When I meet his gaze, I can finally see there is some truth in that. And at least to myself, I can admit that he's right. I couldn't keep that from Ivy. But it isn't because I have the potential to care for her. My father proved time and again that I wasn't capable of such a weakness. It was the only thing he ever praised me for. My coldness. He said it would serve me well in this life, and it has. I would be a fool to think for a second that things could be different. These feelings inside me are only temporary. They are new and unfamiliar but not permanent. They will go away, and I will return to the same man I've always been. The same unfaltering, empty, soulless shell.

The music in the other part of the house stops for a few moments, and when I glance in that direction, Judge watches me closely.

"She's playing again," he says softly.

A new ache lances through my chest at his confirmation. Mercedes hasn't played since our father died. And it gives me a strange sense of hope for her. Perhaps, she will be alright after all.

"Would you like to see her?" Judge asks.

I consider it carefully, weighing my options. Truthfully, part of the reason I came here was to see her. I needed to ask her about the aspirin. But now, I am questioning it.

"She would like to see you," he adds. "I am certain."

When I don't respond, he rises to his feet and sets his glass aside, gesturing for me to follow. "Come. I'll take you to her."

Mercedes sits at the piano, her body swaying as her fingers whip over the keys with a proficiency that betrays a lifetime of study. The tune is beautiful and violent. Melancholy and deep.

I had forgotten what it was like to witness her this way. In our father's absence, I have often noticed my sister molding herself to be more like me. For reasons I have never understood, she idolizes me, and she has made herself colder because of it. She would have everyone believe there is no passion in her heart, but when she plays, it is undeniable. She feels deeply. But she has become too good at hiding it.

When I glance at Judge, he's watching her with an expression I'm convinced I've never quite seen before. Equal parts awe and frustration, maybe. But something else. Something much more intense.

I glare at him, and it seems to break the spell, at least momentarily.

He clears his throat. "She's very good. But she can do better. I make her practice several hours a day."

The sound of our voices behind her alerts Mercedes to our presence, and she glances over her shoulder briefly, her fingers halting over the keys.

"Don't stop," I tell her gruffly. "Finish the song."