Of Phantasm and Fury

Of Symphonies and Sonnets

31 Of Symphonies and Sonnets

"...And so to your knees you sank..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 5, continued

Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

"That was a lovely speech, and that Harry fellow sounds like quite the character—but—and pardon me for asking—where am I?" His gaze traveled southward below her visage, noting her attractive features—her sumptuous curves, hidden beneath nylon and cotton fabric. "And who, pray tell, are you?"

Asia-Pacific Exhibition, New Zealand School of Music, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand

He stared at the gamelan instrument, its myriad silver-scripted gongs a variety of shapes—small, medium, large, and expansive. Running his fingers through his hair, he examined the exhibition's tiny-lettered script, describing their purpose in Javanese and Balinese cultures, respectively—

"A little early for sight-seeing, aren't we, brother?" He jumped, startled, having heard an all-too-familiar Sussex lilt.

"Abigael." He groaned. Why was she here, of all places? His half-sister certainly had a knack for materializing at the most inconvenient times—

"I thought you'd at least feign joy at seeing your dear older sis?"

He turned back, continuing to stare at the gamelan's metallic features. Arriving the evening before, he had conducted a series of well-chosen memory hexes that enabled him to enroll as a music department student, a cover for his true purpose—ensuring the safety of the lost Charmed One, Laila Young. But so far, even after a well-chosen jinx in the registrar's office to confirm Laila's enrollment, he had yet to spot her on campus.

Hours spent in bars to no end, orientation activities bereft of her presence, the dormitories practically padlocked, with special keycards he lacked access to—he sighed, exasperated. This was, after all, penance. Penance for his wrongdoings. For hurting Maggie. But he hadn't expected the search to be as prolonged as it was.

Class began tomorrow. Where on earth was she?

"I suppose I do owe you a favor, for..." she paused, "imprisoning you in the subterranean dungeon—"

His temper flared. "You have no idea—"

"Oh, but Parkie-poo, I do. I was such—a naughty—girl—" And that much was certainly true, she mused, before stopping short. What had come over her? Kindness? Empathy? Was it from witnessing the Whitelighter prostrate upon the ground, unconscious as Melonie clasped her own hand, terrified to no end?

Whatever it was, it was rubbing off on her. "You might want to check out Adams Concert Room, dearie—"

Parker's mind drew a blank. "Adams Concert Room?"

"She plays the trumpet, does she not?"

"Um, yeah, but what's that got to do with anything?" Why not—a library? A study room?

Abigael rolled her eyes. He's positively daft. "Must I spell out everything, Parkie-poo?"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Ugh, if you insist—"

Several deep breaths later, Parker regarded Abigael with a calculated expression. "What's at Adams Concert Room?"

"Something that begins with an R...?" He still failed to grasp the significance—the meaning—of her hints. Men could be so dense. Especially those descended from a certain infamous Hunter Caine. "Rehearsal. For a contemporary jazz group—call themselves 'The Swans,' they do—"