Page 30 of Waters that Drown Us

The little bell rings overhead as we walk in. Paul’s head pops up from where he’s reading behind the glass cases, ignoring us once he realizes it’s a local and not someone he can upsell to. Emily hovers her hand gently over the small of my back, like she’s ready to hold me up if needed. I must look as shell-shocked as I feel.

She’s prettier up close. The little knicks on the ribs, the worn finish on the scrolls, all her tiny imperfections making her moreperfect. There’s no chin rest, no faded spot where one once sat, and I wonder how long it’s been since she’s been played. This wasn’t a display piece, I know that for certain. Someone loved this instrument.

“How long has it been?” Emily asks, her voice so soft it doesn’t even startle me.

“Since I was seventeen,” I admit, feeling and hearing the shake in my voice as I lift my hand, hovering it over the neck but unwilling to touch it.

“Why did you stop?”

“I was engaged once,” I say, physically unable to lie anymore. Not to Emily. Not in front of the instrument that once allowed me to pour all my grief and joy out without saying a word. “He found it childish.”

I remember his letter. The list of things that he would not allow in his home, including some of my favorite dresses, the painting from my mother’s dressing room that hung above my bed, and my viola, amongst many other beloved items. When I approached my father, he said I should learn to love the things Ilya loved, to be a good wife. That what came into my husband’s home, including me, was at discretion.

It was the first moment it occurred to me that I wasn’t a person to either of them, but an object. Like a painting or an instrument or a piece of jewelry, I was an accessory. Objects were inherently inanimate, and I was expected to be the same.

I thought my father had loved me as a daughter. But over the following months and years, I started to realize that all the moments he showed pride in me were those where I was smaller, quieter,less. I smiled demurely on his arm, or Ilya’s, at a party? Approval. I laughed too loud at a joke? Distaste. I made it through a whole meal only speaking when spoken to? A new dress would appear in my wardrobe the next morning. I asked for leniency, requested independence? Open scorn.

Or in Ilya’s case, threats of consequences. Hands on my body. Bruises.

I’m so lost in the memories, staring at the viola like it will transport me back in time if I touch it, that I barely notice Emily leave and return. When she does, she interlaces her fingers with mine.

“You can pick it up,” she suggests gently, trying not to spook me. I can’t look at her and see the pity in her eyes, so I shake my head.

“I don’t want to break it, it looks fragile,” I say, a poor excuse. It looks so sturdy, I can almost feel the weight of the wood on my fingertips.

“Break it if you want, it’s yours.”

My whole body locks, air trapped in my lungs and blood frozen in my veins. Emily’s thumb draws smooth, calming circles on my hand.

“No,” I say, unable to get more words out.

“I know this is overstepping. And if you really don’t want it, I’ll take it and hold it until you’re ready. But it’s clear you once loved this, and you deserve to love it again.”

It’s too much. There’s no oxygen in my body, and I can feel the corners of my vision blur with haze and tears. I might break down, I might pass out. I might stand here for the rest of my life and let the world wither around me.

I wonder if Emily would stand here with me.

“You didn’t have to…” I trail off, feeling her shrug beside me. Saying things we don’t have the words for.

I lift the hand not attached to Emily and once again try to touch the viola. I don’t fear much, but it feels like the moment I touch the strings, a bubble will pop and I’ll be back in my father’s home, putting my instrument in its case for the last time.

But I do it. I touch the strings, their coiled pattern so familiar and beautifully grating against my skin. The wood of the neckis cold, but it warms quickly. Emily’s hand is still around mine, grounding me.

“When you’re ready, if you ever are,” she whispers next to me as I pick the instrument up by the neck one handed, unwilling to let go of her hand. “I’d like to hear you play, Alice.”

Alice. Not Alisa.Alice, with the weight of a viola under her palm again.Alice, holding hands with someone she chose.Alice, being strong and brave, and loving something lost once again.

Chapter 14

Emily

Oh, I am so beyond fucked.

I have no plan. No course of action. Nothing other than the absolute certainty that I cannot sacrifice Alice to her father.

I’m trying to think logically through the panic consuming every moment, but it feels impossible. My family is everything to me. We are strange and harsh and a little cruel compared to the average, but we also love more fiercely than anyone I know. My parents are my constant supporters, always valuing my opinion, encouraging my pursuits outside of The Syndicate, advocating for me with Lucia. My aunts and uncle have never belittled my contributions, even as the youngest Costa. Clara has been my lifelong sparring partner, pushing me to be better, smarter, faster. Our mission has been my guiding light since I could understand the world around me.

And I’m seriously considering giving it up.