“Which is what?”
“Death.”
I listened to the song with new ears, taking in the sorrow in the singers’ notes.
“The story goes like this.”
I took another sip of my tea.
“A count’s wife died on Valentine’s Day. The Count had already been an accomplished musician himself. When his wife died, he anonymously commissioned the piece.”
“Why anonymous?”
“Before his wife’s death, Count Walsegg held weekly private parties with aristocrats. During those moments, he played music that he claimed was his. But it never was. Walsegg always anonymously commissioned works from talented composers and then passed those bought songs off as his own work.”
“Not cool.”
“Not cool at all.”
“So, the Count’s wife dies and he anonymously commissions Mozart because. . .he’s probably going to pretend like he wrote the song for his wife?”
“Some have theorized that. Regardless, Mozart’s health was already failing. When he received the anonymous commission for the Requiem, it spooked Mozart.”
“But, why?”
“A requiem is a solemn chant for the dead. The fact that someone had asked Mozart to write this chant for the dead, while his own health was failing, made him mentally unstable.”
I sat in awe at Cain’s knowledge.
He cracked eggs and dropped them into the other pan. “Mozart began to realize that he was dying. He became consumed by this work, still writing it on his deathbed. At one point, Mozart believed he had been cursed to write this requiem for himself.”
“No wonder this sounds so powerful, yet sad at the same time.”
“The completed work was never delivered by Mozart.”
Sorrow clutched my heart.
“Mozart died right before finishing the first few bars of Lacrimosa.”
“Who finished the rest?”
“His composition pupil, Sussmayr. Scholars of that time hated Sussmayr’s extensions to Mozart’s work. Yet, centuries later, the world loves it.”
With this new information, the song came alive. The music was no longer notes and tone, chorus and melody. It was a moving painting. It was an odd world glistening with color.
The song started over.
This time, haunting images rose to the surface of my mind. I envisioned a choir of people dressed in dark black robes. They stood on an outside stage. A gloomy gray sky hovered above them.
From the left, men carried out a casket full of a beautiful, dead woman.
A man trailed behind it. Tears streamed down his face. He held a bright red rose to his chest.
The notes rose in the air.
And far behind the scene, a dying Mozart lay in bed, madly inking black notes to tan parchment paper.
A voice sounded off in the distance. “Phoenix?”
I blinked and returned to the kitchen.
Oh.
I’d gotten so lost in the vision that I hadn’t realized that Cain finished cooking. He had already set a plate in front of me.
Savory scents rose from the plate. Hunger took over my body.
I looked down at the plate. “Thank you.”
Unlike last night, he sat down in the chair next to me. It should have made me nervous to be so close to him. Instead, I felt safe and comfortable as if I had simply slept overnight at a new lover’s house.
It made me angry.
He’s conditioned me or something. I’m not who I was yesterday. I’m different.
Concern covered his face. “Where did your mind go earlier?”
“To a funeral centuries ago, where a dying Mozart was writing a song.”
He smiled. “Eat.”
I frowned at him.
Maybe he’s training me like a dog.
He quirked his eyebrows. “Please, eat. You’ll need your strength.”
For what?
Nervous, I picked up my fork.
He didn’t begin to eat.
Instead, he watched me.
I decided to get him talking again. The more I knew about him, the more I may have some details to get the hell away from him.
I swallowed down the delicious potatoes. “Why do you know so much about music?”
He still didn’t pick up his fork. “Why do you ask me so many questions about music?”
“Because what you play is beautiful.”
He smirked. “And that is why I know so much about it. Because music can be so beautiful. Art is one of the many perfect things of this cruel world.”
I considered that statement. “You’re right.”
“One can escape with music.”
Shocked, I paused from eating. “Maybe that’s what I’m doing.”
“Escaping through songs?”
“Yes.”
The song replayed.
So close, his masculine scent rose over the savory food’s aroma. “Do you truly want to escape?”
“Of course I do.” I shoveled some potatoes in my mouth and groaned at the succulent combination of rosemary and garlic.
He grinned. “You like my cooking?”
“I do.”
“You liked when I licked your pussy too.”
I dropped some of my potatoes.
“Did you like it?” He picked up his fork.
I looked down at the plate and pursed my lips together.
“You didn’t like it. You loved it.” He forked some of his eggs. “I could tell by the way you moaned so loud and the way your body shook against my mouth.”
I looked away and continued to eat.
“Are you embarrassed, Phoenix?”
I mumbled through my food, “Of course I’m embarrassed.”