IX. Detuning

After closing the door behind me and finishing my cleaning duty, I go to the bathroom to wash my brooms and empty my buckets.

The very moment I step inside, my stomach aches, remembering what happened the last time I set foot in it.

Our conversation with Mayth left some blood on the floor and, as I thought, there are no traces of it anywhere.

She must have returned later that night to wash the evidence away, something I should have done after stepping into Marc’s blood.

As much as I despise her for what she did to me, she always has a move ahead of mine.

I return to the cellar and lie on the bed.

My life now depends on the selection and I have to find a way to be part of the selected.

The condition is to be out of tune enough from our birth note, only, even though Mayth made me use my note when she beat me, I believe I am still perfectly in tune.

Figuring out the only way for me to get out of my original tune comes with a large amount of self doubt.

I have seen a way to change the tune of a string before unfortunately the person who did it turned into a white noise during the process.

A foolish act, when intentional, considered self-mutilation and even used as a form of self-slaughter.

Detuning, it is called.

A procedure not to be toyed with, but I lack other solutions and need to risk it.

The execution of it is simple enough but requires preparing some items first, which I will have to find elsewhere.

The curfew has not rung yet, so I get up and take old rags from a box, then pass by the bathroom to drench them in water before returning to the cellar.

The most dangerous part of the process, which I must prevent at all costs, is the shattering of my box’s glass.

This is what I prepared the wet clothes for; I wrap the wet rags around my throat carefully, tightening them while making sure they cover the whole surface of the glass.

The water is cold.

A small moon ray passes through the roof planks.

In a symbolic way, I place myself beneath it.

If I were to die from what I am about to do, I would rather do it under the rare hints of the outside.

I inhale deeply, my hands shaking, tiny water drops sliding down my neck.

With a final glimpse at the roof, I put my head inside the box I previously prepared to muffle the noise and exhale to make my string vibrate.

Following its vibration, my note rises.

I must sustain it as long as I can; every inhale and exhale must make it play.

The sound becomes louder and louder.

I can feel the glass shivering beneath the damp clothes.

Tears form in my eyes in an attempt to ease the pain.

I can feel my vocal cords irritating and taste the blood running down my throat as I continue.

The note starts to change, its pitch lowering, but it is far from enough.

I will soon be reaching my physical limits, still I blow the remaining air in my lungs as fiercely as I can.

There are no words to describe the melody playing, as it shifts into dissonance.

It makes my ears buzz.

I feel pins and needles poking inside my eyes.

Dizziness takes over my head, my eyelids narrow and my ears feel trapped in foam.

Focusing on the note becomes harder, I must end this.

My lungs are burning, I need to breathe.

My head aches as if someone were hammering it.

The tune is driving me crazy.

It needs to be enough.

I cannot continue.

I stop the note and gasp for air.

My knees abandon me, forcing me onto the ground.

I am inches away from passing out.

My heart pounds violently, trying to escape my chest.

Air fills my lungs and the irritation makes me cough heavily.

I cannot feel my arms and legs.

I am pinned to the ground and only the automation of my vital organs seems to function properly.

The coughing intensifies with every breath.

I crawl toward my bed but the backlash comes too quickly.

My neck stops supporting my head, my face hits the planks….

I try to open my eyes but the light forces them shut again.

An itching sensation crawls along my arm.

I scratch where I feel it and a sudden burning sensation surges through me.

As I regain my sight, the redness of my forearm is the first thing I notice.

I pull it away from the sunlight and stand up.

I hear footsteps coming up toward my room.

I quickly push the box aside, untie the clothes around my neck and throw them inside.

I run toward my bed and slip beneath the sheets.

The door unlocks under a music box’s note.

The Lady in Apron enters.

“Get up.”

I obey.

“Good morning, my Lady.” I bow my head to her.

She begins eyeing my room and notices the box.

She walks toward it and looks inside.

“What is that?” she asks coldly.

“I-”

“You what? Hurry.”

My heart skips a beat.

I start to panic, unable to think of anything that could explain the situation.

She notices my hesitation.

“Do I have to make you spit answ-”

“I-I… wet myself during my sleep, my Lady. I took the rags to clean the floor and wanted them hidden from your sight.”

She eyes me from top to bottom and, after long seconds, sighs and orders:

“Go clean yourself and throw the filthy rags away, then join us in the dining room.”

She leaves, visibly disgusted.

It seems fate smiles upon me.

I take the damp clothes and go to the bathroom where I rinse and dry them.

I lift my dress and tie one of them around my waist.

I silently go down the stairs and look through the bars of the guardrail.

The Lady in Apron is talking inside the dining room, the door closed.

I quickly move toward her room and approach the handle.

Fear overwhelms me as the thought of it being locked reaches me.

With a slight push of my arm, it opens.

I venture inside and head straight for the desk.

I lift my dress, untie the cloth around my waist and wrap it around my hand.

With a swift blow, the glass of the desk breaks, allowing me to take the flute.

It is heavier than I expected for its small size and surprisingly cold to the touch.

It seems to be made from some kind of stone or crystal.

A single hole is carved into it; I do not understand how the Lady in Apron could play different notes with it.

The beauty of the white flute makes me wonder why she possesses such a piece of art.

I hide the flute inside my dress, my heart lightening.

I can already feel my necklace around my neck.

After all I have done for it, I must remain vigilant.

Taking out the paper I left in the door’s hole last night, I close the door behind me as I leave.

It locks itself with a sharp click.

I hurry to the closet beside the dining room and enter quietly. The Lady in Apron seems to be still talking.

Mayth’s trapdoor is already open.

I step inside.

It is empty.

All the shelves that once held the belongings of the monthlings are gone.

Only the safe remains.

The Lady in Apron took everything from it.

I still need to search for the market’s garden entrance.

It should be behind some cardboard boxes after the safe.

Just behind the safe, several cardboard boxes are arranged strangely.

I move the ones blocking the way and rest them on the ground.

Light appears through a small slab hiding an opening in the wall.

Lifting it reveals the passage to the garden.

On a plank, just before the exit, a text is written on a small sign:

“My garden.”

Below it are what seem to be fake rock plantations.

I never knew Mayth had such occupations, though I cannot blame her for being driven into madness after spending so much time in the orphanage.

It is not as subtle as I thought it would be, but the idea of getting my necklace back takes over.

I reuse the cloth I kept around my hands and dig right beneath the sign.

Then, carefully, I place the flute inside the hole after wrapping it with the rags.

Once the hole is covered, I hide my passage by putting everything back in place.

I will not make the same mistake twice.

I leave the market, then the closet, and knock on the dining room door.

The Lady in Apron opens it, inspects my clothes and lets me inside.

The dining room has been transformed into a sewing workshop.

White threads are scattered across the table but only the Lady in Apron handles the needles.

She carefully mends the holes in Mary’s clothes and, from her apron, takes a small cube of wax that she rubs carefully along the edges of Apry’s music box.

The Lady in Apron approaches me then glances at my dress.

It has only a few scratches, nothing requiring stitches.

The day passes as she carefully works on each of us, brushing our hair, putting perfume on us and arranging our hairstyles.

For the other monthlings, the ceremony bears no meaning.

To them, being bought is only the renewal of their shackles and a change of ownership.

For me, however, I have risked my life for this selection and I will do anything to be bought in order to never return here.

Who knows what horrors await me if she discovers what happened in her room.

The sun is setting and, for

the first time in a year, we hear noises coming from outside.

Heels against the ground, perhaps boots, approaching the front door.

A knock followed by two spaced ones.

The Tailor has arrived.