The Q

by Beth Brower

Her heart pounded stubbornly, angry and strained. No, sitting would not do. Neither would perching beside the window. And walking out through the streets sounded, well, awful. So she did the only thing that could draw her wound-up emotions into some semblance of peaceful control: she took her violin out of its case.

Quincy’s love for music came from the two things she held inside the tucks of her jacket beside her heart: mathematics and solitude. The benefits she reaped after an hour of playing Mozart or Bach, or whoever, were order and inhuman company. And this night, like on so many others, these were what she felt she needed above all.

That’s part of maintaining connections with people. You give yourself a little to what they give themselves to a lot. And they do the same for you.”

“Did Fisher tell you to come?” Quincy said, her voice sounding so unlike itself—sounding yearning. “No,” Arch replied. Then he shook his head as confirmation, as if it were an important truth she needed to know two ways. “But I knew this was his train.” “You missed him.” “I didn’t come for him. I came for you.”

“I always feel I might be my best self in the fall; I wish to pen my best essays, listen to the purest music, taste the best fruit I can find.”

“Do not doubt we all have cracks, dear,” Lord Arch said as he stood. “Do not think that you are so shattered. You are a beautiful, capable creation, even when you sharpen the edges of the bottle yourself.”

“We sin. And yet something calls us towards perfection. Do you know why? Because we’re good for it. We have the capacity to examine our lives and improve, to change. But we can’t do it just on our own.

“I don’t know how you exist as you do. Isn’t it exhausting, to think well of so many people?” “Quite the opposite, Quincy St. Claire,” Arch said, a light smile on his face. “I think people are the most worthwhile use of our time,

Quincy didn’t feel like she needed to be brushed off and set on the pedestal of devil-may-care courage—she just wanted someone to sit down in the mud of the whole affair and tell her it was all right to be broken. That’s all Quincy wanted, to be sad and be told it was just fine.