Page 93 of Unraveling Fate

“Cadenza.” He took in her face, knowing it might be the last time he ever appreciated the determined set of her jaw or her dark hair over her shoulders.

She stuck her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here? Thomas has been breathing down our necks all evening. Did you tell him?” The anger in her eyes melted to concern as she took in his appearance. “Canon, are you ok?”

He stepped closer, shaking his head. There wasn’t time to apologize or explain. He’d do it after, if this worked.

“You won’t have to worry about Thomas interfering tonight.” His voice hitched, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll keep him busy. You and Reyna just get it done, ok?”

“Why?” Suspicion laced her question. “Why did you come tonight?”

The truth of himself crystallized in his mind. No longer burning, but clear and sharp as ice. His trembling ceased. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her cheek, and her skin was so warm, not like this cold-steel truth slicing through his bones.

Canon threw his mask away, looked her in the eye, and told the truth.

“Because I will never be enough.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward his fate.

Twenty-Three

18 Sep 2019

Opera Night. A few hours till we have an answer.

Cadenza brought her fingertips to her cheek. Canon’s protective veneer had slipped before, and she’d seen him work at pushing it aside on purpose, but this was different. His face blazed, raw and honest.

And sad.

A well of pain radiated from his eyes and a longing to see deeper threatened to pull her heart from her chest. A tune rose from the hardwood floors, the voice of long-dead trees keening for lost possibilities.

No,she thought, tilting her head.Not lost.Unchosenpossibilities.

Canon walked away, back straight, shoulders square. She tried to call him back, to ask him what hurt and how she could help it, but the tree song stole round her throat.

“What’s he doing here?” Reyna laid a protective hand on Cadenza’s shoulder, come to fetch her for their performance.

She shook her head. “I’m not sure. But I don’t think we’ll need to worry about Thomas tonight.”

When the performance began,Reyna sang first. She held nothing back. Even so, the country club faces watching her saw only a part of her performance. Incapable of perceiving the rest of what she did, they saw only a woman on stage, heard only a well-trained voice. Her skill in shaping the unseen, the heat created by her spirit, her will that bent elements into a shape of her choosing—to these they remained oblivious.

She wove her intent through her song, directing it at the tuning fork, morphed to its portable size, in the pocket of her formal. Forged with her own hands and will, the instrument soaked up her intent like a sponge, storing it for later. This audience would never see the fruition of her performance—when she used that stored will to force the vault room to open for her.

Canon pushed openthe door to Learmonth’s office. Thomas sat in a chair, brooding over a framed picture. He didn’t look up.

“You can still change your mind, Mr. Richards. This serves no one.”

Canon ignored the remark and waited until his former employer lifted his head.

“Three Fates showed you three roads?—”

“Canon, don’t.” Thomas rose.

“—and you chose between them.”

“Please, lad, I won’t be able to help you.”

“Open the gate. Take me to the crossroads.” Canon’s breath heaved in his chest. Such simple words, not even a poem. But when he said them out loud, power rushed through him, leaving his skin prickling and hot.

Thomas stared at him, quiet. Canon waited, arms folded.