The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: A. G. Howard
and every aspect of our lives.
Draping the excess length of my dress and petticoats around my arm, I ventured out the back door, lantern and flower in hand.
Mud flooded the path to the potting shed. Overhead, the birches shook their bare limbs as if to protect the shadowy gardens. For the first time in my life, I felt like an intruder. Yet the moment I stepped inside the shed, I belonged once more. Moonlight drifted through the green-tinged glass roof and walls. Thousands of dust motes swirled around the hooks where my flowers dried in bundles of twine—a glistening, mystical display.
I hung my lantern on the peg next to the door and stroked the petals of my stolen flower. I used to imagine this place was the realm of fairies. Even the scents were enchanting: overturned soil, flowers specked with water, and feathers stirring up dust.
This reconstructed greenhouse sheltered more than plants, pots, gardening tools and aprons; it was also a haven for Mama’s bluebirds, purple grackles, green herons, and other decorative fowl that lined the back wall in cages. They were not simply her pets, they were her livelihood. During their molting periods, they provided plumage for her signature caps and bonnets, along with feathers for women who couldn’t afford newer creations, so they might spruce up their old hats.
Now Mama’s legacy and charitable reputation were mine to preserve. Standing here, admiring the birds’ sleeping sweetness, I ached for one touch of her hand on my hair … for one wisp of her breath on my cheek as she leaned over to see them in the dim light.
Hot tears raced down my cheeks, blurring my vision to the point I nearly missed the glow upon my fingers. It reminded me of the time in my childhood when I had accidentally crushed a firefly between my palms. The strange residue seemed to be oozing from the flower.
I separated the petals to look closer at the luminescent pollen. Before I could make sense of it, a song burst through my ears.
My spine tingled with sensation—alert.
Impossible . I had to be mistaken. Eleven years without a sound; so much time gone by with only the roar of emptiness—more desolate than living within a seashell.
How could I suddenly hear ?
I jumped as the musical notes broke again as if to prove me wrong—hammering against my eardrums—a delicious itch I’d once taken for granted.
It was a lullaby in a masculine, affecting baritone, sung in a foreign tongue.
Two feet in front of me, a man came into view bit by bit, as if being painted in place by each lyrical pearl of sound, until there he was, seated upon Mama’s stool. He held white-gloved hands over his ears and his clean-shaved jaw moved with the song. And his skin … it glowed like the petals between my fingers.
The singing stopped as the man’s head snapped up. He stared at me, his expression a mirror of my own surprise and confusion. He was close to my age, his face regal and exotic—all elegant lines and sharp angles: high-boned cheeks and square chin, a defined nose with a sloping tip, sensuous lips, and heavy brows over almond-shaped eyes.
“H-how did you get in here?” he asked.
Shrieking, I picked up an empty bucket and slung it. It soared through him, hit a cage, and stirred the birds from their slumber. They flapped in a silent, drunken craze.
So shaken, I dropped the flower. Only then did the intruder vanish.
Shoulders braced against the wall, I whimpered. My throat stung, as if I had swallowed a wad of needles.
Was this my punishment for digging up a grave? Was I to lose my mind?
Scanning the shed, I found no signs—other than the overturned bucket and fluttering birds—that the incident had ever happened. Even on my fingertips, the glow was gone. Yet I couldn’t stop shaking.
There had to some explanation. The flower’s venom had hallucinatory qualities. The thorn’s prick from earlier had caused some sort of auditory apparition. My eyes would not betray me otherwise. I had trained
Draping the excess length of my dress and petticoats around my arm, I ventured out the back door, lantern and flower in hand.
Mud flooded the path to the potting shed. Overhead, the birches shook their bare limbs as if to protect the shadowy gardens. For the first time in my life, I felt like an intruder. Yet the moment I stepped inside the shed, I belonged once more. Moonlight drifted through the green-tinged glass roof and walls. Thousands of dust motes swirled around the hooks where my flowers dried in bundles of twine—a glistening, mystical display.
I hung my lantern on the peg next to the door and stroked the petals of my stolen flower. I used to imagine this place was the realm of fairies. Even the scents were enchanting: overturned soil, flowers specked with water, and feathers stirring up dust.
This reconstructed greenhouse sheltered more than plants, pots, gardening tools and aprons; it was also a haven for Mama’s bluebirds, purple grackles, green herons, and other decorative fowl that lined the back wall in cages. They were not simply her pets, they were her livelihood. During their molting periods, they provided plumage for her signature caps and bonnets, along with feathers for women who couldn’t afford newer creations, so they might spruce up their old hats.
Now Mama’s legacy and charitable reputation were mine to preserve. Standing here, admiring the birds’ sleeping sweetness, I ached for one touch of her hand on my hair … for one wisp of her breath on my cheek as she leaned over to see them in the dim light.
Hot tears raced down my cheeks, blurring my vision to the point I nearly missed the glow upon my fingers. It reminded me of the time in my childhood when I had accidentally crushed a firefly between my palms. The strange residue seemed to be oozing from the flower.
I separated the petals to look closer at the luminescent pollen. Before I could make sense of it, a song burst through my ears.
My spine tingled with sensation—alert.
Impossible . I had to be mistaken. Eleven years without a sound; so much time gone by with only the roar of emptiness—more desolate than living within a seashell.
How could I suddenly hear ?
I jumped as the musical notes broke again as if to prove me wrong—hammering against my eardrums—a delicious itch I’d once taken for granted.
It was a lullaby in a masculine, affecting baritone, sung in a foreign tongue.
Two feet in front of me, a man came into view bit by bit, as if being painted in place by each lyrical pearl of sound, until there he was, seated upon Mama’s stool. He held white-gloved hands over his ears and his clean-shaved jaw moved with the song. And his skin … it glowed like the petals between my fingers.
The singing stopped as the man’s head snapped up. He stared at me, his expression a mirror of my own surprise and confusion. He was close to my age, his face regal and exotic—all elegant lines and sharp angles: high-boned cheeks and square chin, a defined nose with a sloping tip, sensuous lips, and heavy brows over almond-shaped eyes.
“H-how did you get in here?” he asked.
Shrieking, I picked up an empty bucket and slung it. It soared through him, hit a cage, and stirred the birds from their slumber. They flapped in a silent, drunken craze.
So shaken, I dropped the flower. Only then did the intruder vanish.
Shoulders braced against the wall, I whimpered. My throat stung, as if I had swallowed a wad of needles.
Was this my punishment for digging up a grave? Was I to lose my mind?
Scanning the shed, I found no signs—other than the overturned bucket and fluttering birds—that the incident had ever happened. Even on my fingertips, the glow was gone. Yet I couldn’t stop shaking.
There had to some explanation. The flower’s venom had hallucinatory qualities. The thorn’s prick from earlier had caused some sort of auditory apparition. My eyes would not betray me otherwise. I had trained
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