Then when she’d gone, the dreams of the woman at the pianoforte had started, her haunting melody filling that hole left by the maid’s cheery hum. So it was that music always came when things were at their worst. Those were the hardest years with Father, when he made me his showpiece, which meant I had to be perfect.

And not just on the pianoforte.

In those days my knuckles were raw from the rod and my rebellious heart burned with anger when he locked me in the larder for half days at a time. Then at night, my tortured mind often dreamed up that lilting song that drew me toward the rose room, toward those sacred moments with the woman at the pianoforte. A way to cope. I’d always pretended it was my mother, and that she’d come to comfort me.

Now, it seemed, the need had come again. Or . . . she was here. A chill swept the room, wind rattling the glass in the windowpanes. I could almost hear a voice on the moaning wind, someone wailing for help.

A clunk made me spin, hand to my heart. “Oh, Bridget. I half expected to see a specter.”

She emerged from the priest’s hole and shut the little panel behind her, wiping her hands on her gown. “Now that would have been exciting.”

I laughed. Her casual voice dissipated the eerie chill that had gripped me. It was as if daylight had returned and my fears seemed foolish.

She stepped farther into the room, looking about, staring out the tall windows at the star-studded sky. “Heard you leave, and I thought how nice it would be to hear you play again.” Her voice was weak.

I looked over that dimmed countenance and forced my mind to pivot fully from ghosts and mysterious melodies. “Perhaps this time we should hear you play.”

“But I don’t—”

“I’ll teach you. Here.” I positioned a chair for her beside my stool and placed her fingers on the keys, marveling at how long and tapered they were—perfect for playing. I shoved away the residual tingles of fear and focused on my dear friend, on drawing out the music that was in her.

“This is a C, in the very middle of the keyboard. Every eight keys, it repeats again at a slightly different pitch.” I played all the Cs for her, stretching from octave to octave. “All you need is a melody, which I can supply, and a pattern of chords to go with it, like this.”

I positioned her fingers over C, E, and G, forming thirds for a harmonizing sound. She stared, her mind absorbing the patterns of thirds and fifths and how they correlated to the melody. I showed her a few more finger arrangements and explained why they worked together, and her expression firmed, mind absorbing the system.