The Shadow Prince
Page 63
I look up at Daphne, expecting to see a full smile on her face, but instead her lips have twisted into a frown.
“Stop.” She snatches the guitar from me, sending my last note screeching. “Get out,” she says. Her words are quiet, but they rumble with anger. She points toward the hallway leading to the stairs.
“What? Did I do it wrong?” Why couldn’t I make the music sound the same as she had?
“Very funny, jerk. Pretending you don’t know how to play. ‘I don’t know a thing about music. I need your help. Did I do it wrong?’ ” she says, mimicking my voice in a not-so-flattering way. “Are you just trying to make me feel stupid?”
“No, I swear. I have never played before. I’m just a really fast learner. I’d never even heard music before I heard you sing in the grove the other day—” I swallow hard, realizing I’ve probably said too much.
She gives me a look that makes me want to wither. “How is that even possible? Music is everywhere. You can’t even go to the grocery store without hearing it.”
“Maybe I’ve never been to a grocery store.”
“What?
I look down at my shoes. “What is your deal?”
“My deal?”
“Let me guess: some spoiled rich kid who’s never had to lift a finger in his life? Do you have servants who do all your shopping for you?”
“My family, they’re … different. My home is a very controlled environment. Music isn’t allowed.”
“Seriously?”
“I am serious. There’s no music, no television, no movies, no parties, no girls.” I glance at her and then train my eyes on the clock over the fireplace. Maybe she’ll realize that’s why I keep saying all the wrong things.
“Sheesh, and I thought my mom was strict. Your parents sure sent you to a funny school, if they hate the media. Do they know you’ve joined the music program?”
I shake my head. “My father wouldn’t approve.”
“Then why did they send you here?”
I hold my breath, trying to come up with a plausible explanation that doesn’t involve my telling her that I’m supposed to bring her back to the underworld with me. I flip through the compartments of information stored in my brain until an idea clicks. “Have you ever heard of a rumspringa?”
“Isn’t that an Amish thing? Where they send their teenage kids out into the world to see everything they’ve missed out on before deciding for sure if they want be Amish for the rest of their lives … Holy crap, you’re not Amish, are you?” She throws her hands over her mouth sheepishly, like she’s afraid she’s offended me.
I almost laugh. The sound gets caught in my throat. “Definitely not Amish,” I say. “But that is what I’m kind of here for. This is kind of like my rumspringa. I’m here to experience the rest of the world before I go back home again.”
“So what happens if you choose not to go back?”
“I don’t know. Nobody in my family has ever chosen not to return.” I run my hand through my hair, finding myself still surprised at how short it is. “Choice doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
I’ll return because I must. It’s my destiny.
“And where is home?”
I can feel heat rising in my chest. She asks too many questions. She’s probably mentally recording my answers to share with Tobin later. “Upstate New York, but my father is Greek,” I say, telling her the cover story that Simon made me rehearse before starting school.
“Where is your mother from?”
“The West.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“I don’t remember.” Energy continues to build inside of me. I feel as though I am being interrogated by one of the royal guards.
“Is she as strict as your father?”
“You’re curious for a—”
“For what? A girl?”
I was going to say human but had caught myself.
“Is that a problem?” she asks, taking my silence for an admission. She stands up. “I’m not allowed to be curious because I’m a girl?”
She’s infuriating is what she is. I can feel electric heat rolling under my fingertips. Why is it so much harder to control myself around her?
“Your mother didn’t teach you not to be a total misogynist.”
I stand up to meet her. “My mother is none of your affair,” I say, electricity crackling in my voice.
She stares at me, our faces only inches apart. I know she must feel the heat radiating off me. I wait for her to tell me to get out again, to get lost, but instead she backs away and sits down on the couch, almost crushing the bag I’d placed there. Which is when the bag lets out a hiss. “What the …?” Daphne bounces away from the now-wriggling bag. A second later, a furry little thing pops out of it, launches itself at me, and perches on my shoulder. All the while hissing its displeasure over almost being squashed.
“Well, it’s your fault, Brim, for hiding in there!”
Brim growls, baring her tiny fangs.
“Oh my gosh, is that your kitten?” Daphne asks. She sounds strangely amused, and the anger melts from her expression.
“In a way. But she’s not a kitten,” I say, because I know Brim hates being called that. “She’s nearly seven years old.”
“But she’s so tiny! Like, barely bigger than a guinea pig.”
I try to pet Brim to calm her, but she swats at me with her claws. “What she is, is angry. That’s not a good thing.”
“It’s adorable.” Daphne laughs. “Come here, little girl,” she says in a singsong voice, reaching for Brim.
“Not a good idea,” I say, and try to pull the cat away from her reach. Brim bites my finger. I snap my hand back, and to my horror, Daphne snatches up the cat. To my utter astonishment, Brim lets her, though she’s still growling and hissing.
“I know how to soothe a savage beast,” Daphne says, like she’s singing. “My mom is always bringing home cranky strays. Grab the guitar. Try the song again.”
I scoop up the instrument and sit next to her. I pick out the notes again. After a few seconds, Daphne joins her voice in with my strumming. She sings in a lower, more gravelly tone that carries the same timbre as Brim’s small yet ferocious growl. Listening to her feels like the sensation of someone wrapping a warm blanket around my shoulders. But it’s been so many years since someone has done this for me; I am surprised I remember what it feels like.…
“Stop.” She snatches the guitar from me, sending my last note screeching. “Get out,” she says. Her words are quiet, but they rumble with anger. She points toward the hallway leading to the stairs.
“What? Did I do it wrong?” Why couldn’t I make the music sound the same as she had?
“Very funny, jerk. Pretending you don’t know how to play. ‘I don’t know a thing about music. I need your help. Did I do it wrong?’ ” she says, mimicking my voice in a not-so-flattering way. “Are you just trying to make me feel stupid?”
“No, I swear. I have never played before. I’m just a really fast learner. I’d never even heard music before I heard you sing in the grove the other day—” I swallow hard, realizing I’ve probably said too much.
She gives me a look that makes me want to wither. “How is that even possible? Music is everywhere. You can’t even go to the grocery store without hearing it.”
“Maybe I’ve never been to a grocery store.”
“What?
I look down at my shoes. “What is your deal?”
“My deal?”
“Let me guess: some spoiled rich kid who’s never had to lift a finger in his life? Do you have servants who do all your shopping for you?”
“My family, they’re … different. My home is a very controlled environment. Music isn’t allowed.”
“Seriously?”
“I am serious. There’s no music, no television, no movies, no parties, no girls.” I glance at her and then train my eyes on the clock over the fireplace. Maybe she’ll realize that’s why I keep saying all the wrong things.
“Sheesh, and I thought my mom was strict. Your parents sure sent you to a funny school, if they hate the media. Do they know you’ve joined the music program?”
I shake my head. “My father wouldn’t approve.”
“Then why did they send you here?”
I hold my breath, trying to come up with a plausible explanation that doesn’t involve my telling her that I’m supposed to bring her back to the underworld with me. I flip through the compartments of information stored in my brain until an idea clicks. “Have you ever heard of a rumspringa?”
“Isn’t that an Amish thing? Where they send their teenage kids out into the world to see everything they’ve missed out on before deciding for sure if they want be Amish for the rest of their lives … Holy crap, you’re not Amish, are you?” She throws her hands over her mouth sheepishly, like she’s afraid she’s offended me.
I almost laugh. The sound gets caught in my throat. “Definitely not Amish,” I say. “But that is what I’m kind of here for. This is kind of like my rumspringa. I’m here to experience the rest of the world before I go back home again.”
“So what happens if you choose not to go back?”
“I don’t know. Nobody in my family has ever chosen not to return.” I run my hand through my hair, finding myself still surprised at how short it is. “Choice doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
I’ll return because I must. It’s my destiny.
“And where is home?”
I can feel heat rising in my chest. She asks too many questions. She’s probably mentally recording my answers to share with Tobin later. “Upstate New York, but my father is Greek,” I say, telling her the cover story that Simon made me rehearse before starting school.
“Where is your mother from?”
“The West.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“I don’t remember.” Energy continues to build inside of me. I feel as though I am being interrogated by one of the royal guards.
“Is she as strict as your father?”
“You’re curious for a—”
“For what? A girl?”
I was going to say human but had caught myself.
“Is that a problem?” she asks, taking my silence for an admission. She stands up. “I’m not allowed to be curious because I’m a girl?”
She’s infuriating is what she is. I can feel electric heat rolling under my fingertips. Why is it so much harder to control myself around her?
“Your mother didn’t teach you not to be a total misogynist.”
I stand up to meet her. “My mother is none of your affair,” I say, electricity crackling in my voice.
She stares at me, our faces only inches apart. I know she must feel the heat radiating off me. I wait for her to tell me to get out again, to get lost, but instead she backs away and sits down on the couch, almost crushing the bag I’d placed there. Which is when the bag lets out a hiss. “What the …?” Daphne bounces away from the now-wriggling bag. A second later, a furry little thing pops out of it, launches itself at me, and perches on my shoulder. All the while hissing its displeasure over almost being squashed.
“Well, it’s your fault, Brim, for hiding in there!”
Brim growls, baring her tiny fangs.
“Oh my gosh, is that your kitten?” Daphne asks. She sounds strangely amused, and the anger melts from her expression.
“In a way. But she’s not a kitten,” I say, because I know Brim hates being called that. “She’s nearly seven years old.”
“But she’s so tiny! Like, barely bigger than a guinea pig.”
I try to pet Brim to calm her, but she swats at me with her claws. “What she is, is angry. That’s not a good thing.”
“It’s adorable.” Daphne laughs. “Come here, little girl,” she says in a singsong voice, reaching for Brim.
“Not a good idea,” I say, and try to pull the cat away from her reach. Brim bites my finger. I snap my hand back, and to my horror, Daphne snatches up the cat. To my utter astonishment, Brim lets her, though she’s still growling and hissing.
“I know how to soothe a savage beast,” Daphne says, like she’s singing. “My mom is always bringing home cranky strays. Grab the guitar. Try the song again.”
I scoop up the instrument and sit next to her. I pick out the notes again. After a few seconds, Daphne joins her voice in with my strumming. She sings in a lower, more gravelly tone that carries the same timbre as Brim’s small yet ferocious growl. Listening to her feels like the sensation of someone wrapping a warm blanket around my shoulders. But it’s been so many years since someone has done this for me; I am surprised I remember what it feels like.…
