Olivia Charles

How about a short excerpt from my latest book:

Lord Grey turned his back on the window and stared at the far wall. In the cupboard was something he had not thought of in months. He knew it still lay there behind the door. Dare he just look at it?

He walked to the cupboard and pulled out a smooth, black leather case. He placed it on a table and unhooked the latches. It had been months since he last opened it. Longing and dread fought within him. Slowly, uneasy about the contents, he lifted the lid.

Involuntarily, he took a deep breath as if he could breathe in the very essence of the wood. One hand reached out and his fingertips lightly brushed the polished spruce. It seemed years since he had last touched the violin. His fingers barely strummed the strings and the faintest notes of music floated in the air.

Images from his memory floated through his mind. He played the violin with the Vienna Symphony Orchestra. Other images of practicing, discussions with musicians and the conductor, and... his hand drew back as if stung. Happier times of a private concert for Miss Chaworth.

When he fled Newstead Abbey, he put away his violin and vowed never to play again. It reminded him too strongly of the pain and ridicule he’d suffered. Byron’s taunts that violins were not for peers but for commoners had stung and undone all the months of studying in Vienna. Could Grey put those painful days behind him?

He looked into the case at the curved wood. His breath came shallower. The instrument called to him. He shut his eyes to block the allure, but he could not resist. It was too much a part of him and his life. He had ignored it for months now, but the yearning within him was too strong.

Grey lifted the violin and caressed the neck, fingered the strings, and fitted it to his left hand. The base swung to his chin and he nestled it, savoring the feel of the sleek, warm wood. The bow materialized, an extension of his right hand. His gut clenched. He held it suspended above the strings, listening to the quiet.

He brought the bow down across a string and closed his eyes to the sound of the sweet note. He breathed deeply, inhaling the music, feeding his starved soul. The fingers of his left hand moved, he angled the bow and brought it up. Another note rose from the instrument. He felt himself relax.

He played more notes, and music poured out of the violin like a dam releasing a river of water. His body moved in rhythm with the music, his arms stretching and his shoulders keeping time.

He played of the pain and agony trapped in his soul. His instrument moaned of worthlessness and loneliness. He played for hours. The candle guttered and died and he still played.

He played until his shoulders and arms ached. He finally dropped the violin from his chin. The room hummed as if the walls absorbed the music and now released the notes.

Relief that he could still play flooded his thoughts. He was rusty and needed more practice, but the music was within him. Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, Mozart and others were all within his grasp and waiting for him. He just needed to reach out.

In the total darkness, he found his way back to the case, replaced the vibrating instrument and snapped the case shut. Musical notes still trembled in the air. He stumbled to the chair and collapsed.