Chapter 3 - The Velvet Cage of Blackthorn Manor
The private study of Blackthorn Manor looked less like an executive office and more like a high-security war room disguised in dark walnut and vintage leather. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the sleet pounding against the tall leaded windows. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing orange shadows across walls lined with framed maritime maps, secure server terminals, and display cases containing antique firearms.
Cassian poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass, setting it on the edge of his massive desk. He didn't offer me a seat, nor did he take one. He leaned against the polished wood, crossing his ankles, watching me as I stood near the hearth, still wearing my damp floral blouse and black skirt.
"Your hands are still shaking," he observed.
"I played twenty-two minutes of heavy octaves without a warmup after eight hours of scrubbing silver," I replied, folding my arms across my chest to hide the tremor in my fingers. "My forearms are cramping."
"Sit down, Elena."
"I'd rather stand, Mr. Voss."
"Cassian," he corrected smoothly. "And sitting isn't a request. You look like you're about to pass out, and I prefer my guests conscious when they answer my questions."
I sank into the wingback leather chair opposite the desk. The leather was supple and warm.
"Why did Maestro Falk turn white when you mentioned Samuel Weiss?" Cassian asked, taking a slow sip of his drink.
"Because Adrian Falk didn't write the Impossible Concerto," I said, the words slipping out with a clarity that surprised even me. "He published it in 2002 under his own name. But the original score was co-composed in 1991 by Samuel Weiss and my father, Thomas Marlow."
Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly. "That's a heavy accusation against a man who holds three honorary doctorates and a Kennedy Center Honor."
"My father held the original hand-written working manuscript," I pushed on, leaning forward as the long-suppressed fire inside me flared up. "He kept it in an oiled leather ledger inside his tool chest. In 1995, the Sovereign Theater burned to the ground. Three weeks later, my father was arrested on suspicion of arson. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, but his reputation was destroyed. He couldn't get a contract with a single hall or symphony in New England. He was forced to tune uprights in basement churches while Adrian Falk took his score to Europe and built a hundred-million-dollar legacy on it."
"And who financed Falk's European tour in 1998?" Cassian asked, his voice dripping with quiet foresight.
"Julian Ashcroft," I said, the name bitter as ash on my tongue. "Vivian Ashcroft’s father."
Cassian set his glass down with a soft, deliberate clink. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a thick, leather-bound tablet, and tapped the glass screen several times.
"Julian Ashcroft isn't just a patron of the arts," Cassian said, turning the screen toward me. "He’s the majority shareholder of Ashcroft Logistics—the company currently trying to acquire my northern shipping berths in South Boston. And three days ago, Ashcroft’s lawyers submitted a financial disclosure form that listed the music publishing rights of the Weiss-Falk catalog as collateral for a forty-million-dollar bank loan."
I stared at the financial figures scrolling across the screen. The numbers were staggering—royalties, sync licensing, international performance fees, all flowing straight into Ashcroft family trust funds while my father died in a municipal hospital ward because we couldn't afford eighty dollars a day for private palliative care.
"My father left me one thing when he died," I said, reaching into my skirt pocket. My fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold metal of the brass tuning key wrapped in its yellowed dish towel. I pulled it out and laid it on Cassian’s desk. "He told me that if I ever played the third movement in front of Adrian Falk, the right people would notice."
Cassian picked up the tuning key. He turned it over in his hand, feeling its weight, examining the worn ridges at the tip.
"This isn't a standard piano tuner," Cassian said, his sharp eyes examining the base of the brass tool. "The shaft is hollowed. There’s a micro-threading inside the barrel."
I blinked. "What?"
Cassian reached into his jacket, pulled out a small tactical pen, and inserted the thin steel nib into the center of the tuning key. With a precise, practiced twist, the head of the brass key unscrewed, revealing a tiny, polished cylinder of stainless steel embedded inside.
May you like
It was a custom-milled security bypass drive.
"Your father wasn't just a piano tuner, Elena," Cassian murmured, his eyes flashing with lethal intrigue as he held the tiny steel drive up to the firelight. "He was a vault keeper."
