Chapter Eleven: The Lesson in Music - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
By the eighth evening, Isla no longer tried to convince herself that her return to the manor was only duty. That explanation had once been sufficient—clean, sharp, and unarguable. Her father’s life depended on the ruby roses, and the roses belonged to the beast. The terms were simple. But simplicity had begun to slip through her fingers, replaced by something quieter, something far less obedient to reason. She still walked the path for Grover, that truth remained untouched, yet now something else walked beside her—something that lingered in her thoughts long after morning and refused to leave her at night.
Grover had been stronger again that day. Not merely improved, but steadier in a way that made her cautious rather than relieved. Strength that came slowly could be trusted; strength that came quickly always demanded scrutiny. He spoke more, rested less, and watched her with that same knowing calm that seemed to grow sharper the more he healed. When she gave him the rose, he drank it without hesitation, then leaned back against his pillows with a long, quiet breath. “You are smiling less,” he said.
“I was not aware I smiled often.”
“You did not,” he replied, “but now you almost do, and then you stop yourself.”
She looked away. “You are imagining things.”
“No,” he said gently. “I am remembering you.”
That unsettled her more than anything else might have. She busied herself with the empty glass, but his gaze remained on her, patient, certain. “You are walking toward something,” he added quietly.
“I am walking to the manor,” she said.
“Yes,” he murmured. “But not only that.”
She did not answer, and when she left him that evening, his words followed her into the woods.
Blackwood Ridge felt calm after the storm, almost deceptively so. The air was cool and clean, the ground still damp beneath her steps, and the trees seemed quieter than usual, as though the storm had stripped them of whatever restless energy they once held. Isla walked without hesitation. The manor appeared as it always did—silent, pale, watching—and yet her heart did not tighten at the sight of it anymore.
The gates opened.
The birds watched.
The house received her.
Inside, everything unfolded with familiar precision. The maids guided her, prepared her, dressed her in a gown softer than the ones before—a warm rose shade that moved gently in the candlelight. She noticed how easily she moved through the ritual now, how naturally her body followed what had once felt foreign. She was no longer adjusting to the manor. She belonged to its rhythm.
At nine, she stepped into the corridor.
He was there.
Closer than usual.
Waiting.
“You are punctual,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You slept.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She tilted her head slightly. “You sound almost pleased.”
“I prefer efficiency.”
“That is not what it sounds like.”
“It is what it is.”
“Of course.”
A small pause followed, but it did not feel empty. It felt… aware.
“Come,” he said.
They walked.
But not toward dinner.
Isla noticed quickly this time. “You are avoiding food.”
“I am correcting a problem.”
“I was not aware I had one.”
“You have several.”
“That is very rude.”
“That is very accurate.”
She glanced at him sideways. “You enjoy this.”
“Yes.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“For you.”
“For me.”
A faint shift passed through his expression—something lighter than usual.
They reached the music room.
She recognised it now, but the feeling inside it had changed. It no longer felt unfamiliar. It felt… waiting.
The piano stood where it always had, quiet and still.
“You play,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And I do not.”
“That is the problem.”
She looked at him, almost amused. “You are determined.”
“I am correct.”
“That is still a bold claim.”
“And still true.”
She moved toward the piano, slower this time, less uncertain. “And you will teach me?”
“Yes.”
“And I cannot refuse?”
“No.”
She let out a small breath that might have been a laugh. “You are impossible.”
“Sit.”
She sat.
Her hands hovered over the keys, unsure but not afraid.
“Hands.”
She placed them down.
“Wrong.”
“That was fast.”
“You were wrong quickly.”
“That is not encouraging.”
“It is accurate.”
Before she could adjust, his hands came forward, guiding hers. This time, she did not freeze entirely. She felt the contact, noticed it, but did not pull away. His fingers adjusted hers with quiet precision, steady, controlled, careful in a way that did not match his size.
“There,” he said.
“That feels less wrong.”
“That is progress.”
“High praise.”
“Moderate praise.”
She smiled faintly.
“Press.”
She did.
The note sounded.
She pressed another.
Then another.
The pattern formed, uneven but real.
“You are thinking again,” he said.
“I cannot stop thinking.”
“Then think less.”
“That is not helpful.”
“It is correct.”
She exhaled, and this time she laughed softly. “You repeat yourself.”
“Because you repeat your mistakes.”
“That is also rude.”
“That is also correct.”
Then his hands moved over hers again.
This time, she was ready.
The music changed immediately. The notes flowed together, smoother, softer, forming something that resembled a melody. Isla followed the movement instinctively, her shoulders relaxing, her focus narrowing.
“You see?” he murmured.
“I feel it.”
“That is better.”
His hands remained.
Neither of them moved.
The melody shifted, becoming slightly more playful now, lighter in tone. The notes danced rather than walked, rising and falling in a rhythm that felt almost like laughter turned into sound.
“This one is different,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It feels… brighter.”
“You are less terrible.”
She laughed properly this time. “That is not a compliment.”
“It is from me.”
“Then I will accept it.”
“You will.”
She pressed a wrong key.
The sound broke the pattern entirely.
They both stopped.
She looked at the piano, then at him.
“That was your fault.”
“It was not.”
“You distracted me.”
“I did nothing.”
“You were… present.”
“That is not a crime.”
“It is when I am trying not to fail.”
“You are failing regardless.”
“That is unkind.”
“That is accurate.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling now, openly.
“Again,” he said.
They began again.
This time, the mistakes came slower.
Her hands moved more naturally, less rigidly. The melody returned, softer, steadier, and she followed it more easily now.
“You improve,” he said.
“That is because you are helping.”
“That will change.”
“I do not think I want it to.”
“It will.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Yes.”
His voice was quieter now.
She pressed another note—correct this time—and glanced at him. “You are less harsh tonight.”
“You are less terrible tonight.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is related.”
She laughed again.
The sound lingered.
The music softened.
They continued like that for a while, the lesson becoming less about instruction and more about movement, about sound, about the quiet space between them. The fire burned low, the candles flickered gently, and the rest of the manor seemed distant, irrelevant.
At one point, her hand slipped again—not entirely wrong, but enough to disrupt the rhythm. Before she could correct it, his hand shifted, catching hers, guiding it back into place. The movement was quick, instinctive, and for a moment their hands remained together without motion.
The music paused.
So did they.
Isla’s breath slowed.
Neither of them moved.
Then—
“Again,” he said softly.
The moment broke.
The music resumed.
But something had changed.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly.
But undeniably.
When at last he withdrew his hands, the absence felt immediate. Isla remained still for a moment, then placed her fingers on the keys again.
This time, she played alone.
The melody was imperfect, uneven, but it held.
He watched her closely.
“You see?” she said.
“I see.”
“That was not terrible.”
“That was acceptable.”
“I will take acceptable.”
“You will improve.”
“I suppose I must.”
“You must.”
She turned slightly toward him. “You are very certain about that.”
“Yes.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“You will not.”
“Because I am curious?”
“Yes.”
She smiled faintly. “You are right.”
“I know.”
They left the room slowly.
The manor felt quieter now, as though something had settled into place. The silence was no longer heavy. It was… calm.
At her chamber door, she paused.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For the lesson?”
“For the evening.”
A small pause followed.
“You will continue.”
“That sounds inevitable.”
“It is.”
She met his gaze, steady now.
“I will return tomorrow.”
“I know.”
This time—
neither of them questioned it.