Wildalone by Krassi Zourkova Read Free Book Online Page B

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    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  she fell from him again, becoming shadow.
    The rest was his brief life without her, a life filled with nothing but sorrow. Consumed by grief, he swore never to love again. And not even the most seductive of women—the immortal maenads, possessed by the god Dionysus—could tempt him to break his vow. Enraged when Orpheus spurned them all, they ripped him to pieces.
    â€œThe time is now nine fifty-five . . .”
    I closed the book just as the ceiling lights went out, leaving only the cabinets visible—illuminated from the inside, a deep amber of hidden bulbs that madethe vases glow, stirred back to life after a long slumber. Suddenly, the entire place resembled a tomb. Dark, eerie, as if I had descended into a corner of the Underworld myself. My imagination ran wild. I couldn’t wait to go back to my room. Start writing. Attempt to capture on paper the uncapturable: the music and soul of Orpheus, whose tragic tale was now flashing through my mind like a film reel. If the musician on the front of the vase was indeed him, then another scene from his life might very well be on the back. His death, maybe? The cabinet was locked, so I tried to see past the glass, as far along the vessel as I could—
    â€œIt must be a maenad, back there.”
    I turned around and froze. Someone was watching me from across the room, leaning against the wall between me and the only exit. It took a second to recognize the silhouette: my “stalker.”
    I did my best not to sound nervous:
    â€œBeg your pardon?”
    â€œThat vase you were just looking at. Its other side must be a maenad, taking her revenge on the doomed musician.”
    Something about his voice got to me. I wanted to keep hearing its sound. Warm. Quiet. Disarming like the sound of a piano when your fingers are barely pressing on the keys.
    I turned back toward the glass; it was easier to talk to him this way. “Why do you think so?”
    â€œWhat else would it be? A sad lyre player on a Greek vase—your best bet is Orpheus, having just lost Eurydice. The only thing left for him now is to get torn to pieces. So that must be the back, no?”
    He had read my mind again—from a distance, just as he had done in Alexander Hall. The concert flyers did mention I was from Bulgaria, which explained why he would bring up Orpheus. Yet how had he found me here? It was too much of a coincidence for him to be at the museum this late, especially on a night when everyone went clubbing (Thursday and Saturday were the notorious party nights at Princeton). He had to have followed me into the galleries, only to watch me in secret until now.
    The thought made me uncomfortable and I kept looking at the vase, away from him. “You seem to know a lot about Greek mythology.”
    â€œOnly parts of it. The myth of Orpheus holds a special . . . fascination in my family.”
    â€œA dismembered musician somewhere down the family tree?”
    â€œYes and no. Long story.”
    I waited for him to explain, but he didn’t. The room was filling up with silence and I hurried to say something—anything—before the mad beating in my chest would have echoed all the way through to him:
    â€œAre you in Greek Art? I don’t remember seeing you there.”
    â€œNo, that’s too epic for my taste.”
    â€œWhat is your taste?”
    He paused. Then his voice became even quieter: “I think you know.”
    I didn’t, not yet. But no one had ever talked to me like this—cryptic, soft, as if our intimacy was a given. It made me want to trust him, which scared me even more. “Actually, I don’t know anything about you.”
    There was a loud clicking sound, then the room became fully dark: the museum was already closed. I sensed a shift in the air, a cologne’s vague mix of moss or bark with crushed petals, and