Aria in Ice Read Online Free PDF Page B

be several centuries old. Head and footboards,
stained in a light walnut, framed the box springs and mattress. A
vanity, wardrobe, and small washboard, all in the same walnut
color, were the only other furnishings in the room. It was
immaculately kept, with a saccharine sweetness to it. It should
work well for our heroine Honoria’s bedroom when she arrives from
London. Some place more exciting and ominous would be needed for
her seduction at the hands of Count Zilania.
    I nodded at Veronika. “It’s very pretty. So.
What else is up here?”
    Veronika marched across the landing to
another room, without bothering to notice if I followed. There were
no furnishings in the tiny space, not even a table or a chair. But
this was a room with a view. I’d been enchanted with the scenery
from the window seat downstairs, but it paled by comparison. An
entire forest lay before me. Spires from the cathedrals in Prague
off in the distance, jutting into the bluest sky I’d seen since
last time I was in Texas.
    I didn’t care if Shay used this room for
Honoria, for Zilania, for one or more villains or the whole camera
crew. I’d’ve paid any amount of money simply for the privilege to
worship the countryside through this glass once a day for the next
month. I leaned out the open window and breathed in the pure, crisp
air. A chilly wind blew my hair back from my face so I retreated.
Veronika started to shut the window but I stopped her. “Wait.
Please. About an hour ago, I heard the most marvelous musician
playing the flute. Sounded like it came from what I guess y’all
refer to as the north wing? Who lives there?”
    My question was greeted with silence and
looks that chilled me more than the gust of wind had. “Dere iss no
one. We are only people at Kouzlo Noc .”
    “But I’m sure I heard music.”
    “I do not hear anyting. Perhaps our gardener
is playing a, how you say, ‘see dees.’ He likes music from America.
Must be that you hear, no? He iss here today.”
    I knew what I’d heard and it wasn’t the
family gardener strutting around listening to some rapper from the
States with a CD player held on his shoulder while he planted and
pruned in the lilacs (or whatever blooms bloomed at the castle.)
The music hadn’t come from below. It had come from this wing. It
was very classical. It was also very Mozart. Wolfgang Amadeus. The
one, the only. The tune had been an aria from The Magic
Flute.
    Johnny had denied being the musician.
Veronika had denied any music being played except on a boombox. I
knew better. A ghostly flautist was playing for my benefit.
    Perfect. I’d stumbled into a Gothic tale
while trying to rent a Gothic castle for a Gothic film based on a
Gothic novel. The intrusion of Goth was making me dizzy. Doubtless,
a headless flute player was being held in chains in one wing (and no, that’s not logical because how the hell can one
play a flute without lips which would normally be attached to a
head?) A beautiful damsel in distress would be found in the
tower of another wing, cranking out arias from Mozart’s last comic
opera while hoping a gallant prince would hear her songs and arrive
with sword in hand to rescue her from her sad fate. During some
dark and stormy night, the murdered peasants depicted on the
bloodstained tapestry on the downstairs window seat would pop out
and hunt down their oppressors. The dragon-headed doorknockers
would take human form in the guise of a black-clad demon-possessed
tortured hero. Finally, the Victorian governess trio of the sisters
would burn the place down a la Jane Eyre’s Mrs. Rochester.
    Veronika stared at me as though I’d brought
the madwoman’s matches. I hoped I hadn’t just opened my mouth and
aired my fantasies to Headlights Productions’ new
landlady.
    I smiled. “Well, at least your gardener shows
good taste. Can’t do much better than Mozart.”
    Not an ounce of color could be seen on the
woman’s face. She struggled to catch her breath. She gulped at