A good soul, Ela Grace, filled the grand ballroom of the Grace Palace with life during her piano performance. She sat elegantly at the large ebony piano with bulbous legs, long and with a polished gloss. The fingers, long and slender, danced vigorously on the keyboard with brimming confidence, giving each note a lightweight—one alight by some spark coming from the depth of her core.
She leaned on a far-end-of-room pillar in the ballroom and closed her eyes. She only heard Ela's fluttery fingers on the piano keys. With all of the body lost into music, Irene observed it for a hundredth time through the admiration and fun swaying in her eyes.
Irene had seen Ela play so many times before, but her fiery and playful style never left Irene without falling into some of that contagious energy. As she played with feeling, and her fingers strolled over the keyboard of white keys with incredible grace. Again, Irene was in rapture, not holding back an affectionate smile on her face, which took the form of small dimples. It was such a thrill for her; it was a real asset to see such sincere creative expression of the soul in which Ela was capable and, from time to time, to be reminded by herself of this great love toward a sister.
Irene clapped, her applause bursting with enthusiasm as a wide smile of delight spread across her face as the last notes died away into silence of Ela's song. "Bravo, Ela!" she called. "That was electric! Your playing is moving."
Ela beamed radiantly at the praise, her heart swelling with pride. She got up from the seat of the piano bench gracefully and crossed the room to Irene, so alive with excitement that she virtually glowed. "Oh Irene, thank you!" she cried out happily. "I'm over the moon that you enjoyed it so much!"
Irene chuckled softly. "Enjoyed it? I was mesmerized!" She gave Ela an affectionate smile. "You are so talented, my friend. Please, never stop playing."
Ela laughed lightly. "Well, of course I can't play so passionately without such encouragement from you to cheer me on!"
Irene grinned at her. "Nonsense. The talent is all yours, Ela. But I do feel lucky witnessing your incredible artistry." In this manner, both privileged, Irene cherished this genuine connection they shared.
Ela's fingers poised to play the piano once more, but she desisted when the great doors of the grand ballroom parted with a loud creak. In walked Lady Grace—her mere aura an overwhelming shadow as her scornful gaze settled on Irene Harper, while her silent dare had yet to release its hold.
Irene winced at the way Lady Grace seemed to scrutinize her, with all her impulsive nature feeling an itch to take out on this woman the frustration of losing Ela like she was now and never could give her anything but her best. Before Irene could manage a word, Ela's hand reached out and lightly touched her on the arm, silencing her, in a silent plea for her to be careful.
Lady Grace sneered her lips down in a curl of disdain as she regarded Ela. "You don't have to keep on making this noise, Eleanore. Your piano playing leaves much to be desired."
Ela set her jaws, but nothing else gave it away since she didn't want to show her mother that she was shaken. "I'm sorry if my music displeases you, Mother," she said, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of defiance, "I was merely practicing."
Lady Grace shooed her away with a dismissive wave, turning her entire back to Irene. "Maybe you should practice it anyplace else; that disgraceful instrument is canceling every aura there is in the palace."
Irene's temper flared, the whispered insult to Ela's talent evoking an irrational impulse to defend her friend. Her protest died before she could utter so much as a word, strangled into silence by the warning pinch of Ela's expression—herself twice as angry, as frightened—as she cast Irene a swift, warning glance. A silken reminder of strategy, imperative in the delicate dance they tread in the presence of Lady Grace.
Before Irene could so much as open her mouth, Ela rose from her piano bench, movements fluid and abrupt, and said in an unreadable tone, "Of course, Mother. I will practice in my chambers from now on."
Lady Grace's thin lips curved in satisfaction, and from the corner of her eye, Irene saw her disdainful gaze linger on her a moment longer. And then her mother was turning, and she was walking from the ballroom with that same, quietly powerful grace that she entered it. Leaving nothing but frigid tension in her wake.
Irene's gaze, a look of understanding tinged with an unspoken sadness, was all she needed to offer the violinist a small, rueful smile of gratitude. They shared no more words as they turned and carried each other back through their sanctuary of music and memories.
This time, Ela's approach to the piano was different; it was hesitant, fragile. It was the furthest thing from the spirited life of her presence that they had known just moments before. Her fingers, once so sure, so alive on the keys, shook, seemed to tremble with a fear of what would come.
And with a memory of Lady Grace's condescending needle still hanging thick in the air, a shadow dark enough to snuff out what little light their brief joy had let in, the piano fell silent, Ela's hands returning from within the instrument back to her sides. But it wasn't just pride or disdain that stayed her hands. This silence carried a weight far heavier, far more devastating for Ela.
It wasn't Lady Grace's condescension, it wasn't her mother's, either, or even Irene's. The joy that had flown so freely from her soul to her fingers, on to the keys, was struggling, suffocated by the pressure, ruthless pass or fail judgment and the broad, open criticism her music faced.
The defiance, the brightness Irene had seen in her eyes even just a moment after had faded now, left behind by resignation. The air was gone from Ela's lungs, she sighed, as if gasping with the weight of her world, and turned, letting herself be lead away.
Irene's heart ached to the sight; a silent scream against the tragedy of a light dimmed for its time. She reached out, clasping the pianist's hand in hers, in silent solidarity, sorrow; inside she bore the weight of what so obviously crushed her friend's spirit.
The decision was as silent, loud as an explosion. A piano's chords spiked and then disappeared into the silence, their code for something marching to its doom. Ela stepped away from the piano and the stage where her soul's spirit flew unchecked and unchallenged, the site of her empty glances and stilled fingers so quickly before.
Irene could only do was watch as she went; a deafening silence of her own, a silence made heavier by what she watched Ela retreat from; not just the piano, but from a piece of herself, a piece being worn away by the steel on one more than willing to fashion her into someone else entirely. That, more than anything, cut Irene to pieces.
But as the two slipped from the grand ballroom, the silence hung heavy, piercing their ears with what could have been. Irene glanced at Ela and made a silent vow - Lady Grace's monsoon would not leave her heart's flame extinguished.
"The gardens," Irene suggested. "The palace gardens are most private and the flowers are in perfect bloom. It feels as though we could pretend for just a little while that the rules have not bound us so tightly."
Ela's smile was the first shade that had lifted her countenance, and Irene smiled back.
They wove through the corridor and stole to the gardens, their pace quickening with each step. The scent of the flowers was, indeed, heady. The air itself seemed to sparkle around them with promise, freedom a mere whisper away.
For a time, neither spoke, simply walking. Ela stopped before the rose hedges - her mother's favorites - and watched as Irene's hand brushed over the petals in the dimming twilight. Irene's hand found its match, quietly entwining their fingers in solidarity.
When nothing but the hiss of the gurgling fountain and the chirping birds could be heard, Irene's hand squeezed Ela's softly, wanting her to know she was not alone in her walk.
She led them beneath a great, gnarled oak tree that arched over their path and extended the grassy path into the forest. Its low, weeping branches had grown so closely and curled with such whimsy that they created countless paths of green, swaying and twirling like fronds, around a swatch of earth where they would spend countless summer days until the war began. When Irene finally noticed Ela seated, face still tucked within her book, she followed her friend and collapsed into the grass next to her.
"Irene, I'm trying to read," she said with a small hint of annoyance, casting a bemused glance from under the brim of a familiar, worn hat, her eyes full of feigned frustration.
"Reading is for the boring! Let's do something exciting, Ela."
Ela closed her book with a measured look. "And what exciting thing do you propose, Irene?" A mischievous glint sparkled in Irene's eyes. "How about we sneak out of the palace and explore the nearby forest? Adventure awaits, my dear."
Ela's eyebrows arched, a visible sign of her astonishment mingling with concern. "Sneak out? Irene, you're aware of the risks involved!"
Irene's grin only broadened, her spirit seemingly buoyed by the challenge. "Ah, but Ela, consider the thrill, the sheer delight of uncovering the forest's hidden wonders! Let's seize this day, make it unforgettable."
Ela found herself ensnared in a tumult of indecision. The prospect of adventure beckoned enticingly, yet the shadow of potential fallout loomed large. It was Irene's unwavering excitement, her eyes alight with the spark of untold stories, that tipped the scales. With a deep breath, signaling her internal capitulation to the call of the wild unknown, Ela acquiesced.
"Very well, Irene," she murmured, her smile a fragile testament to their impending journey. "But let's tread lightly, mindful of time and prudence."
Irene squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We'll be careful," she promised, "and we'll prove the forest holds wonder as well as risk." She eyes gleamed with triumph as she grabbed Ela's hand, hauling her upward and out of their shaded haven. "That's the spirit! Adventure awaits, my friend!"
Returning her friend's bright smile with a reluctant one, Ela let Irene pull her to her feet. With one last glance at the palace, she turned with Irene to face the forest, the combination of nerves and anticipation quickening her breath. Irene's confidence swept away the last of her doubts.
Leaves danced in swirls of gold and burgundy as two friends slipped from the dappled tranquility of the palace garden. In the distance, their laughter pirouetted with the wind as the shadows of late afternoon stretched along their path through the forest where secrets and curiosity awaited. In the golden light of the hidden forest, Ela and Irene dashed among the rustling leaves, feeling the freedom and joy of their laughter. Racing through the underbrush, the chorus of shared laughter and playful banter was accompanied by the sound of life—a harmony only broken when they stumbled upon an old, abandoned shack nestled amidst gnarled trees.
Irene's eyes glistened with anticipation as they fell upon the aging cabin. "Oh, Ela, you don't suppose we should...?" One eyebrow raised, Ela shook her head, incredulous. "... go in? Irene, are you certain this is safe?"
Irene frowned, her usual spark falling quickly to puppy dog eyes. A mischievous grin curled on her lips, framed by that ever-ubiquitous kindness Ela had found so many years ago. "Oh come on, Ela! You heard Lord Ringo, the forest doesn't even exist on any of the maps of Harwood. It's just a quick look around, maybe we'll find—"
With an embarrassed shake of her head Ela nodded her agreement as Irene darted inside. The door protested loudly, a low groan echoing through the cramped, cavernous interior as they stepped further into the darkness.