Jodi Meadows - Incarnate

As the music came, I tried to match the sounds to the dots and bars on the paper, but it went by too quickly for me to keep up. Over the music, he said, “Second page,” and then after a while, “Third page,” and I heard the music match what I saw for a moment before the dots were just dots again.

Music overwhelmed me, soaked into my skin like water. I didn’t have words for the squiggles and dashes across the pages, or the way his fingers stretched across the keys to make my heart race. If I could hear only one thing for the rest of my life, this was what I wanted.

He let his hands rest on the keys as the music faded from the room.

“You changed it. It’s not the same as before.” I caught his raised eyebrow and fought for the right words. I did need lessons, if I wanted to sound even halfway knowledgeable. Or at least describe what he’d done to the music. “It’s softer. Not as angry at the end.”

“Is it all right?”

I laid my hand across his.

SAM WALKED ME back upstairs as sleepiness threatened to engulf me.

The exterior wall made me uneasy, so he dragged the bed across the room until it rested in the corner of two interior walls. Then I climbed up while Sam tried — unsuccessfully — to hide dust on the floor where the bed had been.

“The first thing I want you to learn about music is that you have to hear everything.” He sat in a chair at the desk, while I perched on the corner of my bed. “This is something I started doing every lifetime to retrain myself. Close your eyes and listen to all the sounds at once, especially those that are hard to hear.”

Like I was going to do that in front of him. I just nodded.

“You can hear the cavies and chickens, the noises they make. You can hear the wind in the trees, and everything in the house. Pay attention to each sound all at once, and one at a time.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

He grinned. “Well, it is. But having a good ear is an important part of music, and it’s easiest to train yourself while you’re young.” He crossed the room toward me. “I’ve always enjoyed how everything is slightly different in every life. Raspier or deeper, warmer or kinder. Some bodies were harder to train. Some had better hearing.”

I hoped I got to experience that.

“Once, I wasn’t able to hear at all.”

But I didn’t want that. I almost asked how he’d coped — a lifetime without music — but he yawned, reminding me he was probably tired, too. I slipped under the covers.

“Good night,” he murmured as my eyes fell closed. He leaned toward me, so near I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, and I waited for whatever came next.

Nothing did.

He sighed and left the room, and I lay there, suddenly too awake to sleep. There was no reason for me to imagine him kissing my forehead, or remember the way he’d touched my arm by the piano. He was Sam.

That was it. He was Dossam . Of course I was going to think about stupid things now.

I lay in bed and listened to him move about the house, and after a while, he paused outside my bedroom. His silhouette darkened the silk wall for a moment before he padded down the stairs, almost silently, and the front door shut. Locked.

I sat up and glanced toward my window, but it faced the wrong direction. We’d been walking all day. I sure didn’t want to go anywhere, though I was awfully tempted to sneak after him. I’d need a flashlight; he’d spot me and be angry.

It was after midnight when he returned, muttering something — I strained my ears — about wasting time with genealogies. I didn’t know much about those because Cris’s old books weren’t explicit, and Li hadn’t bothered answering my questions. I did know that genealogies were the best-kept books in the library, because they needed to be referenced so often. The Council was careful about approving who could have children — something about genetic defects and constant danger of inbreeding. Bleh. Not something I cared to learn about.

None of that explained why Sam had gone to the library in the middle of the night. If that was where he’d gone. Maybe he’d forgotten who his parents were this life, and just needed to look it up. I couldn’t imagine trying to keep track.

Swimming in thoughts, I drifted into unrestful sleep, though it was my first night in a real bed in a week — and my first night ever in a bed that had been repaired in the last hundred years. I should have tried to enjoy it, but I could only think about all the strange things that had happened since arriving in Heart — and about Sam.

In the morning, getting dressed took some work. Sam must have been taller than me as a woman, and bustier. A dress that probably fallen knee-length on him came to mid-calf on me. Using a small sewing kit in the desk, I adjusted the shoulders and took in places to account for my smaller endowments.

Clean clothes and a bath had done wonders. Nevertheless, my bones felt as if they creaked when I tiptoed downstairs and started a pot of coffee.

Sam’s kitchen was big — well, small compared to the parlor — with spacious stone counters along one side, and a rosewood table on the other. Though everything still had a delicate appearance, it was probably hundreds of years old, and very sturdy.

The back door revealed several outbuildings for cavies and chickens, a small greenhouse, and storage sheds. Sunrise here was… different. The sky lit up first, along with the treetops, and it seemed forever before the rays slanted over the wall. More watery, less honey golden. Another something-not-quite-right about Heart.

If Sam hadn’t gasped, I wouldn’t have heard him in the kitchen doorway behind me. I spun to see him staring, like he hadn’t expected to find me still here. Or— It was hard to tell. I still couldn’t interpret his expressions well.

“What?” I pretended I’d assumed something different entirely. “Surprised I know how to make coffee? I watched you do it enough.”

That seemed to snap him out of the stupor. “Not at all.” He shuffled toward the coffeepot, rubbing his cheek. His skin was smooth now, newly shaven, and it made him appear younger. “The light caught your hair. It looked red, like flame.”

That was a weird thing for him to say, and not necessarily good or bad. Why couldn’t he just speak in ways I’d understand?

I shut the door and leaned against it while he poured coffee for both of us, adding generous spoonfuls of honey. Then he handed a mug to me as if we did this every morning.

But in reality, all our mornings — until we began the walk to Heart — had been him feeding me and helping me wash.

I’d told him about my infatuation with Dossam. With him.

I gulped down coffee, hoping if he noticed my cheeks were red, he’d assume it was my drink. All the times he helped me clean up, take care of embarrassing things — and there I’d been hoping he would kiss my forehead last night.

I thudded onto the nearest chair. Sam followed, only the length of the table between us. He kept his face down, but I could half see him watching me through dark strands of hair. When he noticed that I wasn’t fooled, he turned his gaze out the window so light poured across his skin.

I wanted to ask where he’d gone last night. Instead, my words came out, “You look pensive,” like my mouth was saving me at the last second. If he’d been sneaking, I wasn’t supposed to know.

His scowl deepened. “How can you tell?”

“You get a wrinkle. Right here.” I dragged my forefinger between my eyes. “If you keep at it, your face will stick that way.” I pressed my hands over my mouth, a traitor after all. “Guess wrinkles don’t matter to you.”