“I shouldn’t leave my master at the moment,” he said, his tone clipped, his expression bordering on hostile. “However, I am sure you can find your way out of this area well enough on your own.”
Mama lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Her face was red, her hair escaping its pins from our struggle a moment before. She looked wild and fierce, and she said in a haughty tone, “No matter. I shouldn’t like your assistance even if you were to offer it.”
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“Come, Mama,” I murmured. “We should go.”
She spun on her heel and strode to the door. But at the door she paused and said to me in a loud voice, “Take heed, Kitty, and remem-ber this lesson: An ill-trained servant is the mark of a weak and sloppy master.”
Shame burned through me. Putting a hand on her back, I pushed her through the doorway and did not stop pushing until she was in the cor-ridor and I had shut the door behind us. As soon as I dropped my hand, she whirled around and faced me. Her steel-trap eyes were blazing with anger and indignation.
“How dare you push me from a room?” she hissed. “How dare you set a hand on me to turn me away from what I want?”
I said nothing. I couldn’t speak past the shame that choked me.
“You have made a grave error today, Kitty.” She pointed a finger at me. Her voice trembled. “A very grave error, indeed.”
I thought of the mistle thrush singing against a storm. I thought of perching myself high on a tower and singing into a gale and never stopping. Power and resolve surged through me. I turned around, and I walked away from her. It was what I should have done last night or this morning.
“In fact,” she called, “I no longer think you deserve Henry. I think I shall have Maria trap him instead. You shall have Mr. Cooper.”
I kept walking.
“What do you think of that, Kitty? What do you think of this end to your bargain? You will not have your precious India after all. You shall have old Mr. Cooper. In fact, I shall write to him immediately and tell him you have accepted his offer.”
I reached the staircase and slid my hand onto the smooth wood banister.
Her laughter rang out louder than my steps. “So you see, child. You see? I have won in the end. Just as I always knew I would.”
Chapter 36
Something was different about the small music room. I sensed it as soon as I crossed its threshold. The pianoforte stood in its proper place.
The drapes were pulled back, letting in the weak light of an overcast morning. The painting of Icarus hung in its accustomed spot, guarding the entrance to the secret tunnel.
I looked around, trying to pinpoint what had changed in the room. I closed my eyes and stood very still and listened. And then I realized what was missing. There was no sense of stirring here. My eyes flew open, and I crossed the room with quick strides, worrying that Miss St. Claire had already done something—that she had already taken my dark bird away.
The cage stood where it always had. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of its curved bars. But two steps away from it, I faltered, then stopped and stared at the empty perches. My hand crept to my throat. My dark bird lay still, on its side, on the floor of its cage.
I sank onto a chair as sadness threatened to overwhelm me. I felt in my bones that I was responsible for this tragedy. That lifeless body was somehow my fault. Touching the bars of the gilded cage, I wondered what had caused its death. Was it injured when it beat itself against the bars?
Was it the night of freedom it had enjoyed? Or was it returning to its cage after experiencing that freedom?
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I sat there in silence for a very long time. And after a long time of feeling only sadness and grief over the loss of this bird without a song, I felt something else. I felt some truth rise up within myself. And the truth was that I was just a broken thing who never should have dreamed of having wings. The truth was that nobody was going to open my cage for me and that I was a fool ever to believe I could escape.
Closing my eyes, I considered my options for my future. I could give in to Mama’s demands and speak with Henry’s grandfather. I could ask him to change his will. Or I could continue to fight her and return home with her, where she would wield her persuasive force to make me marry Mr. Cooper. Or I could go home meekly and do . . . what? At every pos-sibility I faced another cage. I could be caged by my own betrayal of my feelings, or I could be caged by an unwanted marriage, or I could be caged by going nowhere and realizing none of my dreams.
Everywhere I turned in my mind’s eye I saw cages. And considering my future, I thought, This, too, is death.
“Miss Worthington?”
I lifted my head.
“You are just the person I was looking for.”
Herr Spohr crossed the room to me, gripping a bundle of papers, his hair even wilder than usual. “I hoped you might be here.” He looked at me, then looked harder. “Is something wrong, Fr?ulein? You are not well?”
I shook my head. “I was just thinking, Herr Spohr.”
“Oh? Of what?”
I could not look away from the limp body and the dark feathers spilled across the bottom of the cage. “I never learned what kind of bird this was. I never heard its song,” I murmured.
“Fr?ulein?”
I pulled my gaze from the bird cage. “I was thinking of Faust, actually.”
He sat in the chair next to mine and leaned toward me. “What is it you were considering?”
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I gestured at the bird cage. “I was wondering if he could have been content, before his bargain with the devil. Do you think it was his restlessness that led to his doom? Could he have bridled his passions? Subdued his restlessness? Could he have been happy in a cage?”
Herr Spohr’s eyes lit up with interest. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his head, further disturbing his already untidy hair.
“Hm. You pose an interesting question, Miss Worthington.” He peered into the birdcage. “A very interesting question. Was Faust’s restlessness the cause of his fall? Perhaps. His yearning for more? Definitely. Could he have changed his nature, fundamentally, so that he no longer yearned for more? So that he was not, fundamentally, restless?” He lifted one shoulder.
“That is a difficult question to answer. A pointless one, as well, I think, in Faust’s case. A better question is what he might have done differently with his restless nature. He did not have to make a bargain with the devil, for instance. He might have had just as much success in life by using his own knowledge and wit and talent.”
I thought about his words. This was not the answer I was looking for.
I had already made my bargain. I had to live with the consequences. I could not go back in time and remake that decision.
“Well, then, let us say he has made his bargain,” I said. “Do you think it was worth it to him?”
“Is anything worth being damned in hell?” Herr Spohr shrugged. “I doubt it very much.”
I rubbed my nose. This was not helpful at all.
“But I have come with something for you, Miss Worthington.” Herr Spohr handed me the bundle of papers he carried. “I believe this might suit you very well. It might suit your Faustian struggle. That was what I was trying to tell you the other night, at dinner. That your playing re-minded me greatly of Faust’s great struggle. I heard that restlessness in your fight with the music. And I think this might be better for you.”
I looked at the sheet music, my gaze catching on the name at the top of the composition. “This is an original? One of yours?”
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“Yes.” Herr Spohr stood. “One of my Romantic pieces. Try it. See how it fits with your demon.”
“But I do not know how to play Romantic music.”
He waved a hand, a casual gesture. “Let your demon decide how to play it. There are no rules.”