This edition first published in the UK and USA in 2020 by
Watkins, an imprint of Watkins Media Limited
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Design and typography copyright © Watkins Media Limited 2020
Text copyright © Teal Swan 2020
Teal Swan has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the Publishers.
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ISBN: 978-1-78678-414-8
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HUNGER OF THE PINE
We are initiated.
We are apprenticed by pain.
Our beauty … Our purpose … Our growth
Is forged in the fire of our difficulties.
Like a blacksmith, our suffering relieves us of our rough and tattered edges
Painfully at first
Until we are broken open.
And our soul pours like water through our every thought and word and action.
It extinguishes the fire of our pain.
It weathers our curses to such a degree that they become blessings.
And then, we are free.
CONTENTS
PART ONE MONODY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
PART TWO FUGUE CONCERTO
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
PART THREE SONATA APPASSIONATA
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
PART FOUR CODA
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
PART ONE
MONODY
CHAPTER 1
The muffled tapping of the soles of her favorite high-top sneakers sounded against the floor of the endless hallway. From high above her, the windows, which were no larger than jail cell windows, cast an array of silken light shards on the floor below her. The hallways of the school were empty. She was late again. She could smell the all-too-familiar smell of cafeteria lunch being prepared. Like a tedious symphony, her breath and heartbeat played their anxious notes and she tried to time her footsteps to them. She hated being late. She hated the heavy feeling of people’s stares. She hated the texture of shame.
When she reached the classroom, she extended her hand and felt the chill of the metal handle against her fingertips. A paralysis came over her. She couldn’t afford another tardy, but she couldn’t force herself to go in. She couldn’t face them all. It was better to actually be alone than to feel, like the proverbial exile, alone in a crowded room; the feeling of being the outcast. But that she was. “Tomorrow,” she thought as she pulled her hand back from the door and, with a pivot, ran down the hallway to the nearest bathroom.
She leaned against the pink tile wall to catch her breath. She could feel the heavy husk of childhood at times like this. She could feel the prison of it, the burden of not being able to choose what to do with the hours in the day. She couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. She knew that, but right now she almost wished she could. The row of mirrors on the opposite wall reflected the emptiness she felt inside. She shifted toward them until she was standing before her own image looking back at her. The honesty of the image of herself made her uncomfortable. But she did not look away.
Aria Abbott was 17 years old to the day. There was a warmth to the paleness of her skin. It honored the sharp angles and curves of her face. Her cheekbones sat high below a pair of rather feline eyes. Almond-shaped and olive green, they stared back at her, unmoving. There was a depth to her eyes, an ancient knowing that both beckoned and warned. The reflective surface of them felt like a membrane preventing her from falling into a foreign world. Like two albatross wings, her eyebrows reached toward her hairline. Her hair fell in disorderly waves and cascades to greet her shoulders, picking up light along the way. The color of it reminded her of the chestnut seeds she used to collect as a child. Her nose was aquiline, only a small shadowed indentation between it and a pair of sultry button-shaped lips the color of pink champagne.
Aria reached up to touch her chin and neck, and her fingers slid across the softness of her skin. Like most teenage girls, Aria was never satisfied with her reflection in the mirror. Fine-boned, she stood just over 5ft 4in tall. Her youth had only just begun to peel back, exposing the hint of curves. Curves that belonged to the woman, which had been dormant throughout her childhood. As she stared at her own reflection, Aria could feel the fierce intent of puberty pulling her immaturity away. She wouldn’t miss it. Aria had grown lonely in the prepubescent world of playthings and penny candy. Her childhood had been frosted with despair. It had felt more like a prison than a privilege; a prison sentence that was not yet fully served.
She had been sitting in the bathroom, listening to the relentless flow of the water in the pipes behind the wall, bored for what felt like ages, when the bell finally rang. Aria sprang to her feet, knowing that the bathroom would soon be inundated with other girls. Gathering up her backpack, she pushed past the heavy doors and out into the hallway. A rush of noise assaulted her, the deafening chaos of hundreds of students making their way to their next class. She joined them reluctantly. A wave of insignificance consumed her as she was swept up in the flux of students. Walking in the two-way traffic of the school hallways between classes always made her feel like a tiny blood cell in a crowded artery.
Aria reached her class and sat in her desk in the fourth row,
