Strange Sweet Song

by Rule, Adi

  Ryan frowns. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I—I just didn’t … It’s my favorite opera.”

  “Lucky you!” he says. “Maybe you’ll get a big part!”

  An image Sing has tried so long to repress surfaces again—herself, imagined in the title role. Angelique. The role she has wanted to sing since she was five.

  “I’d want to be Prince Elbert.” Ryan hums a bit of a melody.

  Sing’s chest tightens. Prince Elbert, the one who marries Angelique at the end of Act III? The one with whom Angelique sings a passionate love duet?

  Ryan strikes a princely pose and begins to sing. “Tout ce que je vois, tout ce que je veux…”

  “Sure.” Sing relaxes. She doesn’t know which is more awful—his singing or his French. There is no way he will be cast as Prince Elbert.

  But he continues. “Tout est à moi sauf vous!” Sour, silent faces look at him from all along the resonant corridor. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, and pompously puffs out his chest, singing even more loudly. “Sauf vous! Sauf voooooous!”

  Sing laughs. She can’t help it. Everything is so serious here; music is serious. If the conservatory had a motto, that would be it: Be serious. But Ryan doesn’t seem to care. He has risen now and is humming the horn part as he marches in place. The scowls along the corridor turn to rodentlike looks of apprehension.

  Sing watches Ryan as he sits again, stretching out his legs and putting his arms behind his head. He smells very faintly of cologne. Well, he is definitely different. Her pink starts to return. He catches her looking at him and smiles slyly, as though they have been playing a game and he has won.

  And maybe he has.

  “Well, maybe I’m not cut out for operatic leads,” he says. “Don’t worry, Sing Twelve-Tone Angelique. I’m sure there are plenty of handsome young men around here who will fight for the honor of singing opposite you. I’ll have to stick to being an ass.”

  Sing laughs again. “I’m sure you have some other talents.”

  “Well,” he says, leaning in so that his cologne drifts over her, “I could stand vigilant at your door and protect you from ghosts.”

  “Are there ghosts at DC?”

  Ryan’s eyes widen. “Every respectable campus has ghosts. We’ve got Apprentice Daysmoor, for one. I mean, he’s technically still alive, but no one can haunt like that guy.”

  Sing doesn’t want Ryan to move away. “What’s he like?”

  Ryan lowers his voice. “He’s this creepy apprentice who lives in the old tower that sticks out of Archer.”

  Sing scrunches her eyebrows, intrigued. “Creepy? How? Underground lair? Secret musical genius? Seducer of maidens?”

  “Wow, that’s where you go first off? Really?” Ryan grins. “That’s kind of awesome, actually.”

  “Thanks,” Sing says. “So what’s Daysmoor’s instrument, then?”

  Ryan shrugs. “Piano, I guess, but he’s terrible. You know what people call him? ‘Plays-poor.’ Yeah, it’s not great, but it kind of works.”

  “He’s terrible? Really?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Ryan raises his eyebrows. “Only ever gave one performance and was booed off the stage. Everybody knows that. But the creepiest part … well, you know what they say?”

  Sing shakes her head. She feels the chill of the high stone hallway.

  Ryan whispers, “They say he’s a vampire who was living here when they converted the old church, and he’s never left.”

  They look at each other for a long moment before they both laugh at the absurdity of it.

  A jowly apprentice sticks his head out from behind the president’s heavy door. “Anita?”

  A frizzy-haired girl shuffles over with her nose down, clutching her pristine flute case and portfolio to her chest. Her shiny shoes click and echo in the massive stone hall.

  Ryan stands up. “Do they need me yet?”

  “No.” The apprentice frowns and narrows his small eyes. “Wait your turn.”

  “I’m Ryan Larkin.” Ryan points to his name tag again. Sing thinks he must be very proud of it. But she can’t help watching in confusion as the apprentice’s expression changes from one of annoyance to one of friendly understanding.

  Friendly understanding? An apprentice?

  “Oh. Right,” the apprentice says. “Sorry, man. In there.”

  Ryan shoots Sing a last smug grin and follows the flute girl into the president’s office.

  Sorry, man? Sing frowns. Even though she has been on campus only one day, she has become used to being scowled at by apprentices. She definitely hasn’t seen one being pleasant to somebody.

  Who is Ryan?

  Five

  GEORGE WAS NOT A SUPERSTITIOUS young man, but something about the quad late at night gave him the willies. The lanterns along the road had been snuffed out, and the moon silhouetted the untidy forest behind St. Augustine’s. Strange that only an hour before, the concert hall had been stuffed to the gills with musicians and audience members, all there to hear the famous Gloria Stewart.

  Now they were gone, the hall quiet and dark. Not that he was afraid, he told himself, clutching his notebook to his chest. Back at the Daysmoor School for Boys, he had frequently accompanied his friends on their late-night mischief. And even as a student here at the conservatory, he had always been up for a midnight run to Dunhammond to see what the local boys were up to.

  Maybe this strange feeling was the shiny new sense of responsibility that accompanied his shiny new title: Assistant Professor. He no longer felt a watchful presence looming over him; that was now his role. Protector, leader, guide.

  St. Augustine’s heavy door had a habit of sticking, as if it were still a massive living tree outgrowing its stone doorjambs. In the dim light, George heaved it closed. But above the familiar scrape-groan, he thought he heard another type of groan—a human one.

  Ears warming even in the chilly air, he froze, his hand still on the black iron ring. Silence.

  He told himself to call out, Hello? To perform his duty as steward of this venerable school and its people. After all, it could have been the voice of an elderly concertgoer who had stumbled into a ditch. Or a drunken student who had fallen into the bushes. Or … or … or some other normal thing.

  But he did not call out. He listened.

  The rustling of trees, the odd snap or scrape from the forest.

  The moon illuminated the walkway that ran the length of the building and ended abruptly at the grassy quadrangle, though George knew it in darkness just as well.

  Must have been just another creak from the old door.

  He moved along the path, trying to focus on the notes he had taken that evening. The Maestro’s four-four pattern had seemed to place the downbeat high in the arc—perhaps it allowed for greater intricacy of—

  There it was again.

  A low, rasping groan coming from the roof. Perhaps not human after all. George stopped and peered up at the imposing old hall, something he normally avoided doing when he was alone at night because of all the gargoyles looking back at him.

  Had it been one of them?

  It had certainly sounded like a stone throat, harsh and deep and grating. But the gargoyles were still, protecting the hall as they had always done.

  As he should be doing.

  George swallowed and called out, “Hello?” His voice was absorbed by the wall and the grass.

  He took a step back to better examine the roof. Something white gleamed at the apex at the far end.

  What was it?

  He squinted hard, then recoiled.

  It was a human arm.

  It was possibly just thrust over the pitch of the roof, still attached to a person on the other side. Or possibly not.

  George knew the conservatory was haunted by both ghosts and stories. The sight of the arm brought some of the grislier rumors to the surface of his consciousness. No one had been killed in the forest for a long time, but legends take longer to die than people. It was said Durand h
imself had seen the Cat. And a cat—well, George didn’t know about mythology or anything like that, but even a regular cat as big as this one supposedly had been would have no trouble helping itself to whatever bits of people it happened to find appetizing.

  As he moved closer, long, slender fingers came into focus, and something else—the arm was entwined with what looked like black ivy. It started at the wrist and curled around nearly all the way up to the shoulder. When George reached the end of the building and could see clearly, he realized it wasn’t real ivy at all, but a tattoo.

  George peered up at the arm. There was something wrong about it. It didn’t look strange, exactly, except for the tattoo. In fact, it was quite beautiful, as far as arms went, especially the graceful fingers—fingers any pianist would have killed for. But he couldn’t quite make himself head back into the hall and climb the rickety stairs to the trapdoor to investigate further; neither could he break away from the vision of it to go alert the president or the police.

  So, for a time, George just stared at the arm.

  Then one of the pale fingers began to move.

  Six

  THE AUDITION IS FORMAL. Sing walks slowly to the center of the president’s office and stands, shoulders back and feet apart, on a red section of the faded, multicolored carpet. The jowly apprentice who showed her in shuts the door behind him as he leaves.

  The president, a tall black man whose neat hair is streaked with gray, is at his desk writing something. Next to him sits the head of the Voice Department, Professor Needleman, a fleshy woman with ruddy cheeks and light hair pulled into a severe bun. Sing hasn’t seen them since she auditioned for the conservatory last spring. They were skeptical then—she could see it in their faces even though they tried to hide it. But her father knew she was ready, in a way she hadn’t been the year before, and she had proven herself. Now I just need to do it again, she thinks.

  Maestro Keppler sits next to Professor Needleman, his long hair disgustingly oiled, his bushy gray eyebrows drawn together. He appears unfriendly, or possibly in some kind of gastrointestinal distress, and the lines on his face are so deep and set, Sing wonders if he is even capable of any other expression. This is the man who taught her father conducting during his time at DC? Sing tries to do some quick math in her head—her father is sixty-six, isn’t he? How old must the Maestro be, then? Looking at him, she would swear he is the younger man.

  A few other faculty members dot the spacious room, each with a clipboard. All eyes are on Sing. All eyes, she notices, except for two—those belonging to an apprentice seated, or rather sprawled, next to the Maestro.

  His head lolls to one side, his eyes are closed, and his jaw hangs limply off his face as though it hasn’t been attached correctly. His coal-black hair looks like it hasn’t been combed, cut, or washed in some time. Sing wonders briefly if he is dead.

  “Miss da Navelli, it’s delightful to see you again,” the president says. As Sing was expecting, many of the gazes on her suddenly sharpen at the mention of her last name. Even the dead apprentice comes around and peers at her with dull eyes as black as his hair. There is an ugliness about him—not in his features, but in his lackluster gaze. She feels his eyes on her too strongly and wishes he would close them again.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, President Martin,” she says, straightening her spine into an almost military position and raising her chin.

  The president goes on, “Did you enjoy your summer? Your father tells me you had quite an education.”

  Sure, Sing thinks. Each week a different city and a different opera, with him pointing out everything the sopranos were doing better than me.

  But she says, “Yes, sir. Kapteina’s Butterfly was particularly inspiring, even though she told us she was recovering from a cold.” She can hear her mother’s voice: Never miss an opportunity to name-drop—tactfully, of course, and without effort. It can’t hurt for President Martin to have the impression she is on speaking terms with Ingrid Kapteina, even if it’s really her father who knows the famous singer.

  “Wonderful. Yes, I heard it was excellent. Now, what are you going to sing for us?”

  She can tell he is trying to be friendly, but it is always the same with her principals and conductors and teachers. They know her father is in the background.

  “Um, a vocalise—Number Seventeen by Janice Bailey.” She opens her portfolio.

  “‘Um, a vocalise’?” It is the Maestro who speaks now, and his voice is harsh. He twines his fingers together stiffly. “Are you aware that the placement auditions are held so that we can place you in appropriate groups and roles?”

  “Yes, Maestro.” Sing feels her face reddening. Is she in trouble?

  “And that this is our only chance to consider you for the opera?”

  “Yes, Maestro.”

  The Maestro sighs. “May I ask, then, why you have selected ‘um, a vocalise’? Did it occur to you that we might prefer something with words? Perhaps French words, as we’re doing Angelique?”

  Sing’s hands start to shake. She doesn’t say, I can’t sing Angelique for real. Not yet. Admitting that would be sure to squash any chance she has of getting the lead. No, she has to stick with what is safe, for now, and worry about the role of her dreams when she has secured it. There’s no need for anyone here to know her secret—that despite her blood and her training, there is still something … wrong … with her voice.

  Instead, she summons her courage and says, “I’ve studied French at home, sir, and German, and I’m fluent in Italian.”

  “I can read your form, thank you,” the Maestro says.

  President Martin smiles. “I’m sure her French is excellent.”

  The Maestro raises his voice just a little and looks at the president. “You know, my mother was a nurse. Would you come to me if you broke your arm? I mean, what are we trying to do here? I’m sorry the public misses Barbara da Navelli, but it’s not our job to bring her back!”

  The words take Sing by surprise, and she is silent. Professor Needleman looks uncomfortable. Some of the faculty fidget or clear their throats, glad to be outside the Maestro’s notice. Only President Martin shoots Sing a reassuring glance, a little smirk that says, Oh, well. He will insist on being that way, won’t he?

  No one says, That’s her mother you’re talking about. No one says that.

  She unintentionally looks again to the black-haired apprentice, whose hard face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on hers in a dark, burning gaze. For the briefest moment, she is frozen. But then he closes his eyes again, graciously severing the connection.

  “Never mind, George, never mind,” the president says, patting the desk. “We didn’t set any requirements. Goodness, we only officially named the opera this morning; we can’t expect all the voice kids to have French arias. She can sing whatever she wants.”

  “Yes, of course she can, can’t she?” The Maestro crosses his arms. “Well, go ahead.”

  Sing inhales deeply, blinking back the hotness that is beginning behind her eyes, and turns to hand her music to the accompanist. But she stops when she sees a smiling face looking up at her from behind the president’s mahogany baby grand piano.

  “Don’t sweat it,” whispers Ryan, taking the music. Sing is too surprised to do anything but give him the nod to begin.

  Two measures of four, then one of three … She breathes in through her nose and feels her ribs expand, though they are still tight. She wants to roll her shoulders and loosen them but can’t seem to find the muscles that are supposed to do it. Do not fear them! They are lucky to hear you sing! her father says in her head. They will soon be lining the streets to hear you sing!

  The first note is flat, but she corrects. She has chosen Ah, but regrets it now—Oo would have been better. Maybe she will change vowels after the first few phrases. Breathe. She shouldn’t have had to breathe there. Get a bigger breath next time.

  The black-haired apprentice watches her through slitted eyes. She doesn’t know why,
but she feels him judging her. Was that pointed inhalation a comment on her last high F, not spinning as smoothly as it should?

  She forces herself to look away. What does she care what an apprentice thinks, anyway?

  Most of the faculty look as if they’ve seen too many auditions today. The president appears to be doing paperwork, and the Maestro is frowning, eyes boring into her. Professor Needleman wears an artificial smile, but at least she’s trying.

  Smile. Sing has forgotten to smile. Will it look strange if she starts now, halfway through? She does anyway, and her sound brightens. Angelique would have a bright, cheerful sound. She must show them she can do it. Here’s the money note, as her father likes to say. She sucks in a big breath and dives into the phrase; the note is good—very good—but she has wasted too much air on the rising melody and the climax is rushed because she’s not sure she can make it through. Then she backs off, worried that if she pushes too hard, the sound will become wobbly or, worse, break altogether. She can’t move her jaw. She tries to decrescendo on the last note, but the bottom just drops out and she’s left with a weak little whine.

  It’s an audition, so there is no applause, just silence as the professors make some notes. Sing doesn’t look back at Ryan. The president raises his eyes briefly and says, “Thank you,” in a final sort of way.

  Sing leaves. She doesn’t notice the apprentice, eyes fully open, frowning slightly.

  Seven

  THE FELIX WAS BORN A BALL of light, a soft, twittering, warm thing who saw her own joy reflected in the eyes of her mother. They tumbled and skidded about the sky, and for the briefest of times, all was perfect.

  She wasn’t to know that her happiness set the universe listing, and something had to be done to put it right again.

  So came her brother, mangy and slick, with a film of blood over his eyes. Lashing and snapping, he ripped his way into the universe, took his first fortifying gasp, and set upon their mother like a demon.

  The Felix, older and stronger, lashed back as her mother’s eyes grew dull and empty. The cubs fought and tore and leapt, their cries audible even at the bottom of the oceans.