Montague Von Vexx's Arc

Chapter 3 of 11

They crossed the red doors of the castle in silence and climbed to a small study Montague did not know. A fire burned low in the dark stone hearth. Alastair set the journal on a table and did not sit. Montague meant to speak. He did not get the chance. The flute in his coat moved. He felt it shift against his ribs like a living thing. He pulled it out and held it flat in his palm. It rose an inch above his skin and began to play. The notes were slow, small, three of them, then a fourth that bent down at the end. A child's tune. A lullaby. Alastair went white. His hand shot out and caught the mantel of the great fireplace, and his knuckles pressed bloodless against the stone. Behind him, the red stained glass shivered in its iron frame. The same four notes hummed inside the panes, faint but matched, as if the window had been waiting two hundred years to answer. Alastair's mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then, very low, he said, "Mother used to sing that. Only to one of us." Montague closed his hand around the flute. The melody stopped. The window stilled. He looked at his brother gripping the dark stone like a man on a ledge, and he knew the journal on the table was no longer enough. The flute had already spoken the part he had never been able to say. "Then sit down," Montague said. "I'll tell you which one."