Blood beaded at the tip of Grace’s finger. How was she supposed to play the harp now? Huffing, she stuffed the finger into her mouth and glanced out her open window toward the road. No carriages were in sight. It hadn’t arrived yet, but the carriage she’d been waiting for her whole life would be coming soon. And here she sat with a cut on her finger that might ruin everything.
How was the chief musician of the royal court supposed to hear her play the harp through her open window if she couldn’t even use her finger?
After sucking away the drop of blood, she stood and headed for the other side of the room. The stool she’d been sitting on clattered to the ground at once. Since she’d rolled up the rich purple rug that normally covered her floor earlier that morning, the sound of the stool reverberated against the wooden floor. The sound seemed to double, then triple in volume before it crashed out the window.
At least Sir Phillip Reynard hadn’t been arriving in his carriage at that moment. Even still, Grace’s face scrunched into a knot and her shoulders flinched. Why did she have to be so clumsy? And with a name like Grace too! The fates had not been kind to her in that respect. No matter how she laughed it off around others, no one hated the irony of her name more than her.
Reaching for a cloth handkerchief, she used her free hand and her teeth to tie the thing around her finger. This was far from ideal. Feeling the cloth while she played would distract her. It would stop her from being immersed in the music like she needed to be while Sir Phillip rolled by. Plus, the injury would still sting every time her finger plucked a string, even if the handkerchief stopped blood from dripping.
Of course, she’d had to tune her instrument just one more time. And of course, she’d had to slice her right index finger—the finger she used most often while playing the harp—on a loose string.
Others may have found her clumsiness endearing, but she cursed the fates for it. And why today of all days? She tuned her harp constantly, and never cut herself. How had she managed to catch her finger on a loose string at just the right angle to cut herself today when she needed everything to go perfectly?
A tight frown pinched her lips as she stomped over the hard wood. The heavy clomps pounded out her window even louder than her toppled stool had. When she got to said stool, she righted it and sat down. After a small adjustment to the handkerchief to be certain two layers covered the cut and no more, she lifted her hands to the harp strings.
In one small breath, her worries fell away. Everything fell away. She could feel each wire, became in tune with its tightness. The metal strings were mostly smooth, but the slightly coiled texture seemed to sing under her fingertips.
The secret to her bubbly personality was in this magnificent instrument. No matter how frustrated or scared or angry she ever got, the strings could pull it all away once she began to play.
A simple melody rang out. She hadn’t played this song in many years since her skill had moved far past its level. She chose it in part because she needed something simple to play while adjusting to her injury. But there was another reason she chose this song in particular.
Her mother had taught her this song.
They had practiced it together before Grace’s mother and father were both killed in a fire. And if Grace ever needed to be close to her mother, it was today.
Grace’s fingers plucked and strummed over the strings, creating a music deep within her soul. Be with me, her mind dared to think. Be with me, mother.
She knew it was nothing more than her imagination, but she pictured her mother appearing at her side and placing a hand on her shoulder. That thought would give Grace strength today. It would help her ignore the pain and play as beautifully, as perfectly, as she could.
As the song neared its end, her heart thumped at the thought of her mother. It warmed and filled her chest with a great love.
For good measure, she imagined her father appearing at her other side. With the strength of both her parents, she could finally do what she’d always dreamed of.
She’d get a spot as a royal harpist. Not just a harpist in a castle—like her mother had done years before Grace had ever been born. No, Grace would be a royal harpist. Grace would be a member of court and play harp for the king himself. She would have the highest and greatest title any harpist could.
With a little smile twitching at her lips, she imagined her father placing his strong hand on her shoulder, just as she had previously imagined her mother doing.
But when the image of her father touching her shoulder filled her mind, she sucked in a breath and her heart nearly stopped.
That wasn’t just in her imagination. Something had touched her. Something real.
Her fingers stopped abruptly as she pressed them against the strings. She hadn’t even remembered closing her eyes, but it struck her now because something had touched her shoulder.
Did she dare open her eyes to find out what it was?