragedy.”
She shook her head. “I prefer the tragic ones. They are more truthful.”
He arched a brow, even as he let a Chopin nocturne bleed from his fingers. “Are you so fond of sadness, then?”
Eliza leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands laced. “I am fond of honesty. Even if it is sad.”
August’s hands missed a note. He played through it, but she had noticed. Of course, she had.
He wanted to ask if she had always been so watchful. If the Hartwell women were trained to dissect a man’s soul by lantern light. Instead, he asked, “Is there something you wish to say, My Lady? Or have you come merely to haunt me?”
Eliza smiled, but it was not a kind smile. “You wish me to be haunted. It suits your image. But I do not believe in ghosts, only consequences.”
He closed the lid of the pianoforte. “You are a difficult audience.”
“On the contrary,” Eliza said, rising, “I am the easiest audience. I ask only for the truth.”
He watched her cross the carpet with a stubborn certainty.
“You should try to sleep,” he said, softer now.
“So should you,” she answered.
She was nearly at the door when he called, “Eliza?”
She stopped.
“If you wish to talk,” he said, “I will be awake.”
She paused, considering, then said, “I know.”
He watched her vanish into the dark. For a long moment, he sat there, hands pressed to the cold ivory, listening to the echo of her steps recede down the hallway. He wondered if she had heard the real melody he’d played, or just the mask he’d chosen for her.
The answer terrified him more than any sleepless night.
He did not play again but sat in the dark until the dawn began to bloom at the windows.