Chapter Text
The wind spoke to Eurydice. It told her when it was coming and going, when a storm was rolling in. Sometimes its voice was nothing more than a faint whisper in the back of her mind; sometimes it howled in haunting shrieks like a woman in the throes of grief. She remembered the first time she heard the voice of the wind. She’d been huddled in the corner of her bedroom, a small teenage girl trembling with fright, when a cold wind slithered under her skin and hissed strange syllables into her ear. When the voice came, nothing would quiet it—no use in plugging her ears, or drowning it out with noise—nothing, except to run. That was why she’d stuffed an old brown backpack with her few belongings, taken to the road, and never looked back.
She was free of the voice for a little while, but no matter how far she walked, the wind always found her again. At first, its whispers were unintelligible, distorted phantoms of human sounds, but as it pursued her she became attuned to it. Soon, out of the noise, the first word took form: “run.” Then other words started to appear. “The wind is changing.” “There’s a storm coming on.” Everywhere she went, Eurydice listened for the wind, and the wind told her when it was time to leave. It chased her all the way across the United States, from her hometown in California through the rural Midwest, along the East Coast and back again.
This winter she’d wound up in Louisiana, where the wind followed her down along the Mississippi River. When it didn’t quiet she walked further still, driven by its constant whispers, “Not here, not here.” There was a little district on the outskirts of New Orleans that the locals called Parnassus. Whether it belonged to New Orleans or not was unclear. It sat near the coast, with its own town square, shop-lined streets on the side of New Orleans and suburban neighborhoods cropping up a little way from the city. It was built along an old railroad line that stretched out into the barren hills beyond. Eurydice asked around a bit to get a sense of the place. No one knew where the railroad track ended.
Eurydice listened for the wind. It was quiet, but its icy tendrils still coiled around her limbs. The sun had long been set by the time she first stepped foot in this place, and the temperature had plummeted. Eurydice rubbed her hands together. She’d been meaning to get a pair of gloves for years, but she couldn’t afford proper fleece-lined gloves, and anything less wouldn’t be worth the money. An assortment of rings decked her tiny frozen fingers, cheap ones she’d bought as a teenager to look cool, mostly simple silver bands save for the snake on her left middle finger. The cold metal stabbed her skin and she considered taking them off but her hands were so stiff she might not be able to manage it.
Many of the shops were closed—some, it seemed, permanently—but one building caught her eye, an old tavern with a warm glow spilling from the windows and a sign across the top reading “The Road to Hell.” She stepped in tentatively and stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the scene before her. The atmosphere was overall cozy and inviting, with tables set out upon a hardwood floor and a bar off to the side. A voice called out, “Girl, come on in from the cold!”
Eurydice’s head whipped in the direction of the voice. An older man stood behind the bar, dressed in a flashy silver suit that looked completely out of place in this humble establishment. An icy draft curled around her limbs like smoke from behind and she shut the door to cut it off, wandered about, drank in her surroundings. The walls, she noted, were painted with notes of faded turquoise like rusted copper, and a few exposed pipes ran along the walls and ceiling. She turned about herself and pitched her head up to look at the lamps, admiring their soft, yellow light when suddenly something solid struck her back and she whirled around.
A boy, about her age perhaps, stared back at her with impossibly wide eyes and stood petrified for several moments too long. Heat rushed to her cheeks and Eurydice, mortified, mumbled an apology and brushed past him, though not without throwing a quick glance over her shoulder once she’d reached a safe distance. The boy produced a red rag from his pocket and started wiping down tables; he must work here, she thought.
It was oddly quiet in the bar, as if the energy had been subdued by the brief breath of wind she’d unwittingly spilled into the space. “Anybody got a match?” she asked. The man in the silver suit came out from behind the bar and pulled a matchbox from his pocket. “Gimme that.” She grabbed the matchbox and settled down at an empty table, rifled through her backpack and pulled out a tall, yellow candle. It was a gift from her mother, a tiny source of light and warmth that she clung to when the sky turned dark and cold. She struck a match, lit the candle, and warmed her hands by the firelight; she didn’t light it often to preserve it, but new environments often prompted her to seek its grounding warmth. That morning she’d forgotten to put on her little faded orange bandana that she used as a scarf of sorts, so she took it out now, rolled it up, and tied it round her neck.
Then someone thrust a bundle of shredded paper in front of her and started singing:
“Come home with me.”
Eurydice blinked. “Who are you?”
“The man who’s gonna marry you.” He improvised a little melody in an instant, then glanced around and added “I’m Orpheus” with his land laid on his chest, drawing out the vowels with a slight tremor of vibrato.
It was the boy she’d bumped into earlier. The man in the silver suit was nearby, and figuring he must know his own employee, Eurydice turned and asked him, “Is he always like this?”
“Yes.”
The other customers, who had quieted to complete silence, now chuckled and whispered amongst themselves. Peering at the strange creation clutched tightly in his hand, Eurydice realized it was meant to resemble a flower—the paper had been rolled into a stalk and the top of it was peeled in strips that looked vaguely like petals.
“I’m Eurydice,” she said.
“Your name is like a melody.”
“A singer. Is that what you are?”
“I also play the lyre.”
The boy pointed across the room at a guitar set upon a stand in the corner. Eurydice raised an eyebrow at him and tried not to laugh. “Oh, a liar and a player too,” she teased as she leapt up to perch on the tabletop, crossing her legs and turning away from him. “I’ve met too many men like you.”
“Oh no, I’m not like that.”
The man in the silver suit, with a knowing smile, remarked, “He’s not like any man you’ve met.” His hand reached toward her to settle on her shoulder but she jerked away from him and he backed off, palms raised in deference, then gestured towards the boy. “Tell her what you’re workin’ on,” he urged.
At this the boy seemed to perk up a bit and a hint of a soft grin flickered across his lips. Soon he was approaching, too quickly, joining Eurydice on the tabletop, sitting close enough that she could feel his warmth, that their shoulders almost touched. She scooted away from him, balancing uncomfortably on the edge of the table to put some distance between them. “I’m working on a song,” said the boy, still singing.“It isn’t finished yet. But when it’s done, and when I sing it, spring will come again.”
“Come again?”
“Spring will come.”
He spoke those words. It was the first time she’d heard him speak. He had a light, airy singing voice, with a slight British accent that came out on certain vowels, and his speaking voice was much the same, only the accent was more pronounced. “When?” she asked. “I haven’t seen a spring or fall since…I can’t recall.”
“That’s what I’m working on.” The boy jumped off the table and swept his hands across the air above him as if to paint streaks of blue into an invisible sky. “A song to fix what’s wrong. Take what’s broken, make it whole—a song so beautiful, it brings the world back into tune! Back into time! And all the flowers will bloom…”
As he sang, the melody swelled, and with it his voice grew bolder, a wonderstruck smile spreading across his face. Many times Eurydice could have sworn she heard other voices singing with him, harmonizing with him, and when she glanced around she saw the other customers, leaning towards the scene on the edge of their seats, their lips moving in tandem with the boy’s, their faces glowing as if transfixed.
“…When you become my wife.”
Startled, Eurydice shot an incredulous look at the bartender. The boy had dropped down on one knee, one hand clutched to his heart, the other presenting the flower to her with his arm outstretched. “Ohhhh, he’s crazy!” Eurydice laughed. “Why would I become his wife?”
“Maybe because he’ll make you feel…alive.”
“Alive?” The bartender nodded. “That’s worth a lot.” Eurydice looked at the boy. He was sort of cute, in a disheveled, unassuming way. His dark brown hair was tousled and he dressed modestly with an apron round his waist and a red bandana round his neck. His shoulders were hunched, his body curled in on itself, but his arm stuck out bravely, grasping the paper flower with tightly clenched fingers. Though he’d been smiling just moments ago, now misery etched itself into his features and his red cheeks grew pallid. He was trembling. He looked like he might cry.
Sighing, Eurydice stepped down from the table and tugged the flower from his white-knuckled fist til his fingers fell from the stem at once and he jerked his arm back. She inspected the flower, chuckled at its crude make, then looked up and asked him, “What else you got?”
In an instant his eyes grew wide and the color flooded back into his face. He scrambled to his feet and shot a helpless glance at the bartender, who shook his head, humming in disapproval. “You’re on your own, kid,” he said as he sauntered back to his place behind the bar.
“I…” began the boy, glancing around incessantly. “…I have songs. Lots of them.”
“Is that all you do, sing?”
“N-no…I, well, I play the lyre, and I write poems, and…I clean tables and serve drinks…and I talk to Mr. Hermes.”
“Mr. Hermes?”
The boy turned and pointed at the man in the silver suit. “A man with feathers on his feet, who could—”
“Why do you sing everything?”
“Huh?”
Eurydice huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you sing everything?”
“I don’t know. I like singing.”
Suddenly an idea came to mind and she stuffed the flower in her pocket and whirled around to blow out her candle so she wouldn’t waste it. She’d moved so quickly that she accidentally startled the boy, who stumbled and crashed into the table behind him. She winced and blurted an apology. There was an old upright piano against the wall and she dashed towards it, plopping on the piano bench and settling her fingers over the yellowed keys. She stared at them for a while, lost in the endless track of black and white as traces of a song passed through her mind in wispy streams. Then she pressed down on the keys, and the first chord sounded, and then the next; with every passing note she knew, instantly, what the next should be, as if someone was whispering in her ear, telling her what to play. The boy, Orpheus, had grabbed his “lyre” and followed her to the piano. He quickly picked up the chord progression and they settled into a groove. Delighted, beaming in disbelief, all at once a melody struck Eurydice; the words fell into place, and she started to sing:
Lover, tell me, if you can
Who’s gonna buy the wedding bands?
Times bein’ what they are
Hard and getting harder all the time!
Without missing a beat Orpheus replied,
Lover, when I sing my song
All the rivers’ll sing along
And they’re gonna break their banks for us
And with their gold be generous
All a-flashing in the pan, all to fashion for your hand
The river’s gonna give us the wedding bands
Stunned, Eurydice stared at him. He hadn’t stuttered, hadn’t hesitated at all. His voice rang out, clear and strong, effortless, with complete mastery, tastefully embellished with warm and frankly quite pretty vibrato. As an invigorated feeling bloomed in her chest, she took note of it and stamped it down, steeling her expression into a coy smirk and endeavoring to test him further:
Lover, tell me, if you’re able
Who’s gonna lay the wedding table
Times bein‘ what they are
Dark and getting darker all the time!
Orpheus answered,
Lover, when I sing my song
All the trees gonna sing along
And they’re gonna bend their branches down
To lay their fruit upon the ground
The almond and the apple
And the sugar from the maple
The trees gonna lay the wedding table.
Eurydice stopped playing. “How are you doing that?”
Orpheus let go of his guitar to let it hang by the strap around his shoulders and started staring intensely at his palms. “I don’t know. The words just come to me. The melodies too. As if I’d known them all along.” He turned his hands over and back again, curled his fingers, flexed them, his brows furrowed as if he was troubled. Then he looked up. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Despite herself, a small smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you.”
“You play well too.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t played in so long.”
“You’re really good.”
“I’ve never improvised like this before. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I’m not supposed to tell you this…” began Orpheus, fidgeting with his hands. “…Mr. Hermes told me not to tell anyone—he said it could be dangerous, but…you don’t seem dangerous.” He took a deep breath. “My mother is a Muse. That’s…why I can do this. Well, probably. I tend to have this sort of…affect on people? It’s hard to explain—”
“You’re a demigod?”
“Well I wouldn’t put it that way…”
He didn’t look like a demigod. Anyone sharing in divine blood would surely have a strength about them, a command, an air of dignity, surpassing that of all regular mortals—or so Eurydice expected. He was actually sort of scrawny, disheveled, unimpressive, smudged with graphite and kitchen grease. But when he sang, he had an otherworldly glow about him. Perhaps he could be the son of a Muse.
“So when you sing your song…” The son of a muse… “…the one you’re working on…” What if… “Spring will come again?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you sing it then?”
“It isn’t finished.”
“Sing it.” A deep blush spread across his cheeks as he shook his head bashfully with a barely audible “no” whispered through nervous laughter. Eurydice stood up and pulled off her coat just enough to expose her bare shoulder, curtsying with a coquettish grin and batting her lashes. “You wanna take me home?”
“Yes,” breathed Orpheus.
“Sing the song.”
As Eurydice plopped back down triumphantly—she knew he’d be too easy—Orpheus stepped up onto an empty table near the middle of the bar and the room fell silent. He was trembling so violently Eurydice worried he might fall, but when his fingers plucked the first few notes on his guitar, his trembling stilled, his body unfurled, and his eyes cast themselves upward and away as pensive wonder crossed over his face. “La, la-la la, la, la, la…” The melody, hauntingly beautiful—ethereal—floated from his lips in a clear, delicate falsetto. When he sang again he reached even higher with effortless grace, and voices echoed him, voices from other guests, from the walls, from the wind outside, from everywhere and nowhere at once—their overlapping lines wove a tapestry of harmony, ascending into grandeur, complex, sublime. His fingers lifted away from the guitar, the air full of his melodies, and sweeping his hand across the room he crouched down, clasped his hands together as the voices rose and swelled til suddenly, they stopped, and a blood-red flower appeared, grasped between his fingers.
Eurydice gasped. As she slowly approached him he presented the flower to her and she took it, traced its soft red petals. A carnation. She had always loved carnations. “How’d you do that?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly, the disbelief apparent on his face as he took to examining his own hands again. “The song’s not finished though.”
“Even so it can do this?” As excitement bubbled up in her, Eurydice beamed at Orpheus and his clueless expression made her smile wider. “You have to finish it!” Inspired, Eurydice pocketed the flower and flew back to the piano, one more verse leaning at the tip of her tongue:
Lover, tell me when we’re wed
Who’s gonna make the wedding bed?
Times bein’ what they are
Hard and getting harder all the time!
Orpheus leapt off the table, nearly toppling over as he landed, and scrambled to join her:
Lover, when I sing my song
All the birds gonna sing along
And they’ll come flying from all around
To lay their feathers on the ground
And we’ll lie down in eiderdown
A pillow ‘neath our heads
The birds gonna make the wedding bed.
Giggling, Eurydice sang out with a flourish, “And the trees gonna lay the wedding table!”
Orpheus leaned closer and echoed, “And the river’s gonna give us the wedding bands.”
Eurydice closed the song with three final chords, and the patrons hummed along, lingering on the final note. As the bar erupted into applause, Orpheus looked at her, still and smiling, with a subtle intensity in his gaze. He had rather large eyes, very expressive—it was one of the first things she’d noticed about him—wide and curious, a warm dark brown, with long lashes fanning over his soft cheeks. There was beauty in his features, hiding behind his humble manner and dress, peeking out in small flashes whenever he relaxed. He had a delicate, boyish, pretty face—a far cry from the handsome faces that normally caught Eurydice’s eye, yet she went on staring just a little while longer.
“So…does this mean you’ll become my wife?”
Blinking out of her trance, Eurydice drew back, heat flaring up through her neck into her cheeks. “Oh, um…I was just playing along. You know how it goes. I mean—I can’t marry you. I don’t even know you.”
“Right. No, you’re right, I’m sorry…” He pressed his hands to his eyes, contorting them in a way that looked slightly unnatural, and started muttering to himself. “Mr. Hermes warned me about this, I remember, he said ‘Orpheus, don’t come on too strong,’ I always come on too strong!”
Eurydice backed away from him and folded her arms around her midriff. “Maybe we could just be friends instead?” she suggested, bracing for his response.
“Friends?”
“You know. Start slow.”
“I don’t have a lot of friends,” he said despondently. “It…might be nice to have one.” He considered for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind and held out his hand. “Alright. Friends?”
Eurydice stared at his offered hand. Admittedly his reaction had come as a welcome surprise—she’d expected him to lash out in anger—but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to commit to this agreement. Her stay in this town was temporary after all. Yet, she found herself reaching out, wondering if the son of a Muse had rough hands, calloused from plucking his guitar strings, or if they were smooth like his voice, untouched by the strain of hard labor—but she drew back. “Yeah, let’s be friends,” she mumbled.
Orpheus frowned at his rejected hand as if he was ashamed of it and with a weak grin nodded curtly. “Okay.”
With that, Eurydice left the piano and returned to her table. She stuffed the candle back in her backpack; she didn’t need it anymore. Remembering the flowers, she reached in her pockets and pulled them out, one a crumpled piece of paper, the other a perfect red carnation. Smiling to herself, she smoothed the petals of the paper flower to restore it, then scoffed at herself for how silly she was being and put it back in her coat pocket. The carnation though, she marveled at, twirling it in her fingers, admiring its rich red hue. She loved the color red.
When Orpheus came to take her order she asked for the cheapest food item they had, all-too aware of her dwindling funds. He came back with a large bowl of hot beef stew. Eurydice gawked at him and told him helplessly “I can’t pay for this.”
“Don’t worry about it. This one’s on me. Besides, we need to get rid of the leftovers from today.”
Eurydice fetched her coin purse from her backpack and emptied a few coins into her palm. “At least let me—”
“Keep it. Please. Mr. Hermes and I are doing just fine here.”
He left in a rush before Eurydice could stop him or even thank him. Though she felt a little guilty she dug into her food anyway, unwilling to pass up a proper meal. She’d gone without tasting anything besides her own mouth for so long that as soon as the first spoonful hit her tongue her jaw ached and her eyes watered. The stew was warm and hearty; already she could feel the strength returning to her tired limbs. As she ate she racked her brain for some way to repay Orpheus until a woman suddenly plopped into the seat across from her and set her beer mug on the table. “That boy sure is smitten. I’ve never seen him this worked up about a girl before. Though I guess there aren’t a lotta girls his age coming through here.” The woman held out her hand. “Sydney. I’m a regular here.”
“Eurydice.” She tentatively took Sydney’s hand and shook it. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Eh, acquaintance is more like it. Orpheus doesn’t really have friends. Hermes doesn’t count. He’s practically his father. All of us, we just watch from afar.”
“And sing along?”
Sydney chuckled. “Everyone succumbs to it eventually. Some people put up a damn good fight but no matter how hard they try, you hear the boy sing and you gotta sing along. That’s just how it goes around here.”
“So…this is normal for you?”
“Shit, nothing about this place is normal. Why do you think I keep coming back? Sure it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but if you vibe with it, you bet your ass you’re coming back.” Sydney took a long swig of beer, then offered it to Eurydice. “Want a sip?”
Alcohol did sound nice right now, but Eurydice never trusted drinks offered by strangers. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” She took another sip and then gestured towards Orpheus. “So, you gonna marry him or what?”
“Oh god!” laughed Eurydice. “I dunno. He’s not really my type.”
“Fair enough.”
“I mean I guess he’s kind of cute, you know, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“He’s a cutie. Not much of a charmer though. Most folks find him kind of…odd.”
Eurydice snorted. “I can’t imagine why.”
Her face falling into a frown, Sydney leaned forward and spoke in grave, earnest tones, “Hey, a word of advice: don’t break his heart. He’s a good boy. But he’s fragile. So whatever you do…be gentle with him.”
A wave of discomfort settled over Eurydice. She glanced around her at the people in the bar, all laughing together and smiling at Orpheus whenever he passed, and she suddenly felt like an intruder. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”
“Go where?”
“Away from here.”
“No, no, by all means, be his friend. Heaven knows he needs one of those. Just don’t lead him on.”
“I won’t.” Having finished her stew and feeling satisfied and sleepy, Eurydice started gathering her things. She held up Hermes’s matchbox and caught his eye across the room, intending to return it, but he waved her off with a smile, so she put it in her backpack. “It was nice meeting you, Sydney.”
“My pleasure. Be careful out there.”
“I will.”
It was long past midnight by now, but Eurydice still managed to find a room at a nearby inn. Her money supply was dwindling fast. She would need to find work in the next few days or she’d be sleeping on the streets. It was always harder to find work during the winter months, so moving in the middle of January was a gamble, but the wind had told her a great storm would be passing over the previous town and the meager wages she was earning simply weren’t worth braving out a winter storm. Here it was slightly warmer, and the wind was still present but silent. She planned to stay here for the remainder of wintertime and move back up north for the summer.
The room was cold. Eurydice stayed fully dressed and layered her coat on top of the blanket for extra warmth. Curled up under the covers, she thought of the pretty red carnation still tucked in her coat pocket and fished it out. A resilient little thing, it wasn’t crumpled or wilted at all, but bloomed bright and strong. With the flower still cradled in her hands she drifted off to sleep, lulled by a full belly and an inescapable exhaustion.
The next day Eurydice ran around town, inquiring about potential jobs, walking into every open shop and restaurant she could find. Every one of them turned her away. No one could afford to hire a new employee. In the middle of the Parnassus town square a tall fountain stood, flowing with cool, clear water; Eurydice plopped down on the edge of the fountain and groaned into her hands. She’d spent the remainder of her coins on her room at the inn and a small breakfast that morning, and her heart started to race at the prospect of sleeping outside in the bitter cold with an empty belly until she caught something moving out of the corner of her eye. There was a flier taped to a street lamp fluttering in the breeze. Jumping to her feet, Eurydice ripped the flier from the lamppost and scanned over the words. A family was looking for a full-time live-in housemaid. The position included cooking, cleaning, and child supervision. Eurydice folded up the flier, stuffed it in her pocket, and strode towards the listed address.
The house was in one of the nicer suburban neighborhoods. It was two stories high, with a front lawn blanketed in a layer of sparkling snow. Eurydice rang the doorbell and was soon met with the patter of footsteps. “Hello?” called a voice from behind the door. “Who is it?”
“I saw your flier. I want to apply for the job.”
The lock clicked and the door slowly crept open. A young girl in a pretty yellow dress stepped out, with long, blonde hair braided down her back. “You’re applying to be the new housekeeper?”
“Yes.”
“Come on in. My parents aren’t home yet, but my mom should be here soon.”
The girl led her inside and told her to make herself at home. Eurydice gazed around, awestruck by the clean, well-furnished interior, complete with a piano and a television set. Compared to the desolate, poverty-stricken landscapes she was used to, this house appeared luxurious to her. The girl bade her sit down and they settled on the couch. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Eurydice.”
“Eurydice? That’s a really pretty name! I’m Aria.”
“Nice to meet you, Aria.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
“I’m not from here. I just got here yesterday.”
“Ah, okay. Where are you from?”
“Far.”
“How far?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What brings you out here?”
“The wind.”
“The wind?”
“Any way the wind blows, that’s where I go.”
Aria peered at her. “You’re awfully mysterious.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Eventually Aria’s mother returned, and to Eurydice’s astonishment pulled a car into the driveway. She was a thin woman with bleached blonde hair who dressed in trim, fashionable, business-like attire. Upon noticing Eurydice she immediately scolded Aria for letting a stranger into the house, but she calmed down when Aria explained that Eurydice was here to apply for the job. Mrs. Edwards had none of her daughter’s bubbly personality. Her thin lips were downturned in a perpetual scowl and her high, arched eyebrows imbued her visage with a supercilious air. She questioned Eurydice incessantly, inquiring on her background, past occupations, skills, qualifications, all in extraordinary detail. Eurydice did keep documentation of all her past jobs which she had compiled into a rather large resume by now, so she was prepared on that front, but some of Mrs. Edwards’s questions were so specific they made her break out into a sweat. She was asked if she had a tendency to fidget (not particularly), if she used scented soaps, deodorants, or perfumes (no), if she knew how to braid hair, particularly French and Dutch braids (yes). Finally, after almost an hour of questioning, Mrs. Edwards told her she was hired.
After this they went over the terms of her employment. She would have her own room in the house where she would stay free of charge; basic amenities would be provided. Her main duties would consist of cleaning and meal prep. She would be provided with funds to buy groceries and would purchase only what was needed, returning any leftover money to Mrs. Edwards. She would prepare each of the family’s meals, and she was allowed to have any leftover food or ingredients, but she must only take food after the family had been served and she was not permitted to have certain higher-quality ingredients. She was to act as a nanny to Mrs. Edwards’s three children: Adam, seventeen, Aria, sixteen, and Eleanor, the youngest at age twelve. If Adam or Aria were present she need not supervise, but should Eleanor be home alone, Eurydice was required to watch her.
Mrs. Edwards then called Adam and Eleanor down from upstairs and introduced them to Eurydice. Both were quiet and solemn. Both sported the same golden hair as their sister, but Eleanor’s fell in wild curls about her round face. Adam’s, meanwhile, was short and impeccably styled. He had a long, straight nose and dark eyes that pierced Eurydice in a subtly unsettling way.
Her room was at the back end of the house on the first floor. It was very simply furnished; the walls were thinner and the cold penetrated from the outside; but she was grateful for a free room nonetheless. She also had her own bathroom. It was small and shabby but it had all the essentials including a shower and hot water, which was more than enough for her. Once she’d unpacked her few belongings she spread out on the bed and reflected on her circumstances. This might have been the best job she ever secured. No wind howled through the windows tonight, telling her to pack up and leave. Parnassus would do nicely til the summer.