Louise Marley
Excerpt
It was all real, Frederica reminded herself. Everything was real. Except for her. She floated through the garden gate, smiling to think she could have gone right through the wall if she chose, could move anywhere and in any way she wished. It was like being in a dream journey. If she wanted to move to the left, she did. If she wanted to rise into the air, to look down on the garden and the olive tree, it happened without any effort beyond her thought.
She only had to remember not to go too far. They had told her she would know, that she would feel dizzy, perhaps a bit nauseous, if she got too close to the perimeter of the transfer zone. She would find herself instantly back in her own time.
But that wouldn’t happen. She would take every care. Frederica had no intention of leaving Casa Agosto until she had to.
She settled to the ground, letting her virtual feet sink among the blades of grass. She drifted around the house, admiring the terra cotta walls, the embroidered curtains at the windows. She paused outside a set of French doors that led into a small, sun-filled room. Her memory served up the word for this room, salotto. A little salon, and in this case, a music room. The tall doors were half-open, fitted with long, gauzy curtains that belled in the light breeze. Inside, she saw the short keyboard and bulky body of a square fortepiano, old-fashioned even in 1861. Its ivory keys–real ivory, no plastic substitutes–glowed a muted white. Its bench was covered in green brocade. It stood on six legs carved with flowers and vines, and it dominated the room, though there was also a stuffed wing chair with a gas lamp beside it and a little writing table piled with books.
They had told her the transfer would be like watching television, that she would see the sights and hear the sounds, but enjoy no other sensations. Now that she was here, she found the television analogy imperfect. Her perceptions were more acute than those of a mere observer. It was possible, she supposed, that she was providing the intensity with her own eager imagination. She could almost, but not quite, smell the perfume of the tangled roses. It seemed if she tipped her head up, she could almost feel the sweetness of the May sunshine on her cheeks, or taste the clear air, as yet uncontaminated by the effluvia of industry or the exhaust of combustion engines. She breathed deeply, longing for the real experience. Her hands yearned to feel the cool surfaces of the fortepiano keys beneath her fingers.
If she was right–if that single, long-hidden letter spoke the truth–he had touched those keys. He might even place his hands on them this very day, the date of the letter buried for so long in a forgotten vault in Hamburg. The thought filled her with ecstatic anticipation.
Did her fingers twitch beneath the tangle of tubes on the cot in the transfer clinic? Did her nostrils flare, her eyelids flicker as she took in the marvel of it all?
Bio
Louise Marley is a recovering concert and opera singer, a Clarion West Writers Workshop graduate, and the author of fourteen novels of fantasy, science fiction, and musical fantasy.
Publications
Mozart's Blood
The Brahms Deception
Writing Description
Slightly literary fantastic fiction.
Goals
100 pages on the book that's due October 1st!
$100!
Website
