Chapter 100:
Paola must’ve been using this space for her composing recently.
Rylie continued through the east wing of the library. Three of the walls were lined with tall shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. The fourth opened into a full-length window that overlooked a peaceful garden. From there, cherry trees framed the scene, and a still lake reflected the moonlight at night. Drawn in by the setting, Rylie took a modern sheet of music and settled onto the piano bench. As she opened the lid, a servant approached quickly.
“Miss Owen, Miss Garrett said this piano was recently tuned. It was a gift from Mr. Marcus Owen. If you’re not familiar with it, we’d prefer if it wasn’t played. She’ll be upset if it’s damaged.”
“I know how to play,” said Rylie.
Without another word, her hands drifted to the keys. She began to play, glancing through the notes as her fingers moved with ease.
The soft tones of Clair de Lune filled the library. The melody rose and fell like cherry petals floating gently to the ground.
The servant’s eyes widened, caught off guard by how natural Rylie sounded. She said nothing more and stepped aside, continuing to organize the mess on the table.
Midway through the piece, Rylie suddenly paused.
The notes on the page flickered in her mind, syncing with the slow fall of blossoms beyond the glass. A strange sensation rose from deep inside her. Something seemed to wait beneath the surface of the music.
She shut the book quietly. Her wrist hovered above the keys, still and silent for three slow seconds. A gentle breeze swept past the window, brushing cherry blossoms against the glass with a faint tap. Something stirred inside her.
Rylie lowered her hands and struck a set of notes that didn’t exist in any written score. The sound faltered at first, like it wasn’t sure where to go. But the rhythm settled soon enough and carried itself forward.
Rylie shut her eyes. No longer bound by form or expectation, her hands moved freely across the keys.
Feel the magic on gαℓησν𝒆𝓁s․com
A melody unfolded in that quiet room. It began with the soft touch of spring, then rushed forward like a summer storm. By the end, it slowed again, fading like leaves falling gently in autumn.
Behind her, the servant stood motionless. Books still in hand, she listened in silence, her eyes wide with wonder.
The petals outside seemed to fall in rhythm with the music, floating down as though they, too, had been caught in the moment.
When the final note slipped away, Rylie let her hands fall to her lap.
The servant spoke in a hushed voice, admiration thick in each word. “Miss Owen — that was incredible. It felt like listening to Mr. Marcus Owen himself. It makes sense now. You really are siblings.”
Rylie glanced toward the Debussy score beside her. Sunlight hit the words Clair de Lune, making them glow.
A soft thump landed nearby. One petal had drifted through the open window and rested on the piano bench.
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