looks of utter scorn and contempt.
And there, amongst that crowd of hard-faced harpies—practically hidden in their shadow—was the brown-eyed girl I'd seen coming out of the green room. Her bracing eyes were closed now, her hands clasped in front of her chin as if she were praying, her elbows leaning on the barrier in front of her. She was listening intently, focusing all of her mind on it.
And then and there—as the measure ended and the song shifted around me and I leaned my mouth in toward the microphone—I was singing to her.
No matter the state of my life
I'll love you
No matter the joy or the strife
I'll love you
No matter if sick or if hale
I'll love you
No matter the cost of the sale
I'll love you…
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's-Blood Oath
As the chorus shifted to the first verse, and I filled my lungs to sing it, the girl opened her eyes. Her gaze met mine, those dark irises shining like they had diamonds in them. For a moment my heart seemed to swell in my chest again, pregnant with longing, the feeling choking me.
I missed the cue to start the verse, my hands fumbling on the strings, the pick slipping out of my fingers. The band kept rolling on without me—we'd been playing together for a long time, and I knew they'd just double the first two bars and wait for me to come in the next time around. But while they rolled forward, I saw the girl's lips—beautiful, tea-rose pink—began to move. She was speaking the lyrics herself. She was singing them to me.
The second measure neared its end. I snatched another pick off the holder on the mike stand, nodding to Sergio and Joey to let them know I was ready. And then I turned back to the girl, her lips still moving with the words, and we sang the song to each other, her voice quiet and unheard, mine amplified to fill the ears of every person packed into that tiny club.
That song was nearly twelve years old, worn dull by a thousand performances. And never, not once, did I sing the song like I did that night. Never did I feel the truth of the words more clearly.
The girl had done that for me. She'd touched me like a muse.
Chapter 13
Anne
It started with the drummer, Joey Jones, hitting his sticks together to count off the first song, the sound high and crisp clear. And then he and the bassist and the keyboardist all launched in at once, the sound so sudden and enveloping it took my breath away. A split-second later I recognized the song—"A Heart's-Blood Oath"—and goose bumps broke out all across my body. As the crowd caught on they opened their mouths and cried out with excitement, and in just a few seconds the entire club was filled with the voices of hundreds of people yelling. It was a sea of noise all around me, almost too intense—the roaring crowd and my own emotions and the alcohol from the too-strong drink all making my head swim and my blood rush. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands gripping the barricade in front of me, and I held on like I was riding a roller coaster.
Joey Jones stomped the kick pedal and teased a sizzle and crash out of the high hat, and then Micah Green came in with his guitar lead, the sound eerie and atmospheric. The crowd went quiet, hypnotized by the music, swaying and moving like they were in a trance. Even the high-heeled Amazon bitch paused in her passive-aggressive attack.
"A Heart's-Blood Oath." I felt another swelling of emotions in my chest. This had been the song that first made me interested in Trace LeBeau and the Belletrists, in music in general. More than that, this had been the song that made me interested in poetry, in writing, in literature. The song's lyrics, the depth of feeling those words provoked in me even when I was a little girl, completely changed my life. I was ten years old when I first heard this song—more than eight years ago—and it was still my favorite song, ever.
I heard Trace's
And there, amongst that crowd of hard-faced harpies—practically hidden in their shadow—was the brown-eyed girl I'd seen coming out of the green room. Her bracing eyes were closed now, her hands clasped in front of her chin as if she were praying, her elbows leaning on the barrier in front of her. She was listening intently, focusing all of her mind on it.
And then and there—as the measure ended and the song shifted around me and I leaned my mouth in toward the microphone—I was singing to her.
No matter the state of my life
I'll love you
No matter the joy or the strife
I'll love you
No matter if sick or if hale
I'll love you
No matter the cost of the sale
I'll love you…
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's-Blood Oath
As the chorus shifted to the first verse, and I filled my lungs to sing it, the girl opened her eyes. Her gaze met mine, those dark irises shining like they had diamonds in them. For a moment my heart seemed to swell in my chest again, pregnant with longing, the feeling choking me.
I missed the cue to start the verse, my hands fumbling on the strings, the pick slipping out of my fingers. The band kept rolling on without me—we'd been playing together for a long time, and I knew they'd just double the first two bars and wait for me to come in the next time around. But while they rolled forward, I saw the girl's lips—beautiful, tea-rose pink—began to move. She was speaking the lyrics herself. She was singing them to me.
The second measure neared its end. I snatched another pick off the holder on the mike stand, nodding to Sergio and Joey to let them know I was ready. And then I turned back to the girl, her lips still moving with the words, and we sang the song to each other, her voice quiet and unheard, mine amplified to fill the ears of every person packed into that tiny club.
That song was nearly twelve years old, worn dull by a thousand performances. And never, not once, did I sing the song like I did that night. Never did I feel the truth of the words more clearly.
The girl had done that for me. She'd touched me like a muse.
Chapter 13
Anne
It started with the drummer, Joey Jones, hitting his sticks together to count off the first song, the sound high and crisp clear. And then he and the bassist and the keyboardist all launched in at once, the sound so sudden and enveloping it took my breath away. A split-second later I recognized the song—"A Heart's-Blood Oath"—and goose bumps broke out all across my body. As the crowd caught on they opened their mouths and cried out with excitement, and in just a few seconds the entire club was filled with the voices of hundreds of people yelling. It was a sea of noise all around me, almost too intense—the roaring crowd and my own emotions and the alcohol from the too-strong drink all making my head swim and my blood rush. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands gripping the barricade in front of me, and I held on like I was riding a roller coaster.
Joey Jones stomped the kick pedal and teased a sizzle and crash out of the high hat, and then Micah Green came in with his guitar lead, the sound eerie and atmospheric. The crowd went quiet, hypnotized by the music, swaying and moving like they were in a trance. Even the high-heeled Amazon bitch paused in her passive-aggressive attack.
"A Heart's-Blood Oath." I felt another swelling of emotions in my chest. This had been the song that first made me interested in Trace LeBeau and the Belletrists, in music in general. More than that, this had been the song that made me interested in poetry, in writing, in literature. The song's lyrics, the depth of feeling those words provoked in me even when I was a little girl, completely changed my life. I was ten years old when I first heard this song—more than eight years ago—and it was still my favorite song, ever.
I heard Trace's
Similar Books
