Owen was asking too many questions about his family, and Julianna was gazing up at him with a bored expression that should have clearly advertised her disinterest in the situation. She didn’t immediately answer any of them. She sort of hoped he would just talk himself out, and perhaps bring up a new subject thread she could follow instead.
“The O'Rourke's didn’t come until later,” she explained. She knew he wasn’t as interested in the O’Rourke’s as the Harts, but she wasn’t interested in talking about the Harts. He would get the history she chose to pursue and if that wasn’t good enough he could leave her alone. “They were farmers and healers that came from Ireland during the Great Famine. Not founding town members, but they quickly solidified themselves as one of the more notable families. Eventually, they too, held a spot on the town council.”
When he moved closer to where she sat at the piano, there was no subtlety to the way she moved to keep him from making contact with her when he reached over her. An obvious dip of her shoulder, scooting to one side of the bench. “It was very common for girls to learn to play when I was growing up.” One hand lifted from her lap and settled on the keys. Slowly and lazily, she played through a scale. “Piano, harp, flute. Something considered delicate and feminine, but I don’t think there’s anything delicate about the piano.”
“The O'Rourke's didn’t come until later,” she explained. She knew he wasn’t as interested in the O’Rourke’s as the Harts, but she wasn’t interested in talking about the Harts. He would get the history she chose to pursue and if that wasn’t good enough he could leave her alone. “They were farmers and healers that came from Ireland during the Great Famine. Not founding town members, but they quickly solidified themselves as one of the more notable families. Eventually, they too, held a spot on the town council.”
When he moved closer to where she sat at the piano, there was no subtlety to the way she moved to keep him from making contact with her when he reached over her. An obvious dip of her shoulder, scooting to one side of the bench. “It was very common for girls to learn to play when I was growing up.” One hand lifted from her lap and settled on the keys. Slowly and lazily, she played through a scale. “Piano, harp, flute. Something considered delicate and feminine, but I don’t think there’s anything delicate about the piano.”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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Owen listened with obvious interest to the mini family history lesson he was getting from her. Admittedly, he knew very little about his mother’s side of the family either. She had left behind the town and everything in it and refused to speak of it as if it were some dark secret little children shouldn’t know. Farmers and healers didn’t sound so bad.
“My mom still has some family in Ireland, I’ve heard. But I’ve never met any of them.” He admitted. “Actually the only family member I do know is my mom. She raised me by herself. I saw my dad a few times but I didn’t really know him. He just paid for things.” Owen shrugged as if to say ‘oh well.’
Owen interpreted her movement across the piano bench as an invitation to sit down. So he did. The bench was small so his sitting down put them shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. When she played a scale, he picked up another to harmonize with it two octaves below the notes she played.
“I disagree.” His fingers danced back towards the middle as if chasing hers away for a demonstration of delicate piano playing. It was a contemporary piece he figured that she had likely never heard. One he picked up from a movie soundtrack. He feathered the keys with his fingers playing a tune that evoked a kind of sentimentality and nostalgia. “This one was written last year for a sappy movie. I could print off some sheet music for you if you like it. Or some other songs maybe.”
“My mom still has some family in Ireland, I’ve heard. But I’ve never met any of them.” He admitted. “Actually the only family member I do know is my mom. She raised me by herself. I saw my dad a few times but I didn’t really know him. He just paid for things.” Owen shrugged as if to say ‘oh well.’
Owen interpreted her movement across the piano bench as an invitation to sit down. So he did. The bench was small so his sitting down put them shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. When she played a scale, he picked up another to harmonize with it two octaves below the notes she played.
“I disagree.” His fingers danced back towards the middle as if chasing hers away for a demonstration of delicate piano playing. It was a contemporary piece he figured that she had likely never heard. One he picked up from a movie soundtrack. He feathered the keys with his fingers playing a tune that evoked a kind of sentimentality and nostalgia. “This one was written last year for a sappy movie. I could print off some sheet music for you if you like it. Or some other songs maybe.”
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“Ireland is lovely,” she said, as if that were truly the topic of conversation. “You should visit,” she concluded, which was another not so subtle indication that she wanted him to leave.
Him joining her had not at all been her intention, but she didn’t move again. She wouldn’t be displaced from her own piano just as she wouldn’t be displaced from her own home. Not by anyone, but certainly not by an Hart man. With him seated so close she was made aware, once again, that she could feel him. She could feel the solidness of his body next to hers and the warmth that emanated from him. Julianna wouldn’t admit that she was immediately drawn to that feeling. Those undeniable characteristics of being alive.
He was disagreeing with her and playing something gentle for her. She was only half listening to what he was saying. Too absorbed, instead, with thinking about how she wanted to place her hand on the side of his neck and feel his pulse jump beneath her palm. She wanted to lay her head on his chest and hear his heartbeat.
“That would be quite kind of you,” she said, automatically. Vaguely aware that he had offered to do something for her. The most polite response immediately coming to mind. She supposed it was only fair given all the improper thoughts she’d been having about him. Julianna angled herself slightly, making a show of watching him play as she more solidly rested against him. “Will you tell me about your mother?”
Him joining her had not at all been her intention, but she didn’t move again. She wouldn’t be displaced from her own piano just as she wouldn’t be displaced from her own home. Not by anyone, but certainly not by an Hart man. With him seated so close she was made aware, once again, that she could feel him. She could feel the solidness of his body next to hers and the warmth that emanated from him. Julianna wouldn’t admit that she was immediately drawn to that feeling. Those undeniable characteristics of being alive.
He was disagreeing with her and playing something gentle for her. She was only half listening to what he was saying. Too absorbed, instead, with thinking about how she wanted to place her hand on the side of his neck and feel his pulse jump beneath her palm. She wanted to lay her head on his chest and hear his heartbeat.
“That would be quite kind of you,” she said, automatically. Vaguely aware that he had offered to do something for her. The most polite response immediately coming to mind. She supposed it was only fair given all the improper thoughts she’d been having about him. Julianna angled herself slightly, making a show of watching him play as she more solidly rested against him. “Will you tell me about your mother?”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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Owen missed a note when Julianna came closer to him, he could feel her. Really feel her. Which was strange given that she wasn’t of the same worldly substance as he. Or, well, he didn’t think so at least. Owen wasn’t quite sure, but it was a bit unsettling feeling the form and shape of a woman supposedly long dead pressed against you.
He tried to distract himself from the discomforting thoughts by focusing on the personal question she had asked him. “My mother?” He asked uncertainly as he picked back up the melody that had briefly been disrupted.
“What’s there to say.” He wondered aloud as his fingers migrated nimbly by muscle memory over the keys. “That’s such an open ended question. I suppose I could tell you her profession?”
As he played, he kept the striking of the keys by his fingers gentle to keep the volume down partly so he could think and partly because he didn’t see the need to speak loudly over the piano. “The kids at school used to make fun of me because of it. What she did. My mother owned this shop where she sold...I don’t know really. An experience? She claimed to be a psychic medium channeling this obscure God called...Eurys? People would come to her for guidance in life and for... solutions ... to various ... maladies. Of the body. But also the spirit?”
Owen let his hands fall against the keys and discordant notes rang out. His sigh was really more a huff of frustration as he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to characterize it to Julianna being somewhat of a skeptic himself. Less so recently. But still a skeptic.
“To this day she claims her work is legitimate. But I don’t know, there were a lot of people who called her a con and it was very embarrassing for me growing up. I was ashamed of her. You know? As a boy I remember seeing other kid’s parents looking well groomed in nice clothing and driving nice cars. Looking so...normal. Those were never the type of people who came to my mother for her...services. The people who came to her were the lowly sort, I guess. And I remember always thinking I would rather get in those sleek cars that smelled like new leather than to walk to her shop after school and keep coals lit for the insensor.”
He shrugged and rubbed his palms over his thighs before turning to look at how Julianna would receive the information. “So. That’s my mother. Proud, stubborn, and ...witchy.”
He tried to distract himself from the discomforting thoughts by focusing on the personal question she had asked him. “My mother?” He asked uncertainly as he picked back up the melody that had briefly been disrupted.
“What’s there to say.” He wondered aloud as his fingers migrated nimbly by muscle memory over the keys. “That’s such an open ended question. I suppose I could tell you her profession?”
As he played, he kept the striking of the keys by his fingers gentle to keep the volume down partly so he could think and partly because he didn’t see the need to speak loudly over the piano. “The kids at school used to make fun of me because of it. What she did. My mother owned this shop where she sold...I don’t know really. An experience? She claimed to be a psychic medium channeling this obscure God called...Eurys? People would come to her for guidance in life and for... solutions ... to various ... maladies. Of the body. But also the spirit?”
Owen let his hands fall against the keys and discordant notes rang out. His sigh was really more a huff of frustration as he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to characterize it to Julianna being somewhat of a skeptic himself. Less so recently. But still a skeptic.
“To this day she claims her work is legitimate. But I don’t know, there were a lot of people who called her a con and it was very embarrassing for me growing up. I was ashamed of her. You know? As a boy I remember seeing other kid’s parents looking well groomed in nice clothing and driving nice cars. Looking so...normal. Those were never the type of people who came to my mother for her...services. The people who came to her were the lowly sort, I guess. And I remember always thinking I would rather get in those sleek cars that smelled like new leather than to walk to her shop after school and keep coals lit for the insensor.”
He shrugged and rubbed his palms over his thighs before turning to look at how Julianna would receive the information. “So. That’s my mother. Proud, stubborn, and ...witchy.”
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Owen seemed content to play for her, so Julianna stood and moved away from the bench. The feel of him was becoming distracting and she could do him the courtesy of listening as he answered her question. Though it seemed even less like she was paying attention now, as she wandered the parlor. She observed the various knick-knacks on the mantle, and paintings on the wall as if she had not been seeing them everyday for hundreds of years.
There was no noise as she moved. No sound of steps, despite her shoes. No crinkle of crinoline or swish of skirts despite her dress. Perhaps, the only testament to her being otherworldly, because she seemed entirely real and present save for the eerie silence.
Those clashing notes caused Julianna to turn and mosey her way back to him. She leaned against the piano, and took the advantage of gazing down at him. She watched the frustration play out of his features as he struggled to explain.
“Hmm.” The sound buzzed in her throat. Her brow furrowed to accompany the thoughtful noise. “She doesn’t sound much different from many of the O’Rourke women I knew. Does your mother have red hair? They were quite known for it when I was alive.” Julianna leaned her chin on her palm, eyes skirting away from him and focusing on the far wall where her painting was situated. “I always thought they were beautiful and fascinating. They weren’t like any of the other women with the way the dressed and the way the spoke.” Julianna laughed, a pleasant chime of a sound. “I wasn’t allowed anywhere near them. My mother forbid it. ‘Pretty girls like you get sold to the devil,’ she would say.” A sigh, before she smiled down at Owen. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
There was no noise as she moved. No sound of steps, despite her shoes. No crinkle of crinoline or swish of skirts despite her dress. Perhaps, the only testament to her being otherworldly, because she seemed entirely real and present save for the eerie silence.
Those clashing notes caused Julianna to turn and mosey her way back to him. She leaned against the piano, and took the advantage of gazing down at him. She watched the frustration play out of his features as he struggled to explain.
“Hmm.” The sound buzzed in her throat. Her brow furrowed to accompany the thoughtful noise. “She doesn’t sound much different from many of the O’Rourke women I knew. Does your mother have red hair? They were quite known for it when I was alive.” Julianna leaned her chin on her palm, eyes skirting away from him and focusing on the far wall where her painting was situated. “I always thought they were beautiful and fascinating. They weren’t like any of the other women with the way the dressed and the way the spoke.” Julianna laughed, a pleasant chime of a sound. “I wasn’t allowed anywhere near them. My mother forbid it. ‘Pretty girls like you get sold to the devil,’ she would say.” A sigh, before she smiled down at Owen. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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The fact that she made no sound when she moved was disconcerting enough. A reminder of what she was. The hair stood up on his arms when she correctly guessed the color of his mother’s hair based on generations old knowledge.
“Um, yeah, actually. She does have red hair.”
The hinges creaked in protest as he carefully lowered the key cover. When the keys were hidden away he rested his elbow on the cover and his head in his hand, trying to look relaxed although, in truth, he was freaked out. Playing had distracted him for a moment.
He laughed nervously in response to her mother’s old quote. “Yeah…” He scratched at the back of his head. “Ridiculous.”
“So…” he wiped his free finger along the top of the piano and it came away with dust that he rubbed at. “What were the Harts like?” He ventured back into what seemed like dangerous territory with her. But he was genuinely curious.
“Um, yeah, actually. She does have red hair.”
The hinges creaked in protest as he carefully lowered the key cover. When the keys were hidden away he rested his elbow on the cover and his head in his hand, trying to look relaxed although, in truth, he was freaked out. Playing had distracted him for a moment.
He laughed nervously in response to her mother’s old quote. “Yeah…” He scratched at the back of his head. “Ridiculous.”
“So…” he wiped his free finger along the top of the piano and it came away with dust that he rubbed at. “What were the Harts like?” He ventured back into what seemed like dangerous territory with her. But he was genuinely curious.
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Julianna realized that he wasn’t going to let this line of questioning go. He wanted to know about the Hart family. His family. Even though from what she could tell the Hart’s had never really had anything to do with him. Julianna sighed heavily through her nose and frowned at him before she pushed away from the piano. With her chin tilted upwards, she looked down at him, still sitting on the bench and looking up at her expectantly.
“Why do you wish to know?” She murmured this inquiry, so softly it was almost as if she were speaking to herself more than him. Instead of waiting for his answer, she sighed again and smoothed her hands over the bodice of her yellow dress.
“It is not easy for me to talk about the Harts,” she explained, gaze finally skirting away from him. The point of her chin fell downwards, and the haughtiness in her stance dissipated. For a moment she looked vulnerable, her face twisting in brief distress. “I do not know much about the family other than the face they presented to the public, save for one of them. Though in the end, it does not seem as if I knew him as well as I once thought.”
“Why do you wish to know?” She murmured this inquiry, so softly it was almost as if she were speaking to herself more than him. Instead of waiting for his answer, she sighed again and smoothed her hands over the bodice of her yellow dress.
“It is not easy for me to talk about the Harts,” she explained, gaze finally skirting away from him. The point of her chin fell downwards, and the haughtiness in her stance dissipated. For a moment she looked vulnerable, her face twisting in brief distress. “I do not know much about the family other than the face they presented to the public, save for one of them. Though in the end, it does not seem as if I knew him as well as I once thought.”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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