by Rule, Adi
“Like Daysmoor,” Sing says, tingling from the gossip.
Ryan’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, I bet he’s got a real good story. You’re friends with that Trumpeter girl, right? You guys should do some digging on Apprentice Plays-poor!”
Sing tries to swallow the jealousy that crept up her throat when Ryan mentioned Jenny, whose name he didn’t even know. On cue, the door opens and Daysmoor slouches in. Did he hear their conversation? If so, he makes no indication of it; he just drips into a chair and says, “That doesn’t sound like Angelique.”
Ryan finishes with a flourish. “Liszt,” he says. “The handsomest composer who ever lived.” He winks at Sing, whose heart jumps. “It’s my piece for Gloria Stewart International.”
Daysmoor stretches his legs out onto another chair. “I’m sure the judges will be very impressed with all your fast little notes.”
“I’m sure they will be.” Ryan smirks. “I suppose you’re playing something terribly serious and meaningful and tortured.”
“I’m not playing anything,” Daysmoor says flatly. “You don’t need to worry. Competitions aren’t my thing.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows and glances furtively at Sing. “Do tell.”
But Daysmoor simply looks at his watch and says, “Why haven’t you started rehearsal?”
“We were waiting for your blessing, sir,” Ryan says, and Sing nearly laughs.
The apprentice betrays no emotion. “What is it to me? I’m not going to be out on that stage underrehearsed.”
Now Sing doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. I’m not going to be out on that stage, either.
“Oh, by the way…” Daysmoor reaches into a pocket, finds a blue piece of paper, and holds it out in Sing’s direction. She hesitates. “It won’t bite,” he says. “That much.”
Ryan clucks. “Uh-oh, what did you do?” His tone is somber, but Sing notices a sly smile.
“What do you mean?” she asks, suddenly shaky. What is that blue paper? Is she in trouble?
Daysmoor shakes the paper. “I suggest we start this rehearsal. Please take your censure and we can get on with it.”
“Censure?” A dull horror creeps up from Sing’s stomach into her chest. She gingerly takes the blue paper from Daysmoor’s outstretched hand. “What—” She unfolds the paper and stares down at it. Below the embossed letterhead, her name, and the date is the word INFRACTION, followed by the words Trespassing, reckless endangerment and three check boxes. The two boxes by NOTIFICATION and WARNING are unchecked, but the one next to CENSURE has a thick black mark in it, presumably made with the same pen used for the elegant signature at the bottom—President Martin.
Daysmoor lets out a frustrated sigh. “Someone shouldn’t have taken a little field trip into the woods last night. The president frowns on that sort of thing. Three of these and the trustees are notified. Meaning you’re expelled. Okay? Now can we start?”
Sing gapes at him.
Ryan whistles. “Running around in the woods, huh?”
“Mr. Larkin,” Daysmoor says, a little less evenly than usual, “if you would be so kind as to open your score and focus on music instead of gossip.” Ryan obediently takes his score but wags an admonishing finger at Sing.
The lightness with which Ryan seems to be treating the situation makes her feel a little better. Just a little. How easy is it to get a censure? Will she get three without even knowing it, just as she never suspected she’d get in trouble for visiting the forest? Correction—she never suspected she’d get caught visiting the forest.
And Daysmoor ratted her out, as her father would say.
Traitor! How could he pretend to be hiding her from the Maestro, only to go blabbing to the president that she was there? She studies his face, but he is impossible to read. She folds the censure and puts it in her pocket, seething.
“Page 324,” Daysmoor says, businesslike. Sing sees Ryan arch an eyebrow, though he doesn’t say anything as he flips through his score. She looks at the page over his shoulder and finds the place in her own score—“Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre,” Angelique worrying about the fate of her love, Prince Elbert. The most difficult aria in the opera. Sing inhales, unsure—she is comfortable with her French, but in truth she has never sung this aria in front of anyone else. He chose this one on purpose, she thinks, anger at the apprentice starting to thicken. He wants to see me fail.
“Let’s see how it goes,” Daysmoor goes on. “You need to pay attention to the lines, Miss da Navelli. Your phrasing in the duet yesterday was lousy. Please observe the composer’s markings.”
“I always observe the composers’ markings,” Sing says.
“Then we’ll have no problems.” Daysmoor closes his eyes. “When you’re ready, Mr. Larkin.”
Ryan begins with the famous five-beat introduction. The thick chords have always made Sing think of heavy footsteps, perhaps Prince Elbert going to his grave, or perhaps Death himself approaching. Ryan leans into the keys, face solemn.
Sing breathes. “Quand il se trouvera…”
Sad and light, she thinks. Innocent.
“… dans la forêt som— Sorry, wait. That rhythm was wrong.”
“I know,” Daysmoor says.
“Can we go back?”
The apprentice sighs. “Beginning again, Mr. Larkin.”
“We don’t have to go all the way back—I just—”
“Beginning.”
Sing rolls her shoulders as Ryan begins again. Stupid! You know this music!
“Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre, il se comprendra…”
Why does her voice sound so strange? Harsh? If only he’d heard me last night, in the woods, she thinks. If only I could sing like that here. She backs off.
Daysmoor barks, “Don’t try to disguise inadequacy as emotion.”
She falters a little. What did he mean by that? Should she sing louder? She tries, but her sound goes all wobbly. She retreats again.
“Stop.” Daysmoor frowns at her. “What are you doing?”
She stares at him, mouth open. “I…”
“Relax, breathe, support. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Relax. With his scowling face looking at her the whole time? Sure.
They begin again. She tries to breathe. Why are her lungs so small all of a sudden? “Quand il se trouvera—”
“Stop.” This time, Daysmoor rises and crosses to her. “What is the problem?”
Her body is frozen. “I don’t understand.”
“Where is the rest of your voice?”
“I … my voice?”
He fixes her with that black gaze. “When you concentrate, you have notes. You have rhythms. You have air and tone and line. But there’s a hole in your voice so big I could roll a bass drum through it.”
“What … do you mean?”
“When you concentrate,” he says. “And when you don’t, your nerves take over. This is not the place for nerves, Miss da Navelli. I don’t care how terrible you think you are, or what type of weird psychological baggage you’re carrying around. You’re letting your anxiety ruin your singing. Get it together or get out.”
Sing is stunned. No one has ever spoken to her like this. She is paralyzed, her whole body sparking. Ryan peers silently at the score.
The apprentice retreats and pours himself over two chairs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes in a final sort of way. “Angelique’s first aria, then,” he says. “The easy one. And continue from there, please. I might close my eyes in order to listen better. If I start to snore, it means I’m listening especially closely.”
Thirty
GEORGE KEPPLER SAT AT HIS desk, making notes in the enormous, yellowed score of Mahler’s Second Symphony. The radio behind him spilled a live broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera into the dark little office, a performance of Romeo and Juliet starring the famous young soprano Barbara da Navelli. Outside, just visible beyond the small window, the trees glittered from top to bottom—living ic
e sculptures, rattling and creaking in the snowy gusts.
Looking at the score again made George almost giddy, brought him back to his ambitious days as a young conductor. Was it during only his second year as maestro of the conservatory that he had last performed Mahler 2? He smiled. What nerve, choosing such a monumental piece! It hadn’t been half bad, either.
His smile faded as he tried to calculate the year. Could it really have been fifty-five—no, sixty-five—years ago? Yes. That would make him how old now? Ninety-seven.
Slowly, unconsciously, George slid open his upper right desk drawer and pulled out a small mirror. He inspected his face. The lines on his forehead and around his mouth and eyes were a little more pronounced than the last time he’d looked. Just a little. Ninety-seven? It wasn’t possible. No one would think him a day over fifty. He could pass for forty-five. His hair wasn’t even gray.
The crystal was in his pocket, as always. He slid it out and put it to his face, his fingers running over the lines around his mouth. Time would not forget him forever.
A knock at the door startled him; he closed his fingers around the crystal and let his hand fall to his lap. “Come in!”
A young man wearing apprentice robes poked his head in. Strikingly handsome, with blue-black hair and eyes like soft coal.
Nathan.
“Are you busy?”
George shook his head. “Not at all. Just marking up the Mahler. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” The apprentice pulled up a leather chair. George noticed an unusual lightness about him this morning; he was known for his easy manner, but today he seemed especially cheerful—excited, even.
“Look at this.” He slid an opened letter onto George’s desk.
The letter was short and official. George read it through twice, examined the signature at the bottom, and laid his hands flat on the desk. The two men sat in silence.
Finally, Nathan said, “Europe and the Far East, then back here—a full two years! Pending the live audition, which I’m not afraid of. I know you’re nervous about things like this—and they do suggest I get representation, of course—but don’t you see? This proves I’m good enough! I can have a career! All my years of studying and practicing and teaching—”
“Where did this come from?” George couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice. What he meant was, How did someone else hear you play? Someone who mattered?
Nathan’s smile faded. He folded his hands. “My students wonder why I’m not established, you know. It’s harder and harder to make them think it’s just my—age.”
“What do you care if your students wonder about you?” George said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Apparently one of them recorded me and sent it—”
“What! I told you—”
“I didn’t know he’d done it!” Nathan sighed forcefully. “They often record their lessons—why would I be suspicious? Why don’t you want anyone to hear me? Why do you want to keep me here?”
George tapped his desk. “Don’t you remember what happened?”
Nathan’s gaze fell. “That was years ago,” he said, but there was a note of defeat in his voice. George had become used to this note, always clear, always in tune, just as he had taught Nathan to feel it that horrible night in New York. But it had been so long since the Gloria Stewart competition. George feared more and more that some of his protégé’s old swagger would return.
He studied Nathan’s face, exactly as he remembered it from all those years ago. Whatever time-slowing magic the crystal held, it was meant for him. George—somehow—was just managing to absorb a little bit of it. A familiar pang of panic stabbed him. What would happen to the crystal if its true master left? Would it still radiate its magic, or would it crumble to dust?
Would Nathan die if he were separated too long from the crystal that kept him young?
Would George?
He took a deep breath. “Look, Nathan…” But he couldn’t find the right words.
Nathan leaned forward. “It’s me, George. I can handle the world outside Dunhammond. You had no problem with me coming along to all your international engagements. Prague, Moscow, Vienna, Paris—you certainly had no problem then. My God, what happened to the old days?”
“Those days are gone.” Maestro Keppler was surprised to feel a lurch in his chest as he said it. “They’re gone. The conservatory is a safe place for you. People forget you here. I believe it is the forest that protects you from their questions.” He did believe that.
The young man said quietly, “My students are going to keep asking questions.”
“Well, perhaps it is no longer safe for you to teach private lessons.” The Maestro hadn’t meant to say it. But now that he had, he was resolute. It was the best solution. “You can still practice, of course, and help with the voice students occasionally—you do have enormous talent there. But this is really the best way.”
“You can’t take my students!” Nathan cried, growing pale.
The Maestro threw up his hands. “Your students don’t even remember you! Three years you taught Molly Stewart, and she introduced herself to you at the alumni banquet last week!”
“They may not remember me, but I remember them,” Nathan said quietly.
The Maestro’s face became hard. “I’ll recommend to the president that your talents would be put to better use elsewhere.”
Nathan’s mouth was set, his eyes dark. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he said. “Tell the president whatever you want. I’m going on that tour. You can’t stop me.”
He was serious. He was going to leave. Leave.
George looked back at that youthful, defiant face and struggled to keep his own face placid as the anger welled inside him.
“I’ve given up a lot for you, Nathan, so we could be here. A real career.”
“I never asked you to.”
“Damn it, I’ve given you everything. Even your damn name!” George’s heart felt hot, pounding against his ribs. His fingers clutched the crystal as he seethed, face reddening, breath becoming blustery. Nathan said nothing.
From the desk, a boy looked happily out of an old photograph. Crooked teeth, muddy clothes. George felt his brother’s faded stare, the real Nathan, the Nathan who should have survived that plunge into the river. Who was this ungrateful young man who stared at him now with such ferocity, jaw set, from the other side of the desk? He clenched the crystal hidden in his hand so hard, he thought his bones might break.
And as he did so, a strange thing happened—Nathan’s breathing became more rapid, his shoulders stiffened, and he doubled over in his chair. Fascinated, George squeezed the crystal more tightly, using both hands now, hidden under the desk where the apprentice could not see them. He channeled his rage through his fingers; he could almost feel it sparking. Nathan began gasping violently and slid out of his chair altogether.
George was exhilarated. He knew he was doing it, through the crystal, with his strength or his anger or the sheer force of his will. He released his grip and tried to force a neutral expression, though he could barely keep from grinning. Adrenaline shot through his chest and arms and legs. Nathan looked up, eyebrows drawn, eyes wide, as though he had seen a monster.
The Maestro leaned forward. “I can stop you, my boy. I can.”
Something about Nathan changed in that moment. The lightness around him dissolved, his handsome face fell into an ugly, droopy mask, and his eyes dried into hard, dull stones. He left without another word.
The Maestro tossed the crystal onto his desk. He put his hands to his face and laughed, then sighed, stopping himself before the sigh became a sob.
And so I have robbed the world of one of its great artists. It was unconscionable. But it was for the boy’s protection, wasn’t it? George couldn’t just pick up and leave the conservatory, follow Nathan across continents, watch from the shadows as the world fell in love with him. No, Nathan must stay here. With the crystal. With George.
&nbs
p; And now, George knew how to make him stay.
The Maestro laid his head on his vast desk.
After seventy-two years, it was the first time Nathan Daysmoor had asked to leave.
Thirty-one
SING IS SO MAD, SHE COULD STOMP. She could stomp right on Apprentice Daysmoor’s smug face. How dare he? How dare he say those terrible things to her? How dare he sleep through the rest of her coaching session? Maybe if he weren’t up all hours sitting in trees, he’d be able to stay awake.
And how dare he report her to the president and get her a censure? She should report him. She should go straight to the Maestro, request a new coach, turn Daysmoor in for being the useless, self-absorbed lump he is.
She storms into the lobby of Hud, wishing the doors weren’t so frustratingly civilized and would allow themselves to be slammed. But no, despite her best effort, they gently hiss closed as she clomps across the lobby to the stairwell.
Jenny answers the door after three sharp knocks. “Sing, what’s up? I was just about to go to quartet practice.”
“I need your help.” Sing brushes past her and plops onto the closest bed. Jenny and Marta’s room looks like it was decorated by a monster that vomits dirty laundry, hair care products, New Age boutiquery, and sheet music.
“Um, okay,” Jenny says.
“I need dirt on Apprentice Daysmoor. Something really embarrassing. Or awful. Ryan says all apprentices have stories.”
Jenny cocks her head. “Wow. I know he’s a wet blanket, but why the venom?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sing says, trying not to think about the question. “Do you have any info on him? Can you get some from your newspaper or something?”
“Generally, if the newspaper has interesting info, they print it,” Jenny says. “But I can maybe dig through the archives. There isn’t much digital right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to read three years’ worth of papers just to help you satisfy your weird rage, but we are developing a computer directory that might be useful.”
