Pacing in the parlor on my side of Moldavia—a frozen-in-time version full of finery, decorated in my mother’s good taste, and furnished by my father’s bottomless wealth—I tried to ignore its ticking, the only sound that disrupted the midnight silence of the house.

Always, its doleful, monotone song served as the only music I knew. The sole accompaniment to the soundless nocturne my existence had become.

I could compose, yes. Requiems, concertos, waltzes, and anything in between. I could inscribe entire cantatas—an opera, should I so wish. And composing occupied me so thoroughly that, for the time I could remain absorbed in the task, it held the power to lift my mind out of my wretchedness. Which was why I coveted the hours that, until the Armands’ arrival, I could spend in unencumbered labor on the other side of the house.

Yet, no matter where I composed it, I could render to my music no real life. Not without a heart.

My latest effort, a simple ballad, sat abandoned and unfinished in the attic of the Armands’ side of the house. Too distracted by the memory of my encounter with Stephanie that morning she had entered the parlor to collect Charlie, pausing at my piano to harken to her secret music, I’d stopped mid-note and left the pages where they lay atop my father’s old desk—a place well out of Charlie’s reach.

I could have returned to the work. The quiet was such that I might have been able to stay enveloped in my labors until just before dawn, when Moldavia’s new tenants again awoke to traipse through my family’s manor with more racket than a traveling carnival.

Though how could I have hoped to focus on music after last night’s tête-à-tête with Stephanie?

Since our interlude, I’d had difficulty placing my thoughts on anything else.

Most disturbingly, I found myself inexplicably desirous of another conversation with her.

For that reason more than any other, I had resolved to stay well out of her dreams this night. I had, after all, accomplished what I’d sought to. I’d planted the seed that would soon grant me greater influence in her waking life. Why engage with her a second time?

No doubt my interest in speaking with her stemmed from the fact that inaction had never been a comfortable choice for me. Especially in situations where time insisted on working against me. But then, I assured myself, no move at all on my part was still, in this instance, a move. Because Erik’s absence from her dreams tonight—was there any better way to encourage her to seek the answers out for herself? And she would go digging. As smart as she was? As determined as she could be?

Would she hate Erik after she learned what he had done?

Of course, how could she not.

Abruptly, I halted my pacing. Scowling beneath my mask, I glanced to the piano, yearning, as always, to play.

My inability to produce so much as two complementary notes was one of the crueler twists of the curse.