Edward didn’t ask why. Which was good, because Daria wouldn’t have known how to answer. Twenty-four hours later, she had no more idea why Adam was demanding Edward’s presence than she had while leaving his home, confused and humiliated. Daria expected more of that in her future. But for now, she tried to make herself look as presentable as possible. She used her fingers to smooth out the worst of the tangles in her hair, then braided it, starting at the top of her head, pulling up the sides in a style that had once emphasized her delicate bone structure. To disguise her deathly paleness, Daria picked at the half-healed rips in her skin, squeezing out enough blood to smear on her cheeks, giving them what she hoped would be a rosy, healthy glow.
She neatened Edward up, too. While some men still took the trouble to shave, using sharpened rocks or a thread they ran up and down their faces, Edward had allowed his beard to grow in uneven clumps. Daria smoothed it down as best she could. Edward neither objected to her ministrations nor helped. Daria was determined that her husband also look presentable, to give him his dignity, no matter what Adam had planned for the two of them.
“Thank you,” Edward told Adam. “The medicine for Anya. Thank you very much.”
They were the most words Daria had heard Edward utter in weeks. She beamed at him like a proud mother watching her child accept a hard-earned school prize. She couldn’t help feeling grateful to Adam for having drawn them out of him.
The three of them stood in Adam’s central room. There was the haggard writing desk Daria noticed earlier, a single kerosene lamp whose light didn’t quite reach the farthest moldy corners, and the piano, which was where Edward’s gaze instantly fixed. Even as he thanked Adam, his eyes stayed steady on the instrument.
“You want to play?” Adam yanked up the lid, revealing a water-stained keyboard with one black and one white key missing. “Play.”
Edward approached cautiously, as if it might be a trick or a mirage. He kept checking with Adam, head quivering over his shoulder, expecting permission to be withdrawn at any second, followed by punishment.
Adam stomped over to the desk, grabbed the wooden chair that went with it, and dragged it across the floor to the piano, ramming it against the backs of Edward’s knees. Daria’s husband collapsed into a sitting position. Adam shoved him closer to the keyboard. “Play!”
“Play . . . what?”
Daria’s heart sank. Edward had gotten so used to doing what he was ordered—no more, no less—that her brilliant husband, whose mind once swam with every note to every symphony and opera ever written, now couldn’t think of a single option on his own. Or maybe he was too terrified of choosing the wrong one and suffering the consequences.
Daria’s first instinct was to urge him to play the tune he hummed endlessly, the one he and Alyssa had harmonized on at Anya’s grave. But no, that melody was sacrosanct. She didn’t want to ruin it for him.
Adam, for all his belligerent bravado, looked equally stymied. “Play a . . . a waltz.” The answer pried from his brain with great effort and impatient indifference.
Daria hoped Edward wouldn’t ask which waltz. Any further exchange seemed beyond them both.
He didn’t. Instead, Edward reverently hovered his hands above the keyboard, flexing his battered, stiff, ravaged fingers a ritual three times before lowering them and launching into the first notes of what Daria recognized as The Blue Danube.
It was a relatively simple piece. Children performed it at recitals. But as Edward began to play, Daria watched her husband transform. He sat up straighter, loosening his shoulders, straightening his neck, chin up, leaning back, and evening his breath. His brow smoothed, causing Daria to realize how much tension he had been holding in his face.
Adam’s hand gripped Daria’s elbow. She startled. She’d forgotten he was there.
“Dance with me.” It wasn’t a request.
Daria whipped her head to check if Edward had heard. But he was lost in his music.
Adam dragged Daria to the center of the room and forced her to face him. He placed one hand on the small of her back and used his other to seize one of hers. His eyes bore down into her. She had no choice but to rest her free palm on his shoulder as, on the next downbeat, he proceeded to whip Daria around to all four corners, sweeping so closely by the piano, Daria’s hip brushed against Edward.
When was the last time she’d danced? A New Year’s Eve party, most likely. What year had that been? What year was it now? Despite Mama’s insisting that Daria learn to waltz properly, there’d been few occasions for her to do so with Edward. He was usually the one playing while everyone else danced, abandoning Daria to be squired by gentlemen too polite to leave her a wallflower. As a result, she’d grown quite skilled at accommodating a variety of partners. Adam moved with unexpected grace for a man of his bulk. What started as Daria’s being pulled along quickly turned into his properly leading her. She’d first looked down at his feet, trying not to get trampled, but when Daria realized that Adam, surprisingly, knew what he was doing, she raised her head, staring straight into the broad width of his chest. It was disorienting, having buttons bob in front of her face. When her head spun to the point of collapse, Daria surrendered and assumed proper waltz position. She looked into Adam’s eyes.
Adam’s eyes blazed.
They noticed, they considered, they appreciated, they wanted . . . they wanted more than just food, more than just warmth. More than just to live through another day.
Adam’s eyes wanted her.
Daria still remembered that look.
And she remembered how that look had made her feel.
Beautiful. Powerful. Exultant. Hopeful.
Disloyal.
The next time Adam spun her around, Daria took advantage of the momentum to wrench herself free, letting go and deliberately stumbling into Edward, nearly knocking him off his chair, interrupting him midchord. She clung to her husband, using him as a shield between herself and Adam. Edward stared up at her, as dazed as someone who’d woken up from a nightmare into reality. Or vice versa.
“The piano, it needs tuning. I-I could tune it for you,” Edward desperately offered. He’d stood up, one hand remaining on the keyboard, unable to sever the connection.
And for just the tiniest, darkest, split second, Daria hated him. She hated her husband for still having something he loved so much, it could pull him out of this hell from which the rest of them received no reprieve. For believing, like he’d told Alyssa, that no one could take the music out of him, unless he let them. And Daria loved him for, even in hell, somehow managing to cling to a shred of the man he’d once been. While he’d played, he’d become the old Edward. Even as Daria knew she would never be able to resurrect the girl she’d been.
Adam, however, wasn’t looking at Edward. He was looking at Daria, both of them still breathing heavily from the exertion and the dizziness and . . . nothing else whatsoever.
“You want back to Odessa?” Adam growled.
Daria didn’t trust her voice. She nodded.
“I can arrange that.”
Daria gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She turned to Edward, wondering if he’d heard, if he’d understood, if he realized what this meant?
“I can get him out,” Adam went on. “And the little girl. But you”—Adam was speaking to Daria now, no one else—“you stay. Here. With me.”