The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

them for over a decade to be astute and incontrovertible.
    I seized a pot already filled with soil. Then, using the grosgrain ribbon again, I picked up the flower without touching it directly and trundled across the muddy path and back into my home, locking the door behind me.
    I stood there panting, forehead pressed to the frame as the soggy hem of my dress formed brown puddles on the floor.
    A tap on my shoulder shook a yelp from my lungs and I spun, coming face to face with Enya. Questions sparkled in her wide, green gaze.
    “You startled me,” I mumbled.
    Frowning, she lifted the hem of her bed gown out of the muddy water at my feet. Then her gaze trailed the pot I held at my chest.
    “Mama’s favorite.” I flashed the flower with a shaky hand, ashamed of the lie but seeing no alternative.
    “You went to the greenhouse? At this hour?” Enya had cleared most of the table and started a fire in the hearth. Orange light glazed her face as I watched her lips. “Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a—” She stopped herself and adjusted an auburn curl that had fallen from her nightcap. “I-I didn’t mean that.”
    I nodded. But the implication stirred a quiver behind my sternum. I moved away from the wet puddles and settled the pot on the floor. Enya bent to help but I pushed her back. She squinted as if I’d gone raving mad.
    Perhaps I had. I was trying to keep the same thing from happening to her.
    Wearing gloves to prevent another prick from the venomous stem, I tucked the roots into the soft soil. The petals perked after being watered.
    “We could set it by the window.” Enya crouched beside me again. “So when morning comes, it will be awash in sunlight.” Her finger lifted as if to stroke the silvery flower.
    I blocked her. “Please never touch it. Its petals are very fragile.”
    She drew back, her features folded to a mix of hurt and worry. At twenty-nine years of age, Enya was the closest thing to an older sister I had ever had. Mama had given her a position as our maid ten years ago, when Enya’s father abandoned her family, leaving them impoverished. Though Enya and I often disagreed on societal strictures, we held a deep affection for one another. I regretted being so harsh tonight of all nights, but until I found out how dangerous the flower might be, I had to guard her well-being.
    Dangerous . I studied the intricately downturned petals. What an odd descriptor for something so beautiful. It was a flower . Nothing more. Nothing less.
    Enya backed away from me. “Perhaps a bath will calm you.” Casting concerned sidelong glances my direction, she puttered about the room and set water to boil from our drawn reserve. She moved the empty tub next to the wood pile Uncle had gathered prior to the funeral.
    As I pinned up my hair and shed my clothes, I wondered about Uncle, all alone in his stone cottage just over the hill, with nothing but a senile, arthritic spaniel and his regrets. I almost wished I had taken him up on his offer to stay tonight. Perhaps I wouldn’t be teetering on insanity, had he been here for me to care for, to distract me from my own loss. But I’d been determined to prove my independence, to show him I could manage with only Enya and a nightingale for company.
    Enya left the room, promising to return with my bed gown and some towels.
    I dragged the flower pot close before I eased my weary limbs into the tub. Warm water folded over me. To keep my locket dry, I draped the chain behind my nape so it hung over the tub’s edge.
    Eyes half-closed, I peered at the flower.
    Perhaps I imagined that man—that hallucination —because I needed proof of the afterlife, to be closer to Mama and Papa somehow. Grief could stroke the heart strings to play convincing melodies, all in the want of seeing a loved one again.
    Many times in my past, I would pick out a tune from my memories, dust it off, and bring it to life. Although I’d forgotten the sound of Mama’s voice, I had