Shadow Music
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Elisabeth Rose
Shadow Music
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
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Her fingers closed on a page…a roar of voices, a deafening, clamorous burst of music, an overpowering scent of roses in hot night air…
An electric shock shot through her hand and right up her arm, forcing an involuntary cry from her throat. Her fingers wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t release their grip on the paper. Something, some force, compelled her to remove the page from the box, trembling and suddenly clammy skinned in the heat of the day. The sound faded, the scent of roses replaced by stale tobacco smell as the stall holder bent down beside her.
“What’s that you’ve got, love? Are you all right?” His curious face peered at her from under his wide-brimmed straw hat.
“Look,” she whispered, unable to drag her eyes from the music in her shaking hand—a piece of manuscript, double paged. At the top was “Shadow Music” and “Violin” in elegant, looping old fashioned script, handwritten, as were the notes. In a different hand, scrawled in frantic haste across one corner with the last letters straggling into a thin line were the only other words.
This way madness lies.
Praise for Elisabeth Rose
“This is a delightfully crazy lovely story.”
~Trouble in Nirvana
~*~
“Thank you for the pleasure you have given me with your new book. I have read all your books and go back to read them over and over again.”
~Helen, reader
Shadow Music
by
Elisabeth Rose
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Shadow Music
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Elisabeth Hoorweg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Abigail Owen
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Mainstream Paranormal Edition, 2019
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2503-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2504-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
As always, to my family
Colin, Carla, Nick, and Paige
It is said that when the heart cracks it cracks with no sound but when it breaks it wreaks havoc with earthquake, thunder, and lightning.
Chapter One
Sydney, Australia, 1998
“Are you interested in music? Sheet music?” The stallholder pointed to three overflowing cardboard boxes on the grass beside his trestle table.
Nina paused in her browsing, a well thumbed copy of Persuasion in her hand, her eyes seeking Emma. Why would he ask her that? She glanced up with a puzzled smile.
The bushy grey beard parted to reveal a wide gap between two front teeth as he grinned. “You look like a musical girl.”
“Do I? I am, I suppose.” If you could call working in a CD shop being musical, which was as close as she came to music making nowadays.
“What do you play? Piano?” Encouraged, he bent and shoved one of the boxes forward.
“Violin. Rusty violin.” She looked at the three crammed boxes. Music? She hadn’t bought music for years. She was a listener now, a listener and a seller, hadn’t picked up her violin more than twice in the last year although when she was at school she’d practised rigorously and according to her teacher, had talent. Wasted now. “I work in a music shop in North Sydney.”
“There’s some violin stuff in there, I’m sure.” He regarded her with such an expectant, hopeful expression she gave in. What did it matter to her on this lazy, sunny Saturday afternoon? He was a volunteer at the St Andrews church fete; he had good reason to try his best to offload the stock.
Nina handed over Persuasion and two dollars, squatted down with her purchase tucked under her arm in a brown paper bag and began riffling through the sheets crammed into the first box, pulling the occasional piece out for a better look. She had no intention of buying music, should be heading home to vacuum clean but she’d already disappointed him by taking only one book.
Her fingers closed on a page…a roar of voices, a deafening, clamorous burst of music, an overpowering scent of roses in hot night air…
An electric shock shot through her hand and right up her arm, forcing an involuntary cry from her throat. Her fingers wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t release their grip on the paper. Something, some force, compelled her to remove the page from the box, trembling and suddenly clammy skinned in the heat of the day. The sound faded, the scent of roses replaced by stale tobacco smell as the stall holder bent down beside her.
“What’s that you’ve got, love? Are you all right?” His curious face peered at her from under his wide brimmed straw hat.
“Look,” she whispered, unable to drag her eyes from the music in her shaking hand—a piece of manuscript, double paged. At the top was “Shadow Music” and “Violin” in elegant, looping old fashioned script, handwritten, as were the notes. In a different hand, scrawled in frantic haste across one corner with the last letters straggling into a thin line were the only other words.
This way madness lies.
Nina stared, fascinated, enthralled, bewildered, overwhelmed. The paper had attached itself to her hand the way a small child will hold on, desperate to be included, not to be left behind, lost. Almost alive.
“Put it back.” His voice burst forth loudly, harsh and vehement. Nina’s gaze whipped toward his enraged face, mottled now with deep red patches above the grey beard.
“No! I want it.” Her reply shot back startling them both even more than his outburst. And as she said the words the idea formed in her mind that not only did she want the music she had to have the music no matter what. “How much?”
“I don’t think you should take it.” Uncertain now. The unexpected forcefulness faded. His skin resumed a more normal colour.
“I want it.” Nina glared at him until he grudgingly produced another brown paper bag.
“Fifty cents,” he muttered.
After a second’s hesitation Nina handed him the page—reluctantly because she overwhelmingly didn’t want to let it slip from her grasp. Only because she knew he was going to give it straight back was she able to release her hold on it—or its hold on her. He slid the sheet of manuscript inside the bag while Nina rummaged frantically in her purse for coins.
“Where did it come from?” Her hand reached for the bag as he took the money.
“I’ve no idea.” He turned his b
ack.
“Thanks,” she muttered. Go home, find her violin. Play. Now.
Dark, towering storm clouds built up rapidly during Nina’s three-block walk home from St Andrews. Her feet increased their pace and she told herself the urgency was to avoid the inevitable onslaught of rain and hail, nothing to do with the paper bag clutched in both hands against her body, protected against the rising wind and the first big drops of rain.
She let herself into the tiny terrace house with a sigh of relief. Wind howled about the eaves, buffeting the screen door at the back. Hailstones clattered against the roof. Shivering and hurrying with nervous fumbling fingers, she made sure windows and doors were securely fastened then went to the spare room to pull her violin from the top shelf in the cupboard. A folding music stand lay next to it. She set it up, annoyed by the stiffness in the hinges and the stubborn tightness of the screws.
She undid the clasps of the violin case, lifted the lid. Her violin lay gleaming and ready in its blue plush bed. She placed a standing lamp so light pooled onto the music stand and carefully, reverently, removed the sheet of manuscript from the bag. No electric shock now, no sound, no rose perfume but it seemed to quiver in her hand. That would be her imagination.
Something scraped against the window in the wind, rain lashed down, thunder rumbled. Nina lifted her bow and tested the strings for tuning, adjusted the pegs. Began to play.
The melody was extraordinarily beautiful. Tears began streaming down her cheeks and she had to blink rapidly to see the notes as they blurred in front of her eyes but she didn’t stop playing. The haunting phrases flowed from beneath her fingers and bow and echoed around the empty house, filling every corner with yearning and sorrow and love.
The wind lent itself to the music, becoming part of the sighing and sobbing of the violin, rising and falling as the melody rose and fell, now quiet now building in intensity to a climax then falling away to a whisper. She played as if in a dream, as she had never played before, drawing on resources of feeling and emotion she didn’t know she had. As she reached the end of the first section, the phone rang loud and shrill, startling her so that her concentration broke momentarily and she faltered, her bow jerking from the strings.
“Bugger!” She tried to ignore the incessant ringing, standing with teeth gritted until the caller gave up after an endless time. She raised her bow and continued. Now the notes were harder to read. Not only was the manuscript faded in places but the second section comprised cadenza-like runs and trills swooping and soaring over the whole range of the violin, and the marking indicated the music should be played freely, fast, with passion. Faster than she could manage.
Stopping and starting, she stumbled through to the end but the overwhelming compulsion to keep playing she’d experienced in the first section had faded.
She went back to the beginning. Again that haunting melody brought tears to her eyes and with them a terrible sense of loss. Again she had to keep playing. And again and again, the first section, over and over. When she started the melody for the tenth time the thought “enough” crept into her brain.
But she couldn’t stop. Each time she reached the end of the first part something compelled her to start again. The music forced her to keep playing. The same unnerving compulsion she’d had to take the music from the box at the fete.
“I must be mad.” The sound of her voice startled her and her scratchy, sore eyes flashed to the words scrawled at the top of the page. Is this what they meant? Was it a warning?
Nina flexed her aching arms and neck. Her fingertips had gone numb from the pressure on the fingerboard. She was out of practice, she was exhausted. She desperately wanted to stop playing. When she reached the difficult second section the next time she forced herself to attempt it. She made mistakes; it was too hard for her—the power diminished.
She lowered her shaking bow and quickly put her violin into its case, snapping the catches to seal it in. Her cheeks were wet but this time with tears of relief. Weak and trembling, she extended a hand to take the music from the stand. To take it and tear it up, destroy it, throw it away, but her fingers stopped inches from the surface and a curious reluctance to touch it made her arm drop to her side.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she muttered and snapped off the lamp, hurried from the room, closed the door firmly behind her.
Still dazed, boiling the jug in the kitchen for a cup of tea, Nina’s gaze strayed to the clock. After midnight! No wonder her arms ached. She’d been playing for hours. Playing the same page of music. Her stomach growled and complained. She’d forgotten to eat.
She heated tomato soup from a can, then, clutching her steaming mug in both hands, tottered across to the couch. Curling up at one end, she rested her head on the crocheted throw rug Gran had made. For as long as she could remember it had been somewhere in the house—sometimes on the spare bed, sometimes over Gran’s knees when she sat in the garden, sometimes as now, draped over the back of the couch.
Nina put out a shaky hand and pulled it down, spreading it over her feet and legs. Reassuringly normal, crocheted squares of brightly coloured wool, memories of Gran, strong and vibrant, no nonsense Gran, competent, good humoured, reliable. Sane.
Not like her granddaughter. Nina blinked back tears. But Gran was long dead and no help at all.
The melody soared through her mind as she lay in bed in the darkness listening to the rain, but gradually the soothing normalcy of her bed and the sounds of water running in the gutters and dripping from the eaves brought her back from the edge of insanity. Be analytical she told herself. Be rational. When was it written? Sometime in the late nineteenth century? Definitely romantic—influenced by Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky, Brahms? Either someone from the original era or a more modern composer writing in that style. Somehow though, she doubted that.
It wasn’t just that the manuscript itself was very old because it was—or at least the paper had yellowed and the ink turned brownish. In remarkably good condition despite its age, no tears or creases—but the handwriting at the top was faded and the florid looping script had the look of a bygone era. Perhaps she could have it checked by an expert. Carbon dated. Did they do that with paper or just fossils? And where would she have it done? The university? What else would they find?
Were there Ghostbusters in Sydney?
She shifted restlessly and turned over. She’d left her book behind at the second-hand stall, hadn’t even noticed till now. Her tired brain wandered and in its wanderings finally drifted into sleep.
He spoke to her in her dreams. He said, “Mira is not dead. She will live again. You must play for me. You must play.”
Nina cried out, “I can’t. I’m not good enough. I can’t.”
The melody rose strongly. She heard it played, not by herself but by someone else, someone far better, someone passionate and strong. The perfume of roses filled the air.
The dream violinist played the second section perfectly. A wild, gypsy style dance, full of runs and trills and flourishes. Faster than she could ever hope to play. He was improvising, not reading the notes. He played from the heart, from the soul, pouring out his emotions in the tumultuous music, his violin sobbing and sighing, singing and soaring. It was thrilling and hypnotic and she wanted it to go on forever. Then the music stopped and his voice came to her quite clearly, full of sadness and despair, pleading.
“Play. The music will bring her to me. My melody has the key to life.”
And she woke with his words still in her ears and an unbearable sense of loss.
Sunlight streamed in through the crack between the curtains—strong, full sun, not early morning. Nina lay sprawled across the double bed. Her sheets were twisted and half on the floor, her head still rested on the pillow but she’d dragged the pillow to the side of the bed and jammed it against the wall in her sleep.
Only one thing remained from the dream. His voice. Insistent, urging, pleading with her to play. Play what? She sat up slowly as realisation dawned and snippets
of the melody came skipping into her mind. Memories of last night’s torment came flooding back. He wanted her to play that music.
“I can’t,” she said aloud. “I can’t. I won’t!”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and went to her dressing table for clean underwear. Then she stomped to the bathroom and stood under the shower for twenty minutes, eyes closed, willing herself not to think about the events of last night. When she passed the spare room door on the way back to her bedroom she averted her eyes and hardly faltered, vehemently denying to herself the effort it had taken to go past without opening the door. Without taking a look at the music still sitting on the music stand—waiting. Waiting for her to come and play it.
“It’s ridiculous. Mad. Crazy,” she muttered to herself as she pulled on baggy cotton pants and a tank top. “I’m imagining it.”
She collected the Sunday paper from the corner shop and read it as she ate fruit and yoghurt for brunch, sitting at her little outdoor table under her one tree in the back garden. The fluffy white cat from next door was already sunning himself on the red brick path and looked up lazily as she settled down.
“Hello, Soda.” She held out her hand to him but as usual he ignored her, preferring to stretch his front legs out and yawn widely before closing his eyes again. “Lazy thing.”
An advertisement for a chamber concert caught her eye. The Australian Chamber Orchestra was performing Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” at the University next Friday night with the orchestra’s leader playing the violin part.
“I’ll go to that, Soda,” she said. “Want to come?”
She lazed through the rest of Sunday. Did some Tai Chi practice, cleaned the bathroom, did a load of washing and hung it out, sat in the garden with Soda and read a book, wished she hadn’t left Persuasion at the fete…didn’t open the spare room door.
Later that afternoon Gordon phoned to invite her out. She was in two minds about him. They’d dated a couple of times but it was clear their interests weren’t in synch. He liked football, she didn’t. He liked action movies with lots of explosions and shooting, she didn’t. He liked hanging out with his mates and their girls, she didn’t. But he had a taut, fit sportsman’s body and an irresistible, slow sexy smile.