by Rule, Adi
Nathan closed the door. “Well? Aren’t you going to change?”
George shook his head. The rain was falling heavily now, pattering at the window like a muted snare drum.
“Are you all right?” Nathan crossed the room and sat lightly on the settee, opposite the venerable maestro. “George, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” George’s voice was harsh. “You would embarrass me?”
Nathan’s mouth opened slightly. “Never! What did I do?”
George ran a finger along the back of the settee. “Entertainment? Did you give M. Maneval the impression you would play for him?”
Nathan lowered his gaze. “I … thought tonight we could celebrate.”
Now George’s voice softened. “I understand, my friend. But you know you aren’t ready. You can’t play for someone as refined as M. Maneval—the managing director of one of the most influential symphonies in the world—before you’re ready! Especially when he is considering me.”
“I thought I was ready,” Nathan said. “I feel ready.”
George forced a sad smile. The plan that had been forming in his mind ever since they landed in France was finally solidifying. Of course, it would involve abandoning Paris—abandoning everywhere. But he saw no alternative. “My dear boy, if you think you’re ready, why not start with a competition? Why force yourself and your talents on two of the best ears on the planet?”
Nathan nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself.… This is such an exciting city.”
“Here,” George said. “They are having a new competition in New York in just a few months. Named after the great Gloria Stewart, whose playing you admire so much. Why not compete? Then, if you are successful, it would be acceptable to start performing for larger and more sophisticated audiences.”
I’ll miss Paris, George thought. It was clear that, were he to meet Henri Maneval and a few choice orchestra members for drinks, his position would be assured. But at what cost? How could he keep Nathan hidden here?
Safe, he meant. Safe, not hidden.
“You always know what to do, George,” Nathan said, leaning back against green velvet. “Thank you.”
The conservatory really was the best place for them.
“I wish you’d cut your hair,” George said, winding a black lock around his forefinger.
Nathan smiled. “No, you don’t.”
Then he rose to hang his wet trench coat on the rack by the door.
Twenty-two
SING WALKS INTO REHEARSAL exactly on time, hair brushed and shiny, white shirt ironed, sweater vest and skirt de-linted, kneesocks pulled all the way up to her knees. St. Augustine’s concert hall smells like varnish and cool stone.
A few students flip through their new Angelique scores. Sing carries an older edition, with FIRE LAKE OPERA stamped on the cover and “Ernesto da Navelli” written in the upper right-hand corner of the first page. Her father has never conducted Angelique, and never will, but the music is covered with faded pencil markings—he has thought about how he would do it.
The soft, echoey thud of the door announces the Maestro.
The Maestro isn’t particularly tall. His nose isn’t particularly hooked, though it is a little big for his face. He doesn’t stride into the room or march up the aisle with sweeping gestures. He simply is not there, and then he is, and then everything becomes more nervous, as though even the masonry itself is worried it’s out of tune.
Sing’s mouth is dry. She nibbles the edges of her tongue to get her saliva glands working.
“Welcome to Opera Workshop.” The Maestro places his score onto a music stand, clink. “Our first production, for the Autumn Festival, will be Durand’s Angelique, which, of course, was written here at the conservatory. I am also pleased to announce”—he couldn’t look less pleased—“that this year, thanks to our new theater, the festival will also be hosting the Gloria Stewart International Piano Competition for the first time since its inception in 1967.”
The assembly murmurs excitedly at the news. Sing, not being a pianist, hadn’t given the prestigious competition a thought since she arrived. But her father is to be one of the judges—and she realizes with a sickening feeling that this means he will definitely be here for the performance of Angelique. No chance of his schedule interfering or of his being fooled should she “accidentally” tell him the wrong dates.
“Maestro,” a scratchy voice says. Apprentice Daysmoor sits behind Ryan at the piano—the page-turner position—looking bored and slightly menacing, though at least he is managing to appear awake. “I’m curious—where did the conservatory ever find the money for such a beautiful, spacious new theater? To whom do we owe this enormous debt of gratitude?”
He looks at Sing. Her body jolts.
The Maestro, mercifully, responds with, “A generous benefactor.”
What was that? What is Daysmoor’s problem? She shoots him a look, but he has crossed his arms and closed his eyes.
The Maestro frowns. “I don’t have to remind you that rehearsals, whether with myself or Mr. Bernard, are mandatory. Principals, your coach is Apprentice Daysmoor. Please bother him, rather than me, with your questions and concerns.”
Sing makes a mental note not to have any questions or concerns.
“We will begin with act three, since everyone is in it,” the Maestro says, flipping open his score. “Principals to the stage.”
As she makes her way to the raised platform at the end of the room, Sing sees Hayley’s face in the chorus. Great. One more person who’d love to see her fail. Maybe it would be better if Lori Pinkerton arrived right now.
She finds a seat next to a boy with a thick neck.
“Are you Angelique?” he asks.
“Yes. Well, no. I’m the understudy.”
“Oh!” His face brightens. “I’m Prince Elbert.” Now he has the audacity to blush a little. Sing smiles without her eyes.
“Top of page 213,” the Maestro says, and Sing realizes her score has different page numbers from everyone else’s. She looks over at Prince Elbert’s, but Ryan has already started playing, and she recognizes the introduction to the second recitative, which means she has to start singing right—
“Stop.” The Maestro—everyone—is looking at her. She is still finding the page … there. Maybe he won’t say anything else.
He does. “Miss da Navelli, are you ready to begin?”
“Yes, Maestro.” Miss da Navelli. There they are again, those wondering stares. Almost everyone in the hall wears one now. Her face is hot with embarrassment, but she pushes her shoulders back and glares. Once again the Maestro cues Ryan, who looks over at her and winks.
Winks.
What is that? Is he making fun of her? Telling her not to worry? Flirting?
Could he be flirting?
She stares at him, but his focus is now on the music, which she should be paying attention to. Prince Elbert looks pinkly at her and she doesn’t mean to look pinkly back at him, but she does, and then they have to sing about falling in love with each other.
She manages to croak her way through the little recit, and then the duet begins. Prince Elbert’s part is first. His voice is rich and strong, yet another reminder she’s no longer a big fish in a small pond. He sounds like the tenors at Stone Hill, a little pressed but confident, not like the cocky, straining, Music Club boys at her old school.
No one else seems that interested in the polished sound coming out of this dumpy-looking prince. They follow along in their music or sip from their water bottles. Even Ryan is intent on his score, his body rocking back and forth as he plays.
Her turn. Her voice echoes in the grand hall, and it takes her a few beats to find some good harmonics. She focuses on breathing, but the harder she tries, the tighter her chest feels. Some of the words escape her, and twice she comes in early. At least when Prince Elbert comes back in, she can blend with him.
The duet ends. Rehearsal goes on. The Maestro’s attention stay
s focused on the score and whoever is singing it. Sing sits back and looks at the ceiling, wishing she were nestled safely among the chorus members clustered in the house.
What is happening to her? She knows her voice inside and out. She knows resonance. She knows air.
Why can’t she do it?
Halfway through the men’s chorus, the big doors open and Lori Pinkerton strides in, a brown leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
Sing knows it is Lori Pinkerton, because she is everything Sing imagined her to be. Her long blond hair sways as she walks, her graceful neck holds her porcelain face high, and her pink-glossed lips curve downward in a disapproving pout. Her uniform must be the same as everyone else’s, yet it clings and flows in all the right places, making men in the chorus turn slowly to follow her progress up the aisle.
Well, at least it’s over now.
Lori sits on the other side of the stage, back straight and ankles crossed, as Monsieur Boncoeur, a middle-aged man brought in for the role, sings his recitative.
Sing watches Ryan’s eyes stray in Lori’s direction while he plays. They were at FLAP together. Who knows what happened there, on the shores of beautiful Fire Lake? Sing pictures the still waters touching the perennially ice-sheathed mountains to the east, the red glow of sunset causing both to gleam like flames. She has seen the fire of Fire Lake many times, but always alone, as her father conducted or her mother sang. Did Lori and Ryan watch the blaze together?
It would take something phenomenal to pry Sing’s jealous gaze from Ryan’s face, but something phenomenal happens.
Marta begins to sing.
Everyone in the hall turns to her, Ryan and Lori included. Her sound is sweet and resonant, and she sings with such honesty and joy that the hairs on the backs of Sing’s arms stand up. Marta closes her eyes as she navigates the acrobatic lines. Sing watches her jaw, spine, fingers, all moving fluidly with the notes. She’ll have to work on her French, though. With decent French, she would be amazing.
Sing blinks. Am I feeling a desire to see a fellow soprano—a rival—succeed?
I’ve only been away from my father for two days.
A distinct type of silence follows Marta’s aria. There would never be anything as vulgar as applause at a rehearsal, but from time to time, a special silence comes from everyone thinking the same thing: That was great. Sing catches Marta’s eye and smiles, and Marta grins back, silver unicorn pendant glinting.
The Maestro cues Ryan to begin Angelique’s most famous aria, “Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre,” and Lori stands. Sing prepares for the worst.
It is worse than she fears.
It’s actually really good.
Lori fixes a tiger’s gaze on the high windows at the other end of the hall; she looks as though she is shooting lasers from her eyes. Her glossy lips protrude in exaggerated vowel shapes, and her white teeth gleam. The sound is loud and fat and confident, though not as pleasant as Marta’s. Lori doesn’t look at her score. She gestures and moves as Angelique would, hair shining, shoulders back.
Prince Elbert can barely contain himself.
* * *
Afterward, the Maestro calls Sing over. She’s not sure how he does this. He doesn’t say anything or gesture, but she knows she is being summoned. She hopes Ryan will linger, but he is already heading for the door, talking to Lori.
No, her only potential ally is Apprentice Daysmoor, standing crookedly behind the Maestro with a look of complete indifference. So much for that.
The Maestro clicks his tongue. “Miss da Navelli”—there’s her name again—“I hope you will pay closer attention at future rehearsals. You are not in the chorus anymore. Set an example.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“And you need to get in the gym. You heard how polished Lori sounded today—she was at FLAP over break, doing work. You sound as though you didn’t croak out a note all summer.”
“Yes, Maestro.” He knows I was at Stone Hill. He knows I’ve been working hard.
“Your first rehearsal with Apprentice Daysmoor is tomorrow. Please take advantage of his guidance.”
Sing notices the apprentice’s dull eyes on her face now, arrogance radiating from him like chill off a cadaver. His guidance? She glares back; she will never take advantage of his guidance. “I’ll be fine, sir,” she says, and, searching for strength, finds the memory of Ryan winking at her. “With the rehearsal pianist.”
Is it her imagination, or has Daysmoor’s expression changed from indifference to disgust? She inhales broadly.
The Maestro lowers his voice. “I will be frank with you. I didn’t choose this opera. It is famous, beloved, and inextricably tied to this school, and the administration would have no other piece open our new theater. But Angelique is a difficult and inappropriate role for someone your age. Considering how badly you butchered your audition, I should have cast you as the mute. But the plain fact is we need an understudy, and you were the only decent soprano available.”
Decent. Well, that was nearly positive.
It doesn’t last, however. The Maestro says, “If it were up to me, Lori Pinkerton wouldn’t even have an understudy.”
“Yes, sir.” Sing’s face is red again as the Maestro stalks away.
Apprentice Daysmoor starts to follow, but she calls out, “Hey!”
The apprentice turns, raising his eyebrows.
She is still stinging from the Maestro’s words but can’t put her frustration where it belongs. “I don’t appreciate being stared at. Just so you know.”
He stares a moment longer. Then he leans in. His voice is low and ravaged, almost a whisper. “Well, just so you know, my name is not ‘Hey.’ It’s Apprentice Daysmoor, to you. And just so you know, coaching Opera Workshop is not number one on my list of things I like to do. In fact, it’s not on there at all. And I like it even less when I have to put up with stuck-up little divas.”
Fighting tears for the second time in a week, Sing says, “Well, if nobody wants me here, why did he cast me?” She didn’t mean to sound so young and pounds her fist against her leg.
A flicker of something approaching emotion crosses Daysmoor’s face. After a long moment, he says in a softer voice, “Because someone he respects assured him you could do it. Someone … must have seen something he didn’t.”
He looks at her, frowning, for a second more before the harsh call of “Daysmoor!” echoes across the room. The apprentice turns, obediently following the Maestro through the double doors.
As Sing’s anger dissipates, she stares at the shiny floor. Who could have convinced the Maestro she is worth something?
Is she worth something?
When she looks up, Ryan is standing there. “I thought you might need to get that coffee,” he says, catching her with his sparkling, steady gaze. “Want to walk down to the village?”
“Really?” she says. Stupid thing to say. But he smiles at her anyway, just at her. Warm shivers course outward from her diaphragm; she doesn’t dare move in case she falls over.
Ryan laughs. “Come on. Aaron and Lori are waiting.”
Now Sing freezes for a different reason. Ryan has gestured to the big doors, where a skinny, swarthy boy stands with Lori Pinkerton. Are Aaron and Lori together? It doesn’t seem that way; he isn’t trying to disguise his adoration, and she isn’t trying to hide her disdain. In fact, it seems like the more Lori pulls away, the more sappy Aaron’s eyes get. So are Lori and Ryan together? Or are they all friends? And where does Sing fit in?
Ryan pulls her focus back by taking her hand, which she is certain is disgusting and sweaty. “Hey, take it easy. You look like you’re afraid or something.”
She tries to smile, but it probably looks weird and uncomfortable. “No! No, not at all. Coffee sounds great.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He is still holding her hand. Is that presumptuous or exciting? Her fluttering lungs tell her it’s exciting. She pictures the trip down the mountain to Dunhammond, dusky and q
uiet, the pine forest becoming leafy below the conservatory, the gravel way enfolded by foliage until it reaches the village. Tonight, the road will be warm, hidden, and lit by a thousand stars.
Ryan squeezes her hand. “Let’s go.”
She smiles. Who cares if Lori Pinkerton is there? Ryan isn’t holding Lori Pinkerton’s hand right now. Ryan isn’t putting his arm around—
Putting his arm around!
—Lori Pinkerton right now. Wait until Jenny and Marta—
She stops. Carrie Stewart’s party!
A cursory scan of the hall tells her Marta is gone. They are probably both in their room already, waiting for her. Brushing their hair. Excited.
Ryan sighs and turns to her. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry—I can’t get coffee now. I’m sorry. I forgot. I have to go to Carrie Stewart’s party.” Her shoulders slump.
“Yeah, we’re going, too. Later. It’s fine.”
“No,” she says, “I’ve got friends waiting for me. I—I’m sorry.”
He looks at her, eyebrows drawn slightly. Does he think she’s lying?
“Oh,” he says. “Well, whatever. Have fun.” Then he smiles that easy smile, shrugs, and walks away.
Sing knows what that means. It means there are plenty of girls who are available for coffee. She sees many pairs of mascaraed eyes discreetly following Ryan as he crosses the hall.
Lori puts her arm through his as they leave.
Twenty-three
FOR CREATURES SO NATURALLY FEARFUL, humans had a knack for wandering into danger. This occurred to the Felix one evening when the aurora borealis was so bright that her mind became clear again. By the next day, her thoughts had become simpler, but she still observed the humans and their horses and stones and noise from her perch overlooking the abandoned church.
She rarely came to this place. It was too low and exposed. Being chained to the earth was like drowning, but coming down off the mountain was like being buried alive. The last time she ventured down, she was called by the scent of humans. They had built the church and the tower. She ripped their lungs out.
