Clovis grasps the thin brass handles positioned on the side of the wooden case and opens the lid. The glow from the flames in the fireplace bounces off the row of glass bowls that are encased in their coffin-like home. Thirty-seven bowls in diminishing sizes and fitted with cork through the bottoms, are attached to an iron rod. The bowls, which lie on their sides, fit inside one another, nesting without touching, their rims painted in candy-coloured shades of pale yellow, pinkish-red, green and blue. The glass armonica, one of only three originals that exist in Britain, is her treasure.
She dampens her fingers in the bowl of water and then tips them into the tray of fine, silky chalk. Perched on a leather-cushioned stool, she steps on the foot treadle that turns the wheel attached to the rod. With her hands poised above the bowls, the pad of one of her middle fingers lightly rubs a glass rim. A clear, rich tone fills the room. Skilfully, she adds another tone that melds with the first, until gradually she builds a haunting melody. The melancholic music floats through the house, the instrument’s timbre wholly its own.
Within minutes of hearing the first ethereal notes, Willa appears in the doorway of the sitting room in an ankle length white cotton nightgown. One hand grasps the doorframe, as if she’s unsure if she should cross its threshold. Broken chords rise from the armonica and Willa’s eyelids flutter then suddenly droop.
Clovis moistens her fingers again and continues to play.
‘Sit down, Willa.’
Willa obeys.
Clovis, who has clearly dominated this strange instrument, plays languidly now, and in response Willa’s head falls to her chin, heavy and exhausted. Single notes in a pointed melody further mesmerize her until she slumps and her head lolls back.
Barely touching a single bowl, Clovis creates a distant bell-like tone that drifts and fades, leaving only a faint vibration clinging in the air until the note eventually dies.
Clovis pauses in the ensuing silence, then slowly swivels on the stool to face Willa.
‘Keep your eyes closed, Willa.’
The girl seems peaceful sitting in her old fashioned gown, her tawny hair resting on her shoulders. She resembles a vintage doll, the perfection of her pouting mouth and black lashes is such that they appear painted on her face.
Clovis places a chair directly in front of Willa and sits. After a moment of observation, she raises her hand and passes it over the crown of Willa’s head moving it over her face, and then follows with a downward movement over the front of her body. Using stroking gestures, she repeats this path over and over again remaining within a hair’s breadth of touching Willa’s body. Ten minutes pass before Clovis lowers her hand.
‘Willa, can you hear me?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘How did you spend the evening?’
‘I searched the house, mistress. Me and Mr Fowler and Rafe did, mistress.’
The young woman’s voice is less mature, with a cadence lacking its usual conversational delivery. Willa has reverted to a time long past, a time when she spoke with her head bowed, her eyes on the tips of her worn boots.
‘And did you find what you were searching for?’
‘No, mistress.’
‘Where did you look?’
‘There weren’t much time, mistress.’
Clovis bristles. That’s no answer.
‘Willa?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Where did you look?’
‘Most places we could think of, mistress. Mr Fowler, he searched his workroom, in a few pieces of the furniture, all he had time for. The young Mr Fowler, he looked in his room and in the kitchen. I looked in your working room, mistress.’
Clovis pauses.
‘How did you enter my … working room, Willa?’ she asks.
‘Mr Fowler had a locksmith in, told him we lost all the keys, and had one made.’
‘How long has Mr Fowler had a key?’
‘About a month, mistress.’
‘Willa, when you hear the music again, you will wake, and you will not remember our conversation. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
Clovis positions herself on the stool, dampens her fingers, dips them into the chalk tray and begins the first notes of a more cheerful melody. Willa wakes to the tune of lilting phrases that resemble a child’s music box. She blinks, and then becomes aware that she sits on the sofa. A blush crawls up her face, for she realizes to what she has been subjected. A sickness fills her stomach for she has no idea what private matters she may have divulged. It has happened again.
A creak in the floorboard announces Finn, who is leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded.
‘You may go now,’ Clovis tells Willa.
Finn steps aside to allow Willa to pass, and the girl skims out with her head lowered, aching to get away. Quickly, and almost imperceptibly, she taps the edge of the doorframe three times before she retreats.
What passes now between husband and wife is unspoken. Finn remains in the doorway watching Clovis as she closes the case of the armonica and gathers the water bowl and chalk tray. She moves towards him, and for one elongated moment Finn stands in her way. Their eyes meet, and he steps back, allowing her to pass. Her unctuous, rich perfume sweeps past him, her thick hair faintly brushes the side of his face. Weakened, he returns to his workroom where in the air of his odd collections and the snaking lines of furniture, he breathes deeply and returns to his senses.
He walks further through the maze to the conservatory where a spit of heat prevents the glass from frosting in the small hours of the morning. Certain that it dries his soul, Finn despises the parching heat of the rattling radiator.
He retrieves fresh linen from his most valuable French armoire. It is a soothing chore he performs in
