As soon as Uncle Samuel put their new mirror and groceries in the cabin, he took Charlotte by the arm and led her into the prairie. She figured he would sit her down in the sun-drenched grass for some fresh air as he had done before, but instead, he walked with her further out into the prairie than she'd been before, towards a grove of old oak trees.

"Where are we going?" she asked, holding onto him. She struggled to walk too far before she became breathless and shaky.

"That's part of the surprise. It won't be far, just by those trees yonder."

She enjoyed walking in the prairie, though it was difficult. She closed her eyes as her uncle led her, facing the great bowl of the sky and letting the sun warm her face. The breeze mussed her hair, dark and rich as varnished hickory.

Now that she was out of town, away from sight, she felt much better. She could relax somewhat. The crinkling, dry grass beneath her boots was a new sound to her, much different than the click-clacking across bricks and cobblestones. As they approached the trees, she was impressed by their massive size.

Their boughs were so thick, mighty, and green, they groaned as they swayed in the wind. The leaves rustled as if whispering secrets to each other. Then, she heard something else, something gentle and consistent.

And then she saw it beyond the trees: a beautiful little stream, not very deep, dotted with moss-covered rocks, a few logs, and dappled sunlight. It was such an attractive sight to Charlotte, like something straight out of a painting. It was serene, and the air was especially cool near the water, making everything dewy.

She had never seen a place like this in person. Her life until this point had mostly been tall brick buildings, stale puddles in the street, and factory smoke. Though there was the Mississippi River that ran through Minneapolis, it was always so overrun with barges and smog and trash that there was hardly any way to enjoy it.

"I knew you'd like this place," said her uncle, seeing how pleased she was once they got to the bank of the river. They sat on a log near the stream's edge, where they could see a few small fish swimming around. "Almost forgot this place was here. Me and your Pa used to fish here when we was younger. And that brings me to my next surprise."

From his pocket, he produced a wad of fishing twine. Charlotte's eyes lit up immediately, and she felt so pleased that she remembered a little fact about her: she adored fishing. She never told anyone about it and hadn't done it since she was a child in the old Mississippi River. Her father had told her time and time again that it wasn't a ladylike thing to do.

So, she had stopped, mostly, especially since there wasn't much opportunity in the city's river because the barges scared most of the fish away. "No need to tell your Pa about this," said Samuel, tying the twine around a thin, flexible branch he found nearby. "You know how he is." He had some hooks and bait, too, setting everything up before handing the makeshift pole to her.

Charlotte beamed at him. "Uncle, I'm so happy. I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say nothin'. I obviously got you out of your usual miseries, at least temporarily, and that's all I need. Remember how I used to take you fishin' a few times just outside the city? Didn't catch much, too much filth and runoff, but it was fun nonetheless, wasn't it? I remembered how you used to enjoy it, the calm of the water's sound, the simple waitin' for a bite. I figured this place was a sight more... picturesque. I figured, too, it'd calm your nerves some."

She smiled, taking the fishing pole, beholding its simplicity. Though they could have afforded a more stylish bamboo rod, she preferred this old twig one more. It reminded her of when she was a girl before she had so many fears.

She dropped her line into the river, not expecting to catch anything substantial since there were mostly small fish. But she didn't care. Samuel set up his own pole from another stick and fished beside her on the log silently for a while.

Everything was quiet except for the rustling of the trees, which covered them in a most wonderful shade. She spotted a few black slugs along the river and some toads hopping along the damp rocks.

For that moment, she was entirely calm. She could forget everything that bothered her. It was just her and her uncle fishing in the stream. She didn't even care that the hem of her dress had become muddy.

But it didn't last.

Samuel eventually broke the silence. "I figure you should write to your Pa once we get back. He was mighty worried about you when we left, and I'm sure he'd like to know how you're doin' now that you're startin' to settle."

"Yes, I suppose so," she replied. "But I'm not sure what I could say. He sent me out here to get well, but I'll never be as well as he wants me to be. You know that, uncle."

Samuel glanced at her, his coffee-toned eyes sad for a flash. "Well, Charlie. Your father's expectations aren't up in the clouds. But he loves you a good bit. You frightened him half to death, and me for that matter, when you took ill that last time. He knew the doctor wasn't doin' much, and he figured this place was the next best thing. Fresh air, fewer stresses in your life."

"Yes," she sighed. She loved her father, but sometimes, he was so austere that it was impossible to get close to him. Especially as she got older and she had the family's reputation to maintain. He was a lawyer, a good one, and he had always been good at his job. He never made mistakes.

She had disappointed him many times, inadvertently, and she hated seeing him disappointed. Her fainting at her last concert in front of so many people seemed to be the final straw. She didn't know what to say to him now.

Maybe he just wanted to be alone, or maybe he didn't want to look at her anymore. Though she was enjoying the prairie, she couldn't help but feel exiled from her home.

"Well, in any case," Samuel continued. "You write that letter, I'll deliver it to the post office. Then, for the next few days, you can relax. Sleep a lot, wander about the prairie, go fishin'.... I bet you'll feel mighty good by the end of the week. And then, we ought to go and get some proper dinner. I spotted a restaurant in town called Nellie's, I think. Seemed like a new establishment and the only place to get a real dinner. I reckon we should try it to give you a break of my cookin'."

Charlotte smiled, but it was more like a grimace. She intensely disliked the idea of sitting in a crowded place for so long. "Well, I could start cooking by then," she recommended. "That way, we wouldn't have to waste Pa's money."

Samuel raised a silver eyebrow. "Gettin' a couple of dinners in a small-town establishment ain't gonna put a hole in your Pa's pocket. Besides, I know you just want to get out of it because you're nervous. Well, there ain't no use in arguin' about it right now anyway. We'll think about it come Saturday."

She was glad to stop talking about it so she could push it from her mind. She wished her whole life could be simple, like fishing in a stream. But fishing wasn't her whole life.

She still thought of the piano every day. Her father had discovered at a young age that she had a gift for the instrument. She was clumsy in just about everything else but not the piano.

And she loved it.

She loved it so dearly that it felt sometimes as if she were married to it. She had beaux before, only a couple, but she always ended up paying more attention to the piano than she did to them. They seemed shallow compared to the instrument and its infinite musical combinations... and she found that many of them grew quick to anger toward her.

The beaux that had not become bitter toward her musical passion instead came to despise her for her frequent illnesses. Of course, she could not do anything about that even if she wanted to, but that made no difference to the men of her past, and they always left when they found she was not the woman they were expecting.

The piano never betrayed her. Instead, it only ever had a most beautiful voice. But now, that was distant from her, too.

After some time fishing and not catching anything, she went back inside to write a letter to her father. Samuel wanted to accompany her, but she insisted she wanted to walk back across the prairie alone. It was terribly difficult for her, but she wanted to prove to herself that she could at least walk a distance without collapsing.

Indeed, she didn't collapse, but she was exhausted once she returned to the cabin.

She searched for the parchment, ink, and pen in her bags. She hadn't brought much, just some clothes and toiletries. There was nothing that reminded her of home except a small silver brooch in the shape of a grand piano dotted with a few chips of sapphire.

Her father had given it to her when she was only seven years old for successfully completing her first piano recital in front of many very important people. She had worn that brooch to every recital and concert since, appreciating that her father had thought to give her such a gift. She always wore it over her heart, feeling it was a part of her.

She had worn it during the evening of her fainting spell, too, and now the brooch was tied with that terrible memory. Its sweet nature seemed corrupted as she looked at it now. She pushed it aside and grabbed the pen and stationery bitterly.

Her father was a quiet man, and she never had much to talk about with him in person, let alone in a letter. Still, she set her pen and started to write.

Dearest Father,

I hope my health improves in this countryside as you hoped it would. I visited a doctor here, and he has given me a form of medicine, pills made from iron, to help with what he called a deficiency of blood. I have yet to benefit from their effects, but the doctor believes they can improve my pallor and malaise.

Father, I must say again, as I've said before: I'm sorry for my incident at the concert. I know I humiliated you, perhaps even more than myself, but I had not the strength to steel myself. I will not make the same mistake again as long as I can help it. I swear it.

When you take me back from this countryside, I want to be a healthy daughter you can be truly proud of. A normal daughter.

Charlotte paused, thinking of something to write that might inspire her father. Then, she added:

Uncle Samuel recommended that we eat at a local establishment come the weekend. It might not sound like much, but as you know, going anywhere public has become very difficult for me. Uncle has already taken me to the doctor's office, and even a mercantile, but a restaurant is another matter.

I believe I can do it, though the thought wrings my nerves. I believe it may be good for me, for my health's progress, and my mind's well-being.

Charlotte did not believe any such thing, but she knew it might boost her father's spirits. She continued:

How long would you like me to stay here? A couple of months, or many? Though it is beautiful here, I can't help but feel lonely. You know I don't have many companions or relations besides you and Uncle Samuel. Worst of all, there is no piano for me here, only one that is too old and out of tune for me to use.

I feel out of my element, but I trust your decision to send me here. Perhaps the solitude and quiet will help.

I am eager to receive your reply, Father.

With much love,

Charlotte

Charlotte looked at the ink of her fine handwriting slowly soaking into the paper. She supposed that was as good a letter as she could muster. Just then, her uncle returned, setting his fishing pole by the front door.

"Uncle, I've finished writing that letter. Would you send it for me?"

"Already? Why, you mustn't have written more than a few words."

"I've written more than that," she said, smiling.

Samuel smiled back and took the letter. "Of course, I can mail it. The day's not too old yet. I reckon you don't want to come?" She only needed to give him a wary look in response. "All right, I'll go easy on you this time. I think I'll walk there, stretch my legs. You ought to lie down and rest, little lady. You've done more than I expected you'd do today."

"Yes, uncle."

He nodded before he headed out again. Charlotte went to the window and watched him walk down the hill, down the long dirt path toward down. He was spry for a man his age, his walk flexible and fast and certainly more agile than hers. She loved her uncle and would never be jealous of him, but sometimes she was envious that a man so old had so much energy and life while she, still in her twenties, was devoid of such things.

She moved away from the window once Samuel's figure vanished behind the tall, golden grass, the last sight of him being his brown felt hat.

And then, she was alone.

The cabin was absolutely quiet except for the usual wind outside. She could very clearly hear her own breathing. The sun was setting out the window, letting in a block of fire-colored light. The sunset was gorgeous over the prairie, and she could almost imagine that she was the last person on earth.

She wasn't sure if the thought comforted her or not.

She drifted to the piano in the main room and sat down before it. She pressed a few keys as if to check that the piano still sounded terrible, which it did. So, she perched her fingers above the keys without touching them, closed her eyes, and moved her hands as if she were playing the Paganini-Liszt Étude No. 6.

Though the cabin remained dead silent, she could hear what it would sound like in her mind. The composition was infamous for being one of Liszt's most difficult works, taken from Paganini's original solo violin composition, which was just as difficult. She could hear it all: the rapid keys, the staccato, the desperation in the music like a trapped animal trying to escape.

Everything.

It was special not because it was beautiful but because it had a certain energy, a force, an anger, a passion. And it was so difficult to play.

Since she was a child, she loved to see what pieces she could play that others could not. She might not have been able to run as quickly as the other children, play ball, knit all that well, paint, or even dance as well as a true lady should, but she could play the piano.

As her fingers danced across the air, she heard the music in her mind as if she were truly playing. She had practiced it so many times before, but it was different now. She had left it unfinished the last time she played it, and the music stuck in her throat like a hot knife.

But as the crescendo started to build in her mind, she remembered that mortifying, clammy feeling that had overtaken her onstage. The blood draining out of her extremities, everything going cold and dark, the world around her being snatched away as if it had all been nothing but a painted tarp.

And fear.

The fear of losing control. Of not being able to hold on, to keep playing. That horrible memory was still so clear that the music in her mind stopped short, just as it had on the stage. The stumble of the last few keys and then silence.

Her fingers stopped, hovering above the old piano keys, and the music in her mind was gone. She was shaking again. All she could remember was the darkness, the laughter, the feeling of dying.

She felt that if she tried to press one more imaginary key, she would drop dead, perhaps of fear or despair. And yet, the only thing her heart cried for her to do was finish that song.

Maybe I've lost my touch, Charlotte thought. Maybe I've lost the only thing I ever had.