Montague Von Vexx's Arc

Chapter 7 of 11

The flute lifted from Montague's hand before he meant to set it down. It hovered, then settled itself on the red crystal tabletop beside the fire. The lullaby began again, softer this time. Alastair's grip on the decanter loosened. Wisteria stepped closer. The notes moved through the room like a hand smoothing a sheet. On the shelf behind them, a small porcelain cup rattled against its saucer. Their mother's cup. Montague had not seen it in two centuries. The painted flowers were faded, the rim chipped where she had always held it. The song touched it and it stilled. Then Montague remembered. Not the name he had spoken — the name beneath it. The lullaby had not been sung to him. It had been sung to a sister. A small one. A child their mother had hidden, and lost, and grieved in silence. The name he had given Alastair was not the man who ordered the burial. It was the man who had taken her. Montague's hands began to shake. He looked at the cloth doll tucked on the shelf beside the cup — moss-crowned, heart-stitched, waiting where she had left it. "Alastair," Montague said. His voice broke around it. "The name. It isn't what I thought. We had a sister." The flute went quiet on the crystal table. Alastair turned from the fire at last, and his still face finally changed.