“One moment.” Quentin turned toward the kitchen door, where May waited so quietly, and held out his hand. “I’ll need someone to turn the pages. Will you help me, May?”
The girl ducked her head, on the verge of flight. Then, slowly, she rose and crept into the room, hesitating every few steps like a nervous fawn. She laid her hand in his.
He positioned her on the other side of the piano, away from Irene, who was far from pleased. “I’ll let you know when to turn the pages.”
But May surprised everyone. “I can read music,” she whispered. Even Lewis, returning to the parlor, paused at the rarely heard sound of her voice.
Johanna resumed her seat, puzzled but gratified. May’s behavior was truly exceptional, and all due to Quentin. She must actually regard him as a protector, to venture in among the others.
“Well, then,” Quentin said. “Shall we begin?” Anxious to reclaim his attention, Irene hardly waited for him to play the introduction.
” ‘Twas a calm still night, and the moon’s pale light,
Shone soft o ‘er hill and vale;
When friends mute with grief stood around the deathbed
Of my poor lost Lilly Dale.
Oh! Lilly, sweet Lilly,
Dear Lilly Dale,
Now the wild rose blossoms o’er her little green grave,
‘Neath the trees in the flow’ry vale.”
Irene’s voice cracked on the high notes, but she was heedless of her own imperfections.
“Her cheeks, that once glowed with the rose tint of health.
By the hand of disease had turned pale,
And the death damp was on the pure white brow
Of my poor lost Lilly Dale.
Oh! Lilly, sweet—”
“Stop!”
She broke off, staring at Lewis. He stood before his chair, fists clenched, face drained of color.
“What’s wrong with you?” Irene snapped. “How dare you interrupt my performance. I’ll have you thrown out.”
Her painted lips curled, and her eyes narrowed with crude cunning. “Or does my song remind you of someone, Reverend dear? Is that why you don’t like it?”
Lewis didn’t move. May pressed back against the nearest wall.
“I think we should try a different song,” Johanna said firmly. “Something more cheerful, perhaps.”
“As you wish.” Irene began to sing again without accompaniment.
“Forth from my dark and dismal cell,
Or from the dark abyss of Hell,
Mad Tom is come to view the world again,
To see if he can cure his distempered brain.
Fears and cares oppress my soul,
Hark how the angry furies howl,
Pluto laughs, and Proserpine is glad,
To see poor angry Tom of Bedlam mad.”
Quentin rose from the piano bench. “Miss DuBois—” She marched into the center of the room and sang directly to Johanna, no longer making any attempt to stay on key.
” ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said a spider to a fly,
‘ ‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
You’ve only got to pop your head within side of the door,
You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before! ‘”
“That is quite enough, Irene,” Johanna said. “You may retire to your room.”
“Just so you can have him to yourself!” Irene shrieked. “You are the spider, weaving your treacherous webs, but I can weave webs of my own. Soon you won’t be able to stop me from doing whatever I want to do. Just wait and see!”
Johanna stepped forward to grasp Irene’s wrist. Irene raised her free hand and struck Johanna viciously. Johanna slapped her in return.
The room became a tableau, frozen in time. Johanna regarded her own treacherous hand with horror.
“You bitch,” Irene hissed, holding her palm to her reddened cheek. “I’ll make you sorry you did that. See if I don’t.”
Quentin took her arm. “I think you should lie down, Miss DuBois,” he said. He was deadly serious, brooking no argument. “I’ll escort you—”
“You whore—you harlot!” Lewis shouted. “Leave this house!”
“Be silent! ”
Quentin’s voice was hardly raised above normal speech, but he might as well have roared. Lewis sat down abruptly. Irene went white. May remained motionless, and Oscar began to wail.
“It’s all right, Oscar,” Quentin said. “No one is angry with you.” Oscar sniffled and rubbed at his eyes. “May, you needn’t be afraid. I’ll speak to you in a few moments.”