My brother’s warning about digging into family secrets rings in my ear as I make my way to the bedroom, unsettling me. I thought I wanted to know the truth, but do I really? Even if it means discovering things about my family I’d have been happier not knowing?

Upstairs, at the end of the hall I find Susan still hard at work, dusting the leaves of the five foot tall Bird of Paradise plant by the window. She looks so weary, so haggard, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. On impulse, I walk up and begin dusting the leaves with the hem of my skirt.

“Oh, Miss Frances! You shouldn’t do that.”

I guess it is a bit strange, the lady of the house polishing plant leaves with her skirt. But I want to help. Trying not to think of how awkward I look, I ignore her protests.

“Anyway, isn’t it time for you to be off already? They work you too hard in this house.”

“With all the preparation we did for yesterday’s party, I fell behind in some of my other chores. But I’ll be caught up soon.”

“Sooner, if we work together,” I smile at her, and I hope it doesn’t make her too uncomfortable. She smiles back at me, relieved, and redoubles her efforts on the leaves. I feel relieved as well. Glad she didn’t reject me.

Working together like this, in no time at all, we’ve got the house plant sparkling.

“There,” I say, dropping my dusty skirt, “now you can finally get some rest. Go to the kitchen and have Mrs. Agate fix you a nice cup of coco and put your feet up.”

“If only, Miss Frances,” she sighs wistfully. “But I still have young master Benjamin’s trousers that need mending before tomorrow morning.”

“His trousers?”

“You know, the nice brown suit he wore at Louise’s party. He tore the seat of his trousers at the seam, poor fellow. But I should be able to get it stitched up fairly quickly. Then I’ll have that cup of coco, just as you suggested.”

Remaining rooted in place, I watch Susan disappear down the hall, mind whirring.

Ben ripped his trousers. His brown trousers. But, wasn’t he wearing his blue suit at the party yesterday?

No, I recall. Not in the beginning. I remember now— he was in his brown suit when he confronted Jackson. But later, after I raised the alarm about Harrison’s body, he was wearing the blue.

An interesting tidbit, but what does it mean? What was my brother doing that would tear his trousers in that space of time between his talk with Jackson and his reemergence just as the body was discovered? Don’t tell me—

Just then, Ben’s words from earlier tonight come back to me.

Once you know the truth, you know it. And then you can never go back.

Do I really want to go down this path? What if the truth is even worse than I’m imagining?

I picture Ben, my salacious, cruel, bullying younger brother; I picture Harrison’s body, lying in the dirt, his poor head shattered. One of just a handful of people that ever showed me kindness, and made me feel I was worth something. Like I was more than just a… Cowbird.

Father is content to sweep the whole incident under the rug, but I don’t think I can live like that.

I have to know the truth. I must bring Harrison’s killer to justice, no matter what dark family secrets I must unearth along the way.

I won’t be satisfied until I do.

I turn and stride quickly to my room, but I do not stay. I put on my coat and head back out into the hall and down the stairs. Father stops me at the foot of the stairwell.

“Where are you going this time of night?”

“To the annex.”

He lets me go without another word.

This is something I’ve done since I was a small child, gone out to the annex to practice piano on my own at all hours of the night. The family, Mother especially, can’t stand the sound of me practicing, so I do all my musical exercises in the annex building on the other side of the estate, whenever I feel like it.

It’s a dark, lonely sort of place, isolated in a small cluster of trees. I let myself inside with the key. The house is well insulated and fairly temperature controlled, and I take off my coat and don a pair of slippers. I don’t stop to light the lamps, but walk the darkened hallway leading to the morning room where a splendid grand piano sits away from the windows. From the seat I have a view of the room, with the bass side of the piano running parallel to the wall. Through the darkened windows, I can faintly see the silhouettes of trees.

Lighting a single lamp just overhead, I touch my fingers to the cool ivories, striking a sudden, full and powerful D minor chord.

I hold the keys down, letting the melancholy chord linger in the air. It takes a full minute for the sound to fade completely to absolute silence. Slowly I lower my head to rest on top of the piano, and I play the chord again, letting the frequency ring into me, saturating my very being with the sound.

My fingers move on their own, slowly at first, melodically, improvising a simple, moody melody. They curl and stretch, reaching down into the bass notes, and high into the treble, tinkling hauntingly.

My mind wanders as I play, going over the events of the evening. I consider the meal with my family, the clue I got from Susan. Slowly though, as my song gains in tempo and complexity, everything jumbled in my thoughts begins to fade, overtaken by the melody. This song of my soul.

I lose myself. Hours pass, and I bathe myself in the music. Dark, dramatic, furious, I’m like a woman in a trance, like a seer of old communicating with some otherworldly force. What was it Christine Daaé called the phantom? Her Angel of Music?

He speaks to me now, that hideous ghost with the deformed, skeletal face. Speaks through me. Understands me as no one else does.

Outcast. Unwanted.

Cowbird.

Exhaustion sets in. Physical, emotional. The melody cuts off abruptly. The final discordant notes linger in the cool air. My chest heaves lightly.

I rise from the bench and sway a little on my feet, feeling for all the world like a weary sailor who’s just weathered a fierce gale. Then I put out the lamp, and make my way out of the annex.

The grandfather clock in the front room reads just after midnight. I leave the annex and lock up behind me.

Following the darkened path back to the main house, I recognize I’m no closer to a solution than I was before. Still, it was a therapeutic exercise, and I’m sure I’ll sleep better for it. And wake in the morning to resume my hunt for a killer.

It’s cold, and my breath leaves me in little white puffs. Soon we’ll have snow, I predict. Maybe even tonight. Overhead, the sky is dark with clouds.

But something feels strange. Am I just paranoid after the events of the last two days? Why do I feel like I’m not alone out here? Like someone’s following me?

I turn and look back down the path. It’s difficult to see without a moon. But I don’t hear anything. My imagination?

I’m definitely paranoid, I think later as I let myself back inside the main house. There’s no one who’d be up at this time of night. And even if there were, they wouldn’t be following me.