Read [Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) for Free Online

from his heart, or his chest, or whatever place it was the music lived, he heard notes. Violin. He frowned. No, viola. . . yes, and now a horn, soft and faraway.

    As he stared through the opening, with Madeline wary and yet curious beside him, a raven lifted and flew into the morning sky, and with the bird’s flight came a swell of notes. Lucien hummed them softly, catching them.

    How long since music had come like that, without the breach of liquor? So long.
    And yet, he could not seem to resist it.

    With a rueful smile, he offered his arm to the decidedly grimy Madeline. From her dress and skin came the earthy scents of bruised grass and hard work. Long untidy tendrils of hair escaped her cap to hang on her shoulders, and he wondered again what that hair looked like free and brushed to shining.

    She shied away from touching him. "I’m very dirty," she said with a shake of her head, folding her hands behind her back. A thread of a second viola, playing counterpoint to the first, swirled in, and a violin. Yes. Andantino.

    It was too perplexing to alarm him. Such bright, strong sounds—from nowhere, all at once? It made him feel slightly dizzy, as if he were not himself.

    "It’s almost enchanted here, isn’t it?" he said quietly.

    "Yes." Madeline didn’t smile, but her eyes were bright. "I was afraid to come here at night when I was a child. I thought the fairies might carry me away."

    "And now?"

    "I don’t know." She paused to bend over a particularly shrouded rosebush and firmly, but gently, tugged away the vines over it. A stone bench, beaded with dew, sat nearby, and a tangle of violets bloomed below it. She pinched one purple flower and held it to her nose. He followed her lead, smiling at the fresh, deep scent.

    It was companionable. Lucien found it charming that she was so wary of him, that she kept a foot or two between them at all times, that she didn’t pause for more than a moment at any of the quaint unusual features that littered the way.

    The place was quite clearly her passion. He understood it. At one corner, she stopped and pointed out another claire-voie, this one looking inward, across several pathways, through more windows, to the center of the maze itself. He could see a stone bench, worn gray with time, set in the middle of an overgrown bed of herbs.

    "Dazzling," he said, and meant it. "Thank you for your generosity."

    She raised skeptical eyes. He sensed about her the long wariness of a loner and was surprised at the recognition he felt. "You’re quite welcome," she said simply.

    "Juliette tells me you’ve just returned from a tour of the Continent," Lucien said, politely. A little sunshine now began to penetrate the maze, awakening sleepy corners and drying the dew on the petals of tender flowers. Over the hedge walls, a tree with a dark trunk and pale green leaves was suddenly illuminated. In his inner ear, Lucien heard the waterfall tumble of harp.

    Beautiful.

    "I went to explore the gardens," Madeline said, bringing him back to the moment.
    "The Italians are particularly adept at the art, as I’m sure you know."

    "The Italians seem adept at a great many things. I did not know gardening was another of their accomplishments." Idly, he plucked a trumpet-shaped flower from a vine and held it to his nose. No scent to speak of. "What makes them superior?"

    "The climate is kinder than our own, of course, but I think it’s more than that.
    Enthusiasm and an eye for detail, perhaps."

    "Ah. Did you find ideas you hope to employ here?"

    "A number of them, actually."

    "For example?"

    Madeline gave him a quick smile. "It’s impossible at the moment, but I’d very much like to experiment with fountains and pools."

    "Have you seen the fountains at the Villa d’Este?" he asked.

    "Oh, yes! They’re magnificent." She clasped her hands over her breast, and a bright passion filled her voice. "Water has a peculiar magic. The sound, the scent, the spirit of cool refreshment—it’s