The humans were very curious about Sophia Canning.
Many visited the little blue house on King street. Some that shared the blood in Sophia's veins, more that did not. All wished to see the miracle for themselves. With damaged wings and the need to blend in, I sat and listened to the conversations these humans held with the mother. They took my silence in stride, which was preferable to the confusion and pity that painted their faces when I attempted to answer their questions directly.
It was some days since our return to the little house that the mother appeared in the doorway of Sophia's bedroom, phone in hand. "It's a reporter from channel two." Brown eyes that matched the color of the vessel's were alight with excitement. "They want to do a story about you, Sophie. For the evening news."
It was a strange thing. I knew all the meanings of all the words she uttered and understood none of it. Why was this cause for excitement?
Despite my confusion, a reporter and camera man came the next day. They followed me around for several hours, camera pointed at me as I sat and watched television or stood on the back porch to observe the blue jays and larks that gathered around a small feeder. All the while, the young man with canny blue eyes and perfectly groomed hair asked me the strangest questions. He seemed interested in how Sophia felt and what she wanted to do with her 'second chance.'
Before they left, the mother made me sit beside her as she answered more of the reporter's questions.
The story aired two days later. It was interesting to see the vessel on the television. They used none of the answers I'd given, instead airing short clips of the moments outside, watching the birds. The mother had chosen the light sundress and shoulder-length wig of lightly curled blonde hair that hid the fact Sophia was bald. I did not care for the wigs, they irritated the skin and would have made the vessel sweat were it not for my grace regulating its temperature. But the mother became distressed when I attempted to forgo them where other humans could see.
The reporter narrated the story of Sophia's miraculous recovery. At some point he had spoken to the doctor and interspersed her interview with the mother's. The whole segment lasted less than seven minutes. The mother was beside herself with excitement.
The Mayor called shortly after Wheel of Fortune came on.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ The Long Way Down ⋅.} ───── ⊰
The mother was very impressed with Lockwood manor—and intimidated. Eyes fixed to the sight of it, she smoothed her skirts and checked on my wig several times as we walked from the great circular drive up to the house. We were not alone. Several other humans dressed as formally walked ahead and behind us. I was more interested in the music I could hear drifting from within the walls. Classical music, humans called it.
I listened as we approached the tall, proud woman with shoulder-length brown hair and a practiced smile standing at the top of the stairs. She greeted all those who approached the threshold to the great manor by name.
"Hello, April," she said as we climbed the last step. Her eyes slid swiftly from the mother to me. "And Sophia. Our very own miracle. You look even prettier in person than you did on television."
My brows furrowed.
The mother moved forward. "Thank you so much for the invitation, Mayor Lockwood."
"Please," she replied to the mother as the two shook hands, "call me Carol."
The mother agreed and I was ushered past the threshold.
The ceiling within the main hall was higher than the houses we'd past on the way here. Gaze drawn to the chandelier, I observed the rainbows shining within the crystals dripping from the ornate fixture before the mother led me further in. We passed into another large room. It had a much lower ceiling, but one trimmed in rich woods. Though the space was grand, it seemed small from all the humans in various arrays of formal dress. They stood in small groups of three or four and spoke loudly to each other. Snatches of conversation drifted to my vessel's ears, none of which struck me of any importance.
I focused again on the music playing over the din of human speech. Recorded, I thought, hearing hints of a grander hall than even the large rooms splayed around us. The hands that played were well practiced and worked in a harmony that impressed me. If only the celestial choir could work so well together without Father's hand to guide us. Perhaps we would not have fallen.
I wandered beside the mother, listening to the music when one of the other humans did not demand my attention. Like all the others, they stared with equal parts curiosity and amazement. I wondered that the mother did not tire of repeating the same stories over and over to those she came across. I certainly tired of listening to them. But the mother became more alive when she became the center of others' attention.
She kept me by her side for the first hour and a half of our visit. Finally, as the afternoon wore on, she became ensconced in a group of similar aged human women that absorbed her attention. I was able to slip away.
I wandered room to room, studying the art displayed on the walls, listening to the music playing in the background of a dozen conversations. Eventually the crowd of humans thinned, and the music softened as I came upon emptier rooms.
I had wandered far from the mother when the vessel's hearing picked up a very different sound from the recordings I had just left behind. Something vibrant. Something… alive.
I followed the sounds of strings shivering into the air. A soft, fluid pattern of notes riding a gentle wave as they vibrated down the long hallway and to my vessel's ears. Piano, the organic mind remembered. Though there were no memories of the instrument playing so sweet or clear.
The music came from an open doorway, and I slipped inside one of the largest rooms I'd seen yet. Sunlight from great windows lining the far wall warmed the air and brought a glow to the wooden floors and furnishings within. A fireplace of marble stood inside another wall. Curving sofas and delicately carved tables filled the space between. But there, in the far corner, sat a grand piano. It was painted a pure white which shone in the bright rays that fell through the clear glass behind it like heaven's light.
A man sat upon a bench, eyes half-shut, head swaying ever-so slightly as if in a trance. His bangs fell low over his forehead, their ends brushing the tops of his heavy-lidded eyes. While his hands were hidden from view, his shoulders and upper arms flexed beneath a fitted dark grey suit.
Enthralled, I continued forward, closing the space that lay between us. The vessel felt… strange. As if the sun's warm light seeped deep beneath the flesh, warming the body's blood. Yet, I felt unburdened by the skin and bones enveloping me, as if a lightness of spirit were evoked by the melody. The nearer I drew, the more these mortal ears could detect the vibrations of the strings as each note sang so sweetly into the atmosphere.
I drew up to the piano's side, close enough to feel its vibrations against the skin. Luxuriating in the melody it and the man created.
All too soon, the melody slowed. Eventually he stilled, silent and contemplative, before his eyes opened. His sights lifted to meet my stare. The strange buzz along the vessel's nerves intensified as I held his regard, in a way they had not for any other human. His eyes seemed as deep and resonant as his music had been.
After a moment, the corner of his lips lifted into one of the slightest smiles I'd seen. "Hello there."
"Hello." I continued to stare, open and unabashed, into those eyes that had so affected my vessel. "That was—" I paused, searching through every word in every language, but none seemed wholly adequate. Finally, I settled on an approximate—but imperfect—"Beautiful."
His lips curled higher. "Thank you." His gaze fell back to the instrument before him. "Though the praise truly ought to go to Edward Elgar."
Instantly, I was transported through the centuries. I glimpsed into the mind of a human man as he bent over ivory keys. "The seasons were turning, and with them came a memory of days beyond his reach. A red brick building and a garden through which a boy could walk and dream. Long lost to the man he had become." I blinked as my attention returned to this point in existence, back to the stranger who called me to this place and time.
Only one of his brows was raised as he watched me with open curiosity. "I suppose there is a certain… melancholy to the piece."
"Melancholy," I echoed, though with a note of discovery in my voice as I engraved the feeling the music had invoked within the vessel to the word. For me, it had new life. "Yes."
The man tilted his head. His attention focused more intently upon me. He drew a breath so deep, his nostrils flared. His eyes darkened, the pupils growing larger despite an abundance of light.
His lips parted. I was sure he was about to speak, but the click-clack of heels drew our attention to the doorway where Mayor Lockwood appeared. Her sights swept over us. "Elijah," she greeted, tone warm and fond as she smiled. "I see you've met Miss Canning, Mystic Falls' own miracle."
That ever-so-slight smile was back. "Miracle?"
"Oh, yes." Her smile turned towards me. "Sophia was diagnosed with a glioblastoma." A familiar look of sympathy overtook her features. "It progressed so far her mother had arranged for a priest." The smile returned. "But just as he's delivering last rites, she pops out of bed! Good as new. Tumor completely gone."
I summoned the smile all the humans seem to expect whenever they shared the tale of my vessel's recovery.
The man—Elijah—regarded me with renewed interest. "Amazing."
"You should both come back to the party," the Mayor continued, coming forward to address me. "Your mother asked where you'd disappeared to, Sophia."
I blinked and looked down to make certain the vessel was still corporeal.
"Of course, Carol," Elijah said, drawing my attention. As he stood and moved around the grand piano, I realized it was more difficult to keep my sights from seeking him out. He was taller than Sophia and the Mayor. It forced me to look slightly upwards as he joined us.
His gaze found mine once again. His brow crooked as his lips lifted. "Shall we—Miss Canning, wasn't it?"
The fervent want that arose within surprised me. I desired to share a different name. My name. Instead, I said a simple, "Yes."
As I stared up at him, sensing things beyond blood and flesh, I became aware of several things.
Death clung to Elijah like a burial shroud, surrounding him in a veil of entropy. I was astonished to see his body so animated, given that it had long since expired.
And in his stare, a fascination was blooming. He was not sure how, but he knew I was not like the others. I was not human. Not entirely. He could smell it.
How intriguing, he thought.
For the rest of the day into the evening, he was there. Wherever the mother and I roamed, he eventually followed.
Even after the mother grew worn and led me back to the car, I sensed him in the darkness. As we pulled away and down the long drive, I caught a glimpse of his silhouette standing before the lights of the manor.
Somehow, I did not think it would be very long before Elijah found his way to the little blue house on King street.