Music Box

This is two years old.

The colours were rich and vibrant; hues of gold, blue, silver and red made up the shining assembly of dancers. The music was soft and caressing, and flowed over each guest smoothly as they spun in wide circles around the ballroom. Wine and champagne flowed freely and laugher fell easily. The masquerade was a shining event, a beacon of formality and prestige. It was an affair that all who attended looked forward to, and behind the multitude of masks there were smiling faces.

But there was one spectator who was not quite so joyful. He was a spectator who stayed in the shadows of the unoccupied balconies, whose dark attire differed from that of the others and whose face held no happiness. He hummed softly to himself, a tune that he had learned as a child. It was the music that was playing, but sadder and more forlorn. He was an indeterminable age; not an old man but with no immaturity of youth. He was handsome, but his face was one of a person who had seen the horrors of the world. His hair was thick and black, his eyes dark. They never left the dancing form of a woman, dressed in a dark blue gown that shimmered as she was gently spun. Her light hair moved as water with her, let free from restraints and clips. From his perch above the scene he could not see her eyes, but he knew them to be a blue darker and deeper than the sky. He knew how they twinkled when she laughed and how they sparked when she was angry.

When the music stopped and the musicians caught their breath, he watched her curtsy away from her partner and thread through the throngs of dancers, waving away the arms of other men. She limped a little, whether from the dance or a past hurt. He knew where she was going. He refastened his cloak and turned on his heel, leaving the balcony. He made his way through the abandoned and dusty upper corridors of the house until he found the stairs, once grand and golden, now chipped and forgotten. Instead of descending them and entering the grandeur of the night, he continued up them until they stopped on the floor where once a family slept. He entered one of the smaller rooms, a room he knew well, and found the hidden door.

Behind the door was a staircase that had never been grand or golden. It had always looked the same; dusty, cobwebby and broken. He knew the steps would hold him, though, and he climbed them without hesitation. Higher and higher he ascended, feeling the air dirty and thicken, until finally he reached the end. A hard shove pushed the door open and he emerged on the roof, a sanctuary where a garden once grew. Now only the skeletons of planting boxes remained among the discarded props once used in the house's theatre. She was standing at the clean end of the roof, looking over grounds now grown wild. She did not turn when she heard his heels on the stone.

"You've waited," she whispered softly.

"I promised I would," his voice differed from hers greatly; deeper, stronger, and lonelier.

"It was so many years ago," still she spoke in a whisper, and he longed to hear her smooth and confident voice again.

"I told you I wouldn't forget."



Suddenly the years were drifting away, falling like curtain at the end of a show. She was a young girl again; not yet twenty. The house was old even then; hundreds of years had it stood. But it was a warm and welcoming place, and she had lived there. The golden staircases, the grand dining room, the small but useful theatre, the secretsHer family had owned the house for centuries, and each generation had left behind stories. Some were hidden forever in the stone and rafters, while others were written in the air. The only one that had survived orally was a haunting one, one that frightened her as a child and intrigued her as a young woman.

In her seventeenth year she went in search of it, of any record explaining it. It was a rainy day, a calm and sweet rain that cooled the air. There were many unused rooms in the house; it was much too big for her family even with their servants and groundskeepers. On the level were her family dwelled there were thirteen rooms that stretched from the staircase to the very corner of the massive building. The first seven rooms were used, the next two as storage. But after that they were forgotten. The remaining four rooms were bathed in darkness, as the maids were excused from cleaning them and they were locked with great old bolts. Taking with her a large lantern and the keys she had found in a chest in the basement, she went to each room in turn, opening the great doors for the first time in centuries.

In the first room there was only a rocking chair; dusty and half-rotten, it was an echoing reminder of the families past. No light from the day came through the grimy window and the room was bathed in darkness. The flickering of her candle cast eerie shadows and she quickly closed and locked the door without stepping into the room, fearing the secrets in it that would assault her.

In the second room there was a doll. It was made entirely of fabric and wore blonde hair and its own little dress. The dust had covered it to such a degree that the colour of its garment was indistinguishable; it could have been anywhere from lilac to black. The doll reminded her of her childhood, and she stepped into the room, fearless. Her booted feet left footprints in the dust. This room was brighter; the window cleaner. As she bent down to gently pick up the doll, planning on cleaning and preserving it, she thought she heard the few notes of a music box. It disappeared, though, and she ignored it. As her fingers touched the rough cheek of the doll it dissolved, being held together only by its position in the world and hating the touch of another. With a resigned sigh she turned and left the room, locking the door behind her.

In the third room she found a bed, wardrobe and desk. All the items were covered with white sheets, hanging silently as penance. She pulled them off, coughing a little as the dust resettled in its new home. The bed had no covers, the desk was empty, and the wardrobe held only a very old-fashioned pair of men's boots. She picked them up and admired the workmanship; the leather was cracked from age but otherwise still whole. She unlaced one of the boots, wanting to find a name on the inside, and again thought she heard the sound of the music box, high-pitched notes that resonated in her mind. Again she decided to ignore them, and continued unlacing the boots. There was no name, so she replaced them, and the sheets, and left the room, barring the door behind her.

The fourth and last room was further down the hall. She tilted her head as she came to it, straining to see through the dark. Her key snapped heavily into place and turned with a satisfying click. The door swung open. She stepped in. With a gasp from her the music box started playing its melody. It was sitting on the windowsill in the room, open to the few strands of light from the outside world. On top of it was a gowned and bejewelled lady, spinning as if at a ball. She knelt down in front of it, realization dawning on her.

"You're the first to come here in over one hundred years," a deep and melancholy voice said from behind her.

She wasn't afraid. She turned slowly and saw him. He was dressed all in black, a tastefully brocaded vest over his undershirt, old-fashioned trousers, heavy leather boots, warm cape and a sword in a black sheath. His face was handsome but hard. His dark hair was clean and neat and his dark eyes measured her up.

"The stories are true," she said simply, in a smooth and confident voice.

He tilted his head down in acknowledgment, a small smile forming on his lips.

"Why haven't you left here?" she asked, standing and brushing off her skirts.

"There are too many forgotten stories in this house."

"They say you were killed here for killing my ancestor," she walked up, closer to him. "You died two hundred years ago. You're a ghost. But," she let her hand rest on his warm shoulder, "you're solid enough. You don't feel dead."

A shudder passed through him and he lifted her hand away. "Not all ghosts are wisps of mist, just as all ghosts were not once living."

"Why did you kill him?"

He was surprised by this question. The last living person he had spoken to had been a maid. She had been a simple-minded creature, who had wanted to know only what dying was like and if he could communicate with her passed-away grandmother.

"I said," this young countess repeated, "why did you kill him?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because he was my ancestor and I want the truth, not the trash that they tell me about his honour and goodness. I want to know what he did to make someone hate him so much that they stabbed him with, I'm assuming, that sword."

He sighed. Outwardly she thought he looked displeased at her question, but inwardly he was joyful to be talking with someone who didn't seem afraid of him and who was rational and smart. "He hired men to kill a woman I knew," he answered simply.

"Was she your lover?" she asked softly.

"She was my sister."

She dropped her head and tears gathered in her eyes. She believed in what she saw, and what she was seeing was a murderer who had died two hundred years before and was buried in a grave on her grounds, his deathbed marked only with a simple cross.

"Why are you crying?" he asked quietly.

"My sister died-"

"Thirteen years ago. When you were four. She was your older sister and you loved her very much. She was thrown from a horse that panicked when a footman in your house tried to shoot a fox running by," he put a finger under her chin and lifted her head, again shivering as living flesh touched his own. Tears were drying on her face.

"How did you know that?" she asked.

"I've never left here."



The years came back, rushing forward so that she almost lost her balance on the roof. He caught her and sat her on one of the old props. She coughed. There was a wind blowing and he put his cloak around her thin shoulders.

"What have you done all this time?" she asked in her hoarse whisper.

"Waited," he answered. "Time passed. It wasn't long considering what I've waited before."

She smiled then, and he caught a glimpse of the woman he knew well. "But the house-"

"Has been empty? The stories have always been here. Why was there a ball tonight?"

"I've sold the house. Someone will be renovating and moving in and living here. It will become a home again. This is a goodbye celebration."

"You're sure this is what you want to do?" he asked, looking over the rancid grounds again.

"Yes. It's what I've always wanted to do."

"I've heard that line before," he answered, smiling a little.



She was suddenly nineteen, standing in the small room where she had first found him and the music box. He was holding her hands, shivering, and she was crying. It was raining, like the first time they had met. He still wore his black clothes, but she was dressed differently. Now she too wore black; mourning clothes. The music box played its solemn tune and the candle flicked in the non-existent wind.

"There's no way you can talk to her?" she asked, tears glistening.

"Your mother went straight on. She did not linger in the limbo of uncertainty."

"Why?" she cried out.

"Because she knew she was going to die."

"How could she know?" she yelled. "She was killed by accident!"

"It's knowledge in your bones. You feel it coming."

She sniffed and looked into his deep, wise eyes. "You never told me why my ancestor killed your sister."

He sighed, dropping her hands gently. "He wanted to marry her, but she refused. She loved another. That was reason enough for him. When are you leaving?"

"In two hours."

He took her hands again, unable to stand not having her close. "Will the house be empty?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"No," he answered. "I'd prefer that to it being occupied by those who do not appreciate the stories."

"I'll come back to you. When my father dies, which with his health will be soon, I will come for you, and I will stay with you forever."

"No," he said again. "You must live your life. You must! When you feel knowledge in your bones, come back here. I will wait forever for you."

She kissed him then. When she pulled away she was crying again. "I want to stay here."

"I'll always be with you," he said. "Take this."

He took the music box, standing silent now, and put it into her hands. "Leave now."



On the rooftop, many years later, she stood up slowly and took his hands. There was colour in her cheeks that hadn't been there before. She thought she caught a few notes of a distant music box.

"Will this hurt?" she asked, in her old, smooth voice.

"No," he answered, kissing her brow.



They found her later that night. They called the constable as a matter of ceremony.

"There's not much for me to do here," he said, looking down at the body lying on the cold stone. "I'm amazed she lived to be ninety-six."

"I'm amazed she danced the way she did," a woman in a severe black dress said. She had been the old woman's caregiver. "She's been in a wheelchair for the past two years." The woman took a closer look at the body. "She looks happy. Is that possible?"

Everyone had noticed it; the smile on her face, the comforts of her pose; she hadn't fallen. At her age everyone assumed she had felt it coming and had lain down.

Then the caregiver said suddenly, "That's not her cloak. I've never seen it before."

It was a black, well made cloak, probably warm. It was old fashioned, though-not many people wore things such as that anymore. The coroner came with a white sheet and covered the body.

The constable turned to the caregiver again. "She lived here as a teenager, you said?"

"Yes. She loved this place. Sometimes she would stare out her window and play this little music box for hours. She said it reminded her of someone. She might have meant her family; her mother and sister died in this house."

"This house certainly has its share of ghost stories." The constable said, peering out across the once grand-gardens. "It's a restless place."



Downstairs in the ballroom, where unknowing dancers continued the ball, a servant looked up to the abandoned balconies, so beautifully decorated but now shrouded in dust. In one he thought he saw a young woman in old fashioned clothes dancing with a man all in black, and he thought he caught a happy laugh and the few strains of a music box.