Praxis Novellas, Mosaic Chronicles Book Two

by Andrea Pearson

  ***

  That night, she tried to convince herself not to do it. But her desire to sleep was nowhere near as strong as her need to hear Mrs. Morse play. So she sneaked upstairs. The night before, she’d decided that sitting in her old apartment wasn’t close enough, and she’d gone to the seventh floor to sit right by the woman’s door. This time, she brought a flashlight she’d purchased at the grocery store. She wanted to see each end of the hallway—way too spooky otherwise.

  Mrs. Morse hadn’t started playing yet. Nicole put her cell phone on silent and placed it next to her as she leaned against the wall near the doorframe. She looked up at the small, dangling bulb in the hallway—it gave off barely enough light, letting her see the area around her, but each end of the hall was dark.

  Nicole flicked on the flashlight and shone it down the corridor, wanting to be sure she was alone. The night before, she’d only listened for ten minutes before chickening out and going back to her old room again. This time, she’d stay as long as possible. It wasn’t like anything dangerous was going on in the apartment behind her.

  The first smooth, graceful notes from the cello drifted through the wall. She smiled, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

  After twenty minutes, Nicole noticed the music was different this time. Perhaps it was because she stayed longer, or maybe it was the close proximity. She startled when she heard something else coming from within the room—new patterns in the music. New sounds. Were there others playing with Mrs. Morse? Couldn’t be—Nicole had never seen anyone enter or exit the room, aside from the elderly woman.

  The wall behind Nicole thumped and she scampered away, crouching on the other side of the hall and staring at the spot. Low, guttural, bass thrummings and vibrations made the door tremble. Something had to be in there with Mrs. Morse!

  Heart beating wildly, too scared to do anything else, Nicole turned the flashlight on again, shining it both ways. Alone still.

  She cocked her head, listening to the new sounds and music drifting—sometimes rushing—from the cracks around the door. They sounded distant compared to the cello. Farther away. And definitely not originating from a cello.

  Then something dawned on Nicole.

  Mrs. Morse was a Wind Arete! She had to be channeling the sounds through her instrument, using magic to do so. It was the only explanation! Professor Nielsen had been right—Nicole really, truly needed to learn to play just like Mrs. Morse. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. A desire so intense she knew she’d never be able to ignore it flooded through her. She would play with Mrs. Morse at night.

  ***

  During her last week there, Nicole noticed a change in the woman’s playing. It was more fervent, more stressed. There was a higher purpose to it, though Nicole still wasn’t sure what. And any time Nicole saw the elderly woman, she looked even older than before—more stooped, with dark circles under her eyes, incredibly frail. Nicole’s instincts to protect and mother were nearly unstoppable, but Mrs. Morse insisted she was just fine.

  Four days before Nicole had to leave, Mrs. Morse stopped admitting her to the apartment altogether. “Too busy too busy,” was the only response Nicole got. She felt heart sick. She tried to convince herself it was because the woman was suffering.

  But Nicole knew better.

  One desire would not leave her alone. One desire consumed her dreams and every waking moment. It inhabited, haunted her. The need to play Mrs. Morse’s music.

  ***

  The last day of class with Professor Nielsen arrived. Nicole was flying back to Katon University the following morning. With a heavy heart, she dragged herself to campus and his classroom.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire trip had been a waste. Professor Nielsen hadn’t done anything for her at all. Sure, he’d instructed her and helped fine-tune her cello skills, but that wasn’t why her teachers at Katon had sent her out to learn under him. He was supposed to find the one thing that would help her harness her powers. And he hadn’t.

  “Look, Nicole, we really have come far,” he said after they’d gone over their notes of the last three weeks. His expression argued with his words, however. He seemed just as discouraged.

  “I know, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Nicole closed her notebook, then took a deep breath. “I just never expected it to be so difficult.”

  “Many people never fully learn to Channel their magic. That isn’t so rare.”

  She scowled, looking down at her hands. “Lizzie and Austin have no problem.”

  “And they’re working with things more tangible—Lizzie uses fire, right?”

  Nicole nodded.

  “And Austin earth?”

  She nodded again.

  “You can see dirt and fire. You can’t see wind unless there’s something in it, marking its location.”

  “But Lizzie’s power has to do with creating fire itself, and you can’t see that until it’s there.”

  Professor Nielsen got up to pace, then rested one arm on a shelf. “Yes, I know.” He sighed, then rubbed his face. “I’m sorry—I can sense your disapproval about what we’ve discovered.”

  Nicole stood. “I don’t want you to think you haven’t helped me. You have! I know more about what I can’t use than I did before. And sometimes the process of elimination is the only way to figure things out, right?”

  Professor Nielsen half smiled. “Sure.” He picked up his wallet from his desk and took out a business card. “This is my cell phone number—call me if and when you discover something. I might not have been as helpful as Professor Coolidge would’ve liked me to be, but I am quite possibly the only one who can help in the end.”

  Nicole understood what he meant. It wasn’t arrogance—there were so many different ways a blond could use his or her power. Several Wind Aretes, like Nicole, used instruments. Of course, most of them were brass or wood instrumentalists, and understandably so. Professor Nielsen was the only advanced Arete who used the cello to produce wind magic. He was right—she had no one else to help her.

  Unless . . .

  “There’s a chance Mrs. Morse’s medium is also the cello.”

  He nodded. “I’ve thought of that, as you know.”

  “I’m going to listen to her one last time tonight.”

  He shook his head, smiling. “Yes, I suppose you will. Keep my card with you, though, just in case.”

  The two shook hands and said goodbye, and Nicole left campus. The walk back to the apartment building went by in a blur. After letting herself into her room, she made a snack before tackling the unwanted task of packing.

  She finished right as the sun went down, and collapsed on the bed. Reaching with one hand, not wanting to get up, she grabbed the corner of her purse and pulled it toward herself, then took out her phone.

  “Hey, Lizzie.”

  “Last night in Ohio, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  Lizzie sighed. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

  Nicole agreed, then they both fell silent for a moment.

  “So,” Lizzie said, “did Austin ever call you?”

  Nicole’s heart did a flip at the mention of his name. “No, and I’m not very happy about it.”

  “What? He didn’t call even once during your whole entire time out there?”

  “No . . .”

  “He said he would. That idiot. He kisses you and then gets your number—yes, he did ask for it—and then never calls? He’s so . . . dumb!”

  Nicole smiled at Lizzie’s indignation. “Don’t forget that he’s still hung up over his last girlfriend. Lizzie, I appreciate you trying to get us together, but if he’s not interested, he’s not interested. If he were, he would have forgotten the other chick and called me.”

  “I guess so. I don’t get it—he said he wanted to talk to you.” She growled. “He’s too shy. It’s so annoying.”

  Nicole didn’t want to discuss him anymore. Too discouraging. “Can’t believe I
’m heading back tomorrow. Three weeks went by so fast.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Not sure. I mean, Professor Nielsen’s helped me become a better cellist, but what good is that without Channeling?”

  “Oh, come on. You’re only in your first semester of college. You’ve got years before you need to start worrying.”

  “I’m going to listen to Mrs. Morse one more time.”

  Lizzie fell silent, and Nicole knit her eyebrows. “You there?”

  “Yeah. Nicole . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right. Please don’t do it.”

  “You said the same thing two weeks ago and nothing happened.”

  “I know, but it’s been different lately—it’s dangerous.”

  Nicole snorted, rolling to a sitting position. “Right. Playing the cello is dangerous. Listening to someone else play the cello is even more dangerous.”

  “Don’t be so flippant about this. You know something’s going on.”

  Nicole didn’t respond at first. “I have to do it.” She took a deep breath. “Love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait, Nicole—”

  But Nicole didn’t hear what else Lizzie had to say. She hung up and lowered the phone, listening hard to something from upstairs. “She started,” Nicole whispered.

  Nicole left her phone on the bed and scrambled to find her flashlight. Without caring if anyone heard her, she rushed out of the apartment and up the stairs—the elevator was too slow and she didn’t want to miss anything.

  She was right. Mrs. Morse had already started playing, and at least ten minutes early. Already, the music sounded crazy and intense. Nicole paced outside the door, too nervous to sit, wishing she could help the woman with whatever she was doing.

  The vibrations grew and grew until the entire building felt like it would fall apart. Nicole braced herself against the wall. The vibrations subsided, but the notes from the cello accelerated, coming faster, becoming more complex, and impossible to ignore. How was Mrs. Morse doing it? How were her fingers keeping up?

  The woman needed help.

  Nicole dashed to her apartment, grabbed her cello, and in less than two minutes was back at Mrs. Morse’s door, knocking as hard as she could.

  “Mrs. Morse? It’s me—Nicole! Are you all right? Can I come in?”

  The music stopped. Nicole heard a window bang shut and heavy curtains falling into place. All other sounds in the room dissipated.

  Then the door opened and Mrs. Morse rushed into the hallway, tears pouring down her face. She flung her arms around Nicole, holding her tight, face pressed against Nicole’s shoulder. She blubbered on and on, totally incomprehensible.

  Nicole patted the woman’s back. “It’s all right. I’m here now.” She bit her lip, unsure what to do or how to handle the sudden change in the woman who’d shunned her for the past several days. So she motioned to the cello she still held.

  At the sight of it, Mrs. Morse nearly fainted with relief. She put her face in her hands and sobbed for a moment, then clutched Nicole’s arm and pulled her into the room.

  As soon as Nicole stepped across the threshold, Mrs. Morse calmed. She put her hand on her chest, took several deep breaths, then gave Nicole a weak smile. The woman ushered Nicole to a chair and puttered around the kitchenette, producing cups of herbal tea, one of which Nicole accepted gratefully.

  The old lady sat in her chair, near where her cello and bow had been laid carelessly, her tea held tightly—forgotten—in her hand.

  Neither said anything for a moment. Nicole sipped from her cup, half expecting Mrs. Morse to ask her to leave at any minute. The woman didn’t. She sat with her body facing away from the window, but her left ear turned toward it.

  Every now and then, the woman tensed, every visible muscle straining, her face white. Then she’d relax. This repeated over and over again.

  After a while, Nicole couldn’t stand it anymore. Someone had to do something about the situation. “Do you want me to see if the window is shut?”

  An expression of horror crossed the elderly woman’s face. “Oh, no, no, no.” She babbled for several moments, using her hands to express herself, nearly spilling her tea. But when it was apparent that Nicole couldn’t understand anything she said, she motioned for Nicole to wait. With some effort, Mrs. Morse lifted her frail body from the chair and crossed to the table where her pen and paper sat, along with several lit candles, adding their light to the hanging bulb above.

  She wrote something brief and handed over the note.

  Nicole squinted, trying to make out what was written. Again, it was an unfamiliar form of English, and it took several repeat reads to guess what the woman was trying to say. Mrs. Morse wanted Nicole to wait for a moment while she wrote a full account of what had been happening—why she played the cello at night and wouldn’t let anyone listen.

  Nicole looked up and nodded. “Yes. Please, go ahead. I’ll stay as long as necessary.”

  Mrs. Morse grabbed a stack of paper and a pen, and started writing furiously. Nicole frowned. Would she even be able to read it?

  Page after page fell to the side as Mrs. Morse continued her narrative. Nicole watched the expressions and emotions fly across the elderly woman’s face as she experienced again what she wrote.

  The papers piled higher, and Nicole started to wonder if there ever would be an end to the story. The only sound in the room was the scratching of the pen.

  An hour later at least, Mrs. Morse stopped, frozen, eyes staring unseeingly, pen above the page. Her lips parted and an exclamation escaped. Dread crossed her face. She turned and looked at the curtained window behind her. Her hands trembled, and a massive shudder crossed her shoulders.

  Nicole frowned, cocking her head, trying to figure out what Mrs. Morse had heard.

  And then she thought she also heard it. Was it her imagination? A sound she’d never encountered before. Nothing terrifying about it—not horrible, just different. Low and musical. Did it come from a neighboring apartment building? It had to—it sounded distant.

  Nicole shrugged it off, but the sound increased.

  Mrs. Morse completely freaked out.

  She dropped the pen. It fell to the wooden floor with a clatter and she sprang from her chair. She grabbed her cello and bow, barely sitting straight enough to hold them correctly, and started to play.

  The music wasn’t anything like what Nicole had been listening to, and Mrs. Morse played more feverishly than Nicole thought possible.

  Bow hairs started shredding. Mrs. Morse continued, staring at the window. Several moments later, a string broke. The woman didn’t even pause, she simply adjusted her fingering to make up for the loss.

  Nicole had been so intent on Mrs. Morse’s playing that she hadn’t looked at the woman’s face yet. She did so then and gasped, a hand fluttering to her mouth. The sight was enough to make her wish she hadn’t come.

  The woman’s eyes were so wide, they almost popped from their sockets. Her usual pale face was blue from lack of blood. Her neck was so tense, the veins and muscle fibers beneath the taut skin were noticeable.

  Mrs. Morse was absolutely and completely terrified.

  Nicole jumped to her feet, wanting to run away, but unable to leave the woman like that. “What’s going on?”

  Mrs. Morse didn’t respond.

  “Please, tell me! Please tell me so I know how to help!”

  Again, no response.

  Nicole whirled, remembering she’d brought her cello. She pulled it up, rushing to tighten the bow, and quickly as she could, matched the tune Mrs. Morse was playing. Gratitude for the many teachers who’d taught her to play by ear flitted through her brain until she became encompassed by the music.

  Louder and louder they played, even more wild than Nicole imagined. Mrs. Morse focused on the window. Perspiration dripped from her nose.

  The window rattled, startling Nico
le. The glass banged hard against the frame. Something was out there—something that desperately wanted to enter the room. And then Nicole thought she understood—Mrs. Morse played to keep that thing from entering. Or she played to appease it, or to make it stronger. Nicole didn’t know which was the case, but Mrs. Morse needed help.

  Nicole focused all her energy on following the woman’s example. She played, matching the harmonies and melodies. All her training and expertise came together as her fingers and bow flew across the strings. She concentrated on her breath as it rushed in and out of her lungs, trying to harness her powers. “Come on, come on!” But nothing happened.

  Was the playing making the thing outside the window get stronger? Nicole pushed that thought aside—her gut told her whatever was there would gain strength regardless. Howling wind outside picked up and shrieked at the pane. The glass shuddered and the curtains billowed away as a slight breeze forced its way into the room through the cracks around the edges.

  Then the glass burst and the curtains flew away, revealing a black, gaping hole. Nicole screamed. She looked to Mrs. Morse for help, but the elderly woman showed no sign of recognition that anything happened.

  A fierce gale tore into the room and the sheets of paper from the desk flew through the air, scattering across the floor. The candles went out, and the light hanging from the ceiling started swaying. “Please, please don’t break,” Nicole said to the light bulb, not pausing.

  The music coming from Anna Morse’s cello picked up speed, if at all possible, and was more frenzied than ever before. Nicole slowed, panting. She couldn’t keep up—she could no longer replicate the sounds on her own cello. Strong disappointment hit her in the chest. She hadn’t summoned magic. Nothing had come to her—she hadn’t been helping Mrs. Morse. Did she make things worse?

  An even stronger gust of wind ripped into the room, forming a vortex that swirled around and around. The papers containing Mrs. Morse’s precious account were lifted. They rushed faster and faster, joining the whirlpool of wind.