Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(49)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Cheers erupted in the ballroom. Dominique chuckled as he carried his irritated wife up the stairs.

“I cannot believe you did that!”

He looked down. With her cheeks flushed and lips in a firm line, Isabelle looked more likely to hit him than make love to him.

He sighed. Perhaps it was better this way. Better that she remained agitated while he spoke to her about his past, for if she was more amiable he may not get the words out. And he desperately needed to, for their marriage, and their future, truly depended on it.

Chapter Twenty-nine

There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to question his own motives. Are they selfish? Purely self-seeking in their desire to gain without giving back? To take without asking questions? And to covet without any care for the person’s feelings? I feel I have done this very thing. I have taken what was not mine hoping to keep it for myself, and as I watch my life unfold and experience what it truly is to love someone, I find that the only option is to let it go.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Dominique opened the door to his bedroom and placed Isabelle lightly onto her feet before walking over to the fire and sighing.

Not sure what was bothering him after such a night, Isabelle immediately felt ill at ease. Was this when the beast was to return? Was he going to reject her as she suspected he might? And why was it, after such a wonderful night, that she still felt fear every time he was quiet? Why was she holding her breath? Hands shaking, she smoothed out her dress and waited. Silence enveloped the room for minutes before Dominique shifted on his feet and sighed.

He was facing the fire, his ungloved hands stretched out in front of the flames.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked, his voice raspy. He did not turn around but continued to stare into the fire; his hands did not move.

“Yes, quite. Thank you.” Isabelle slowly approached him, curious as to what he was accomplishing. After such an eventful night, he should be resting, not attempting to burn his hands by standing so close to the orange flames. And surely not allowing himself to feel depressed over such a successful evening.

“I shouldn’t feel anything,” Dominique whispered. “For days I cried out for my mother. She was dead, but it didn’t stop me from weeping her name.”

Isabelle reached where he stood, her eyes falling on the pinkish white scars on his hands.

“He killed her.” Dominique stated it so matter of factly that Isabelle had to shake her head to make sure she heard him right.

“Your father?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes.” Dominique walked over to his chair and took a seat. He poured himself a brandy and then poured another for her. Isabelle put up her hand—she was never one for strong spirits. “Believe me.” Dominique took a large swallow. “You will need this by the time I am done.”

Hands shaking, she reached for the amber-filled glass and took a seat opposite him, waiting for the dark tale to commence.

“I heard a commotion, and then the most haunting music of my life began to play in my mind. I thought I was either going mad, or I was finally dying. I had always been such a paranoid little boy. At any rate, it brought me down to the practice room. It wasn’t at all odd for me to play into the early morning. It seemed to be the only time I could clear my mind.” Dominique closed his eyes. “I found her.” His voice was haunting as if he was reliving the moment again.

“Your mother?” Isabelle whispered.

“Yes, she had been shot in the head by my father. She was lying with her eyes open in a pool of her own blood. And my teacher, the one who had taught me how to use my gift, was dead on top of her. Both of their eyes were open as if their souls were screaming for vengeance for me to right the wrong that had been done them, but all I could do was stand there, in absolute horror.” Voice raspy and thick with emotion, he cursed and took another swallow of brandy.

“And your father?” Isabelle found it hard to speak, for her voice felt shaky. She took a long sip of the brandy and barely kept herself from choking.

Dominique was silent for a few minutes, his eyes closed. “He laughed.”

Isabelle felt her eyes pool with tears. Flames danced on the walls of the room, they cast shadows and light across Dominique’s features. Such a beautiful man, so much talent and promise, utterly ruined as a boy. How could even the best of men come out of a similar situation without bearing scars?

Dominique smiled cynically and poured another glass of spirits. “He forced me to play one last song. It was as if I was playing the piano for my mother, only it was her funeral, not a birthday or a party or even a celebration. I still hear the song; it still haunts me. It has become a habit to write out the notes so I can sleep at night, but I burn what I write as if burning the memory of that night will purge it from me.

“I had no idea the depths of my father’s own perversion. The pain was excruciating when he poured hot wax across my hands. I believe he meant to take away my gift, but hot wax does nothing more than burn you, it does not keep you from playing the same instrument he despised so much.”

Feeling ill, Isabelle leaned forward; the smell of death seemed to permeate their room.

But Dominique continued, his voice hollow. “In the end, he threw my music into the fire, told me to follow it there. I was a silly child. I did not want to see my music, the music I had written for my mother, burn. So like a fool I reached into the flames to retrieve it.”

“No more!” Isabelle sobbed into her hands. “Please.” Her shoulders shook of their own accord as her sobs echoed in the silent room.

“I must, Isabelle. You must know.” Dominique’s hand was on her shoulder and then her neck. He had moved closer to her and was now kneeling in front of her, holding her hands within his own. His voice trembled as he continued. “He held my hands there until I passed out. I have no idea how long they were in the flames, all I know is Cuppins found me hours later. The trauma was enough for them to worry for my life. My father, who bore scars of his own, was never the same after that night.”

Isabelle stopped crying and removed her hands from her eyes to gaze upon her husband. “Cuppins told me the rest, about how your father tried to kill you.”

Dominique’s eyes darkened. “Yes, though you should know it was I who achieved murder that night. Though accidental, there hasn’t been a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could kill him again, and do it without the immaturity that a boy possesses, make him suffer, make him suffer as I suffered, as my mother suffered being married to him… And now you know my darkness, what makes me so repulsive. For what man wakes up wishing to kill a man who is already dead?”