Prologue
“Hands at this angle, young master.” Mr. Field was always careful in his scoldings, and for that young Dominique was grateful. He had heard whisperings that not all music teachers were as kind as Mr. Field.
A prodigy—the name hovered over him like a blazing sign. At eleven, even his boyish mind knew that life would never be simple. When other little boys were outside running and playing in the streams, Dominique was in the great practice room tapping away at the ivory.
Music was to Dominique what breathing was to everyone else. He wasn’t able to quit the melodies pounding through his head—through his dreams. Often, he would sneak down to the practice room in the middle of the night because his fingers itched so heavily to touch the keys of his favorite instrument. If the music was not played, sleep would not come.
The crescendos, the notes—everything had always existed in his mind. The major scale of beautiful notes descended upon him in times of great happiness, the minor scales—the scales of sharps and flats—often during times of danger. His teacher, Mr. Field, said it was a gift, that all prodigies had a sixth sense. Dominique, however, felt different, too different to play with others his own age. So he poured himself into music as much as he could to his mother’s utter delight, for she was always doting on him, telling him that one day he would be a great master and that people from all over the world would pay to hear his gift.
His father, the Royal Prince Maksylov, thought music was only for the weak-minded, and often told young Dominique that unless he grew strong in physical build and learned how to play with others, nobody would ever follow him. That he, as a musician, could never lead.
And so Dominique led the life of being pulled by two parents: one in the direction of the piano room, and the other to the outside light. Both directions held certain feelings of excitement and fear, for Dominique hated to fail at anything and often found it frustrating to have to concentrate on more than one task at a time.
A certain evening, after his parents had gotten in another fight over his musical education, Dominique had snuck into bed careful not to let any of the servants see the pooling of tears around his eyes. He cried, not for himself, but the love lost, for it seemed both parents never saw him as the boy he was, only what they wanted him to be.
After the servants had gone to bed, a slow haunting melody began burning in the back of Dominique’s mind. Closing his eyes against the onslaught of music, he put the pillow over his head. But the music would not quit. Minor chords filled with dread and pain drifted in and out of his mind until he thought he would go mad. Finally, unable to keep his body from moving, his fingers carefully started playing the melody in the air, imagining the pianos keys underneath his finger tips as he played the song that would not leave him.
The song progressed; it became more and more angry. The hair on Dominique’s arms stood on end. Surely he would die this way! The music was finally coming for him! There was no other option in his mind. He had always thought about how he would die. There was nothing simple about dying for any prodigy. For a musician, there was always music. Always a benediction telling the sad tale of a person’s life which had gone unlived.
With a squeal, Dominique ran downstairs to the practice room. If he was to die, he needed to be next to the music; the only hope, it seemed, was to play that song and pray it never return to his head.
He threw open the doors to the practice room just in time to see his father pull back the trigger of a pistol and his mother fall to the ground in a bloody heap. Then, his father turned hate-filled eyes toward Dominique. With sickening fear, he noticed his teacher, Mr. Field, also lying on the floor, dead, just behind the couch. His soulless stare went right past him and his coloring was a grayish white.
“What are you about, boy?”
“Papa!” Dominique froze in place. “Papa, you hurt Mama! What have you done? You—you beast!”
“Beast?” His father laughed, madness etched across his face. He took a stumble to the side-board and poured himself more brandy, not sure at all on his feet as he took a seat on the sofa, his booted foot only inches from Mr. Field’s outstretched hand. “I give your mother everything! I give you everything and she repays me with betrayal!”
His voice shook the walls in the room and suddenly Dominique knew where the music had come from. Just as his teacher had said, it had come from within. He had sensed the danger, and the music once silent as he entered the room came back full force as his father trained his eyes on him.
Blood still dripped from the prince’s hands as he smiled and threw the glass of brandy on the floor, shattering it into pieces.
“So you think me a beast, boy?”
Dominique slowly backed away toward the door. It seemed his only hope was to somehow escape the nightmare he had walked into.
“Answer me!” His father wailed, throwing another glass to the floor. “Answer me now, boy!”
“No. No, Papa, you are no b-beast.” Tears fell from Dominique’s eyes of their own accord, streaking his face with the salty wetness of death.
In a flash, his father was behind him, locking the doors. The music crescendoed again. The finale—he could hear it; he could see it in his mind’s eye.
“Well, boy. Why don’t you go ahead and play. Play for me, play for your dead mother, and your wicked teacher. Play for us all!” His shout vibrated off Dominique’s ears like he’d been shot himself. His father thrust his hands into the air as if directing some invisible choir.
He was mad! The teacher’s body lay ever so lightly across his mother’s; he needed to step over them in order to get to the piano. In that moment, Dominique knew he would die, knew that he would never get to play with other little boys. The cold stream by his house wouldn’t get any use, for he would be dead, and dead little boys did not swim in cold streams.
With a deep breath, Dominique sat at the piano and began to play the melody.
His funeral march.
His benediction.
“Ah, such music is so pleasing. It is so sweet, Dominique, it nearly makes me ache with want, which is apparently what your witch of a mother was aching with. Don’t you agree?”
Dominique continued to play, tears blurring his vision. Perhaps a servant would hear the music and think it odd? His mind rejected the notion. It was impossible, for he was often playing music through the night. But this night was unlike any other.
As he finished the song, his father yelled, “Keep playing!”
So Dominique continued to play and shook as he did so. He repeated the same song, for there was no other melody in his head he could find. His father came up behind him, casting a shadow in the candlelight.