La Nocturne

Music floated up from the garden below, shimmering flutes darting in and out of a dense curtain of humming violins. It drifted through from under the trees, hanging in the air like a delicate veil. Standing at her bedroom window, Elaine Fellerton dug her nails into her palms for what seemed like the hundredth time since that fateful day. You'll have calluses before you know it. She could imagine Frances, her governess, saying that so perfectly - brow furrowed, disapproval thinning her lips, voice cross and laden with unbreathed sighs of exasperation.

But calluses could be covered with gloves, and hands themselves could be folded neatly inside one another. Bursting into tears amidst crowds of proper, dignified, socially influential ladies and gentlemen couldn't be so easily hidden. And ever since Aria's death, Elaine was finding it harder and harder to hold back the tears. Crying was something one was supposed to cast off along with the toys and make-believing of one's childhood. Proper ladies only took grief and death with the utmost grace and deportment. They donned starched black dresses and sat up straight during the service; they smiled and said thank you when condolences were offered. A few small tears here and there were permissible, but only if they were quiet, dignified, and promptly wiped away with a handkerchief. Nothing like the animal wailing Elaine had wanted to loose. But she had never taken easily to letting things go. And letting Aria go would be impossible.

Down in the garden, the song that had been playing ended and a new one began, a quiet, haunting tune with a keening violin. Elaine's breath caught in her chest. Aria had loved this song, she'd been singing it the morning they snuck down to the sea, easing down that bramble-lined path. All of a sudden, Elaine couldn't breathe. She clutched at the windowsill with one hand, the other going to the laces of her corset. Images flashed before her eyes, images of that morning when everything changed. The summer house, warm bricks and window boxes. Aria's face soft and shadowed above her own, waking her up before dawn to go down to the sea. Aria's hair working loose with the wind, dark wavelets blown against a cloudy silver sky. Dresses stripped off behind a rock, waving in the salt-scented gusts. The sea, gentle and lapping and gray-blue. Then, Aria's alarmed cry at the sudden wicked undertow. Water stinging in her nose and throat, reaching toward her sister in vain. The dark of Aria's hair bobbing up and down on the rough waves, shrinking and shrinking.

Elaine ran screaming and weeping to the house, half-convinced it was all a nightmare. They sent men out in boats, combing the waves for her sister. Night fell, and they came back spray-soaked and empty-handed. Elaine did not sleep that night; instead, she kicked and clawed at her sheets and kept hearing fragments of the song Aria was singing inside her head. The next morning, her sister was found facedown on the sand on the same beach they were at the morning before. Like a bit of driftwood or a beached fish. The waves were already lapping at the hem of her slip as morning broke, as if trying to claim her a second time.

The funeral had been a pompous affair, held in a church they hadn't seen the inside of since the girls were baptized. People had flooded in for the service, seas of black silk and black wool and sympathetic faces. Elaine had never even seen half of them. Despite the packed pews, the church still seemed desperately empty, the ceiling arching above them for what seemed miles. It fit how she felt inside. Hollow and numb. They had put makeup on Aria, powder and rouge and paint on her lips. She had hated wearing makeup in real life. Her hair had also been combed and braided into a myriad of tiny plaits, gathered in buns atop her head. And finally, they had put a dress on her, a dress Elaine had never seen, with yards of velvet and lace and gold braid. The Aria in her casket was nothing like the Aria in real life.

Aria. A song. She was always singing, her voice clear and strong and piercing. She dreamed of being on stages with heavy velvet curtains and golden lights, singing to sold-out audiences, reaching into every person with her voice. She herself was like a song - beautiful, flowing, and gone too soon.

The song outside ended, staunching the flow of memories. A stately waltz started next. Elaine looked to her bed - her dress was still laid on it. She had dismissed Charlotte and Emma, her ladies' maids, earlier, saying she could dress herself and encouraging them to run along and enjoy the festivities. They had stared at each other wide-eyed before breathing their thanks and scurrying off downstairs. Elaine had planned to spend the duration of the ball up in her room, but now she realized being trapped for hours with her memories and her loneliness probably wasn't the best plan. Besides, her sister would have been scandalized at this kind of behavior - Aria had adored parties and balls. She would have wanted Elaine to be downstairs right then.

Elaine sighed and started stepping into the gown she had specially bought for the occasion. She did her best fastening the row of tiny buttons in the back and fluffed out her skirts around her. The silvery-green satin rustled and settled delicately around her legs. Rummaging through her jewelry box, she found a few strings of pearls and draped those round her neck. She stepped into her embroidered shoes and finally tied the ribbons of the green-and-yellow feathered mask behind her head.

Masquerade balls had been Aria's absolute favorite.

Elaine remembered the dress Aria had picked, wine red and going off her shoulders, with a ruched skirt. It was a daring piece and their parents had nearly forbidden her from buying it. Her mask had been that of a cat's, a thin plate of metal covering half her face and painted the same shade of red.

Elaine made her way down the grand marble staircase into the front hall. The chandeliers had been lit, and roses had been cut and put in fine vases between the columns of the hall. Guests, most of them unmasked, mingled and chatted sociably amongst themselves. She caught a glimpse into a nearby ballroom - the gold lacquered panels on the walls cast a magical sheen on the whirling dancers. In the garden, under the glowing gibbous moon, another waltz was playing, livelier than the last. Pairs of masked dancers floated past her eyes, so many sweeping skirts and laughing faces. Elaine had no one to dance with.

Feeling the gnawing loneliness again, she drifted into a quieter side garden with a small pond ringed with stone benches. A few guests were sitting on the benches, tired from dancing. Suddenly, Elaine sensed a rustling in the hedge beside her. She stumbled back. She thought she saw something on the other side of the hedge, a movement of delicate wings. Butterflies? Bats? It was too late in the day for butterflies and too early in the year for bats. The movement seemed to travel down to the end of the garden, by the stone wall carved with ancient Greek myths and overgrown with ivy.

In the darkness by the wall, Elaine thought she glimpsed something shiny. Small and red and glimmering by the light of the lanterns they had put all around the grounds. Getting closer to it, she gasped.

Aria's mask.