Porcelain Keys

“Emotionally gripping, this beautifully crafted young adult romance will pull at your heartstrings from tragic beginning to happy ending. A must-read for fans of contemporary romance, both young and seasoned.”—
Julie N. Ford
, author of
Count Down to Love

“
Porcelain Keys
is a fresh, heart-wrenching take on boy-meets-girl. Using fantastic and musical imagery to tell the poignant love story of Aria and Thomas, Beard leads the reader to a swelling crescendo as if we’re part of the song—and what a beautiful song it is.”—
Cindy C Bennett
, author of
Rapunzel Untangled
and
Geek Girl

“With a fresh new voice and theme, Sarah Beard opens the musical world of her characters and tells a unique and profound story that will keep readers on the edge of their seats until the very end. I loved this story and highly recommend it!”—Lynn Gardner, author of the Gems and Espionage series

“
Porcelain Keys
is a well-crafted story that is guaranteed to make you cry, smile, cheer, and cry some more. The author uses not only words to tell her heart-warming story, but she also taps into the powerful language of music, making this a unique and fulfilling read. Aria is a heroine worth rooting for, and the plot is an emotional melody that weaves a spell so potent, it can only be broken by reaching the end. And even then, I couldn’t stop thinking about Aria and her story.”—
Heather Frost
, author of the Seers trilogy

“Emotionally rich, elegant description, beloved characters—
Porcelain Keys
is a masterpiece with more heart than most love stories. A boy and a girl rise above the storms of tragedy to find hope and forgiveness. Sarah Beard delivers a fresh, new novel that will go on my list of classics.” —
Stephanie Fowers
, author of
Meet Your Match
and The Twisted Tales trilogy

“A lyrical love story that will leave your heart singing,
Porcelain Keys
is a masterpiece with emotional depth, young love, and family angst. Beard takes us on a journey of self-discovery, second chances, and ultimately, sweet resolution.”—
Heather Ostler
, author of The Shapeshifter’s Secret series

© 2014 Sarah Beard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-0833-6

Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc.,
www.cedarfort.com

Cover design by Kristen Reeves

Cover design © 2014 by Lyle Mortimer

Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell

Printed in the United States of America

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

For Keith,
who gave me wings and a reason to fly.

I
 
fled barefoot through
the backyard, my spine tingling with the fear of pursuit. The grass was cold and wet, and the sound of my name echoed in the chilled mountain air.

“Aria!” Dad’s abrasive shout fractured the night again and again, like the bark of an agitated dog. I pushed my legs harder, unable to differentiate between the thud of footsteps behind me and my own quick heartbeats. I could see the vague outline of the barn ahead like a beacon in the darkness, and I blazed toward it, blind to everything else. My only chance of losing Dad was to reach the trees behind it.

“Get back here!” His growl was right behind me. The anticipation of his hand hooking my arm threatened to paralyze me, but I pushed the expectation aside and forced my feet forward. I flew past the barn and into a dense cluster of pines, their branches whipping my face as I raced through them. It was darker in the trees, and I held my hands out like feelers to navigate the way. But
it was my knee that found the fence at the edge of our yard, and I stifled a cry as it slammed into the rough wooden post.

I clambered over it into Mr. Euler’s orchard. My legs trembled beneath me as I ducked under the apple-heavy branches. The orchard had been neglected for years, and the smell of rotten fruit squishing beneath my feet reminded me how Dad had smelled when he’d dragged me out from under the piano just minutes earlier. At the thought of him still out there in the yard searching for me, I lengthened my stride and tried to stay on the balls of my feet.

When I emerged from the orchard, I started running again, past the cluster of cottonwoods sprawled like cobwebs over Mr. Euler’s vacant house, and across a stream that cut through his land. Frigid water splashed onto my skin and rocks jabbed into my already-sore feet. A sharp one stabbed my heel, and I lunged for the dry bank and stumbled to my knees. I sprang up and kept going, bringing a thick layer of dirt on the soles of my feet.

In all the years I’d had to flee from Dad, he’d never found my hiding place. But if I slowed down, he might follow me and discover it, and I would have nowhere to go in the future when his volatility forced me out of the house. I started through a field of long yellow grass that stretched uphill toward the mountain. My lungs felt like they might burst, but I didn’t slow down.

Dew from the long grass clung to the fray on my shorts, and chirping insects saturated the summer night with their music. I drew in my arms, hoping no spiders or crickets were hitchhiking on my back. I’d taken this path countless times in my seventeen years, but the Colorado
mountains were always more eerie at night. A chill ran down my spine as I saw a dark movement in the shadow of the trees, and I reminded myself that the only real monster was far behind me.

“Be brave,” I whispered to myself through labored breaths.

It wasn’t until I entered a grove of aspens skirting the base of the mountain that I felt safe enough to ease my pace. I weaved through a labyrinth of white trunks until I reached a clearing, then stopped and exhaled a sigh of relief.

A massive ash tree stood in the center of the clearing, ancient and otherworldly in the silvery moonlight. Five enormous limbs spread out from the squat trunk like an open hand, and nestled in the hollow of the palm was a tree house.

Using blocks of weathered wood nailed to the trunk, I climbed up to a narrow porch and stepped through an open doorway. Moonlight seeped through water-stained windows onto the wooden floor, making it a dusty gray. Cabinets and shelves lined one wall, and the open rafters provided a perfect place for spiders to spin their webs.

I shivered and rubbed my bare arms, wishing I’d worn something more substantial than a tank top and cut-off shorts. Not that I could have anticipated spending the night outdoors, or had time to change. One minute, I was asleep under Mom’s piano, and the next, Dad was yanking my arm and demanding to know why I’d broken his rules
again
. I chided myself for being so careless and getting caught, for crawling under the piano to lie down instead of being satisfied with the four hours of Chopin
and Beethoven I’d been able to sneak in while Dad was out falling off the wagon again.

I yanked a flashlight and sleeping bag from a shelf, then unrolled the sleeping bag and inspected it for spiders before sliding in and curling into a ball to warm up.

Trying to relax, I drew in a few deep breaths. My heart was still racing, my hands still shaky. I clutched a handful of down-filled nylon and shut my eyes.
I’m not going to cry,
I told myself. I felt the burn in my throat and the moisture gathering on my lashes, but I forced them back. Tears never did any good. They didn’t provide comfort or explanations, and never helped me make sense of my situation.

Instead, I sat up and wiped the itchy wetness from my lashes. I opened a narrow cabinet and removed a thick wire-bound notebook. Propping the flashlight against the wall, I slid a pencil from the coiled wire and opened the notebook. Musical staves lined each page, some filled with fragments of music Mom had written, others with my attempts at adding to hers. Other than the piano that remained locked in the parlor, Mom’s notebook was my most cherished possession and one of the few things I’d been able to snag before Dad squirreled away all her things after her death.

I ran my hand down the page and picked out a short snippet of Mom’s, then copied it onto a blank page. Humming the exquisite melody, I tapped my pencil to the rhythm. Then I pressed the lead tip to the page to add to it. I echoed her first passage, then carried her bass line for two measures and added a trill before a descending run. Measure after measure, passage after passage, I intertwined my music with hers until my pulse slowed and my nerves settled.

I awoke to a creaking sound, like wood bending under the weight of a heavy foot. But when I opened my eyes, there was no one there. Only a blue jay perched on the threshold of the doorway, his plumage vibrant in the early morning light. He tilted his crested head and stared at me curiously with one eye, then ruffled his feathers before going still again. He appeared to be listening, waiting expectantly for something.

Wanting to sleep longer, I shut my eyes. Every joint in my body ached as if I’d hiked a mountain the day before. The blue jay called again, a musical whistle that sounded like a rusty old swing. I picked out the notes and the melodic interval.
B-flat to G,
I thought,
a minor third.
He repeated the call again and again, but soon another creak silenced him.

I sat up in my sleeping bag, my ears suddenly attuned to the sounds outside the tree house. Weak wood whining against the strain of pressure. The tread of a shoe gripping the edge of a step. Labored breathing.

Someone was climbing to the tree house.

The blue jay’s crest bristled outward in warning, and in one movement I shed the sleeping bag and shot to my feet. The bird beat its wings and let out a hawk-like scream before flying up into the rafters, trapping itself along with me.

My first thought was that Dad had finally found my hidden sanctuary. If he saw me here, I could never come back. As stealthily as I could manage, I scooped up my sleeping bag and receded into a shallow space behind a tall cabinet. My sleeping bag bulged around the corner, and I
hooked my leg around it and drew it as close to my body as possible. The sounds of the blue jay’s escape attempts only added to my anxiety. A thump against a window, a clatter against the roof, an ear-piercing warning call. Every now and then I saw a flash of blue feathers in the rafters. My heart beat as wildly in my chest as the trapped bird’s wings.

A shadow stretched from the doorway across the floor, and I held my breath and stiffened my body, hoping Dad would take a quick glance, then go on his way. But instead I heard the creak of steps. They were slow and tentative, and were coming closer. My lungs burned for want of new air, and I eased the stale air out and silently drew in more.

Another step closer. Too close. I guessed he was right around the corner of the cabinet. If I moved a fraction of an inch, he would hear me. My muscles cramped up from being tense for so long, but I couldn’t release them without being discovered. I heard one more step, then my stomach contracted as someone stepped into my line of vision.

It wasn’t Dad.

It was a boy, tall with dark, tousled hair. His back was to me, but a moment later he turned to face me and his eyes locked with mine. The look of surprise I expected to see was strangely absent. Instead, his expression seemed to say,
Oh, there you are.