by Rule, Adi
“Yeah. You’re right,” Marta says. “You know a lot about singing, don’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Sing feels the heat creeping up her face and curses her mother’s fair skin.
“And you speak all these languages. I’d love to speak another language.”
Sing focuses on the grass in front of her. “I only speak English and Italian, and that’s just because of my parents. I can just pronounce the others. I couldn’t make sentences by myself or anything.”
“Still.”
Sing finds an inroad. “But you know all this stuff about … about magical creatures and stuff, right?”
“Yeah, that’s so useful, isn’t it?” Marta laughs. “I’d rather be able to speak Italian.”
“But, like, you know all about the Felix, right?”
Marta’s pace slows just a bit. “Did you want to ask me something?”
“Well … I don’t know.” Sing takes a deep breath. “Do you really think it’s real?”
Marta surprises Sing by coming to a full stop. “… I do. I think I do. I want to.” She looks into Sing’s eyes. “Sometimes I worry that belief and hope are the same thing, and that truth is something else entirely.”
“I understand,” Sing says, trying to. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can.”
Sing tries to get her mind around a single question. She decides to start with, “How many Felixes are there?”
They start walking again. “Just the one, as far as I know,” Marta says. “Why? Have you been seeing them?” She laughs.
Sing forces a laugh. “Oh, Angelique’s got me thinking, I guess. And being here, you know? Where Durand was.”
“Oh, I know,” Marta says, a new excitement in her voice. “It’s this exact forest that inspired him. I mean, the librettist wrote it, and added the villagers and the royalty and blah blah blah, but Durand was mesmerized by this forest. It’s where he—it’s where they say he actually met the Felix. It’s why this place is so—magical.”
“So if the Felix gives you a wish,” Sing says, trying to steer the conversation back on course, “what happens? Do you get a—a magic stone or something?” She has an image forming in her mind, amorphous and dim right now but amassing itself around a few scattered seeds.
“A magic stone?” Marta looks at her sideways. “I’ve never heard that. It just grants your wish and goes away. That’s it. Well, actually, it cries you a tear—the tear is the wish. That’s kind of like a magic stone, I guess, now that you mention it. Except I don’t think the Felix grants many wishes. Mostly it eats you.”
The tear is the wish. Could this strange, cold crystal be a tear? Sing looks down, afraid Marta will see her thoughts.
Marta stops and turns to her, eyes serious. “Sing, what are you getting at?”
Taking a deep breath, Sing pulls the gold chain from inside her shirt. “Well, what do you think it is?” She holds the crystal up. Marta takes it between her thumb and forefinger, peering.
On first glance, it is just pretty. Sparkly. Sing knows this. But she lets Marta study it, and after a moment, Marta’s eyes start to take on their own otherworldly shimmer. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it on the quad, near the woods. Is it … do you think it’s…?” Sing can’t say magical. What does that word mean, anyway?
“It feels cold,” Marta says. “And—sad, somehow.”
“I know.”
Marta folds her fingers around the crystal and closes her eyes. Then she opens them again and opens her hand, letting the chain fall back into place around Sing’s neck. “This little thing … it’s shaped like a tear, right?”
“Right,” Sing says.
“And it clearly has some kind of power. You can feel it, can’t you?”
Sing feels her body cringing at this line of inquiry, but she thinks of Tamino, of the glowing shape she followed into the woods. She looks at the crystal. And she knows what it is.
“I think,” Marta says, “I think it must be a Felix tear. Someone’s wish, Sing. Is it yours?”
Sing stares at the tiny, shimmering shape. “No,” she says. “It’s not mine.”
“Hey!” an unmistakable voice calls across the campus. Sing tucks the crystal back into her shirt.
Jenny is half walking, half jogging across the grass. “Dirt!” she yells.
“Dirt?” Marta says.
“Plays-poor!” Jenny is rummaging in her backpack as she reaches them. “Purely by accident, I might add,” she says, “since I’m not in the business of drama for drama’s sake.”
“What does that mean?” Sing crosses her arms. “I have a legitimate—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jenny’s face is flushed with exertion. “I’m doing an article on the Gloria Stewart competition. It’s kind of a huge deal that it’s here this year for the first time. ‘Thank you’ to your dad, by the way. Mr. Hey-Howzabout-A-Brand-Spanky-New-Theater.”
Sing isn’t sure how to respond. “Yeah, I’ll—tell him.”
“Your dad must be really nice,” Marta says.
Jenny pulls out a piece of paper. “So I went through the Trumpeter database for the heck of it, and our favorite apprentice comes up in this article about a different Gloria Stewart competition, at Carnegie Hall.” She hands the paper to Sing. “Kinda horrifying.”
DC PRODIGY DISAPPOINTS IN NYC
Nathan Daysmoor, a favorite to win this year’s inaugural Gloria Stewart International Piano Competition, failed even to complete his performance last night at Carnegie Hall. Despite the hype leading up to the competition, Daysmoor, a protégé of DC’s illustrious Maestro George Keppler, had never given a public performance. It is easy to see why. He fumbled his way through thirty seconds of barely recognizable Rachmaninov before being booed off the stage by an unappreciative crowd. Perhaps next year, DC will send a competitor based on talent rather than looks and charisma.
“Yes, folks, you heard it here,” Jenny says. “‘Looks and charisma.’”
Sing’s mouth hangs open. “When did this happen?”
“That I don’t know.” Jenny folds the paper again. “The database is so incomplete and screwed up.”
“Nineteen sixty-seven,” Marta says. The other two look at her. She shrugs. “It says ‘inaugural.’ That means the first one. Which was in 1967.”
Jenny puts her hands on her hips. “Marta Kost, I love you dearly, but which do you think is more likely? That Daysmoor is some kind of immortal, talentless Phantom of the Opera with a slightly better complexion, or that some first-year Trumpeter journalist didn’t know what ‘inaugural’ meant?”
“I know what’s more likely,” Marta says. “I just don’t know what’s true.”
Forty-two
MAESTRO KEPPLER GAZES OUT at the dark, empty theater. It’s a strange vantage point. He is used to focusing on the orchestra, not the audience. Sitting alone here, center stage, feels alien. Or is it the absence of the crystal?
How could he have been so careless as to let it slip from his pocket? How could he have done that?
His only consolation is that Nathan doesn’t know it exists.
But thanks to that idiot da Navelli trying to buy his daughter’s career with this new theater, the damn Gloria Stewart competition is coming up! Here! With Nathan getting it into his head to enter!
Luckily, George is confident he has killed that idea, for now. Nathan has been so much more reasonable these last ten years or so, since George learned how to use the crystal. He just has to hope Nathan doesn’t decide to test the limits again.
He has to find the crystal, before it’s too late.
Forty-three
THE RAIN CAME DOWN in buckets all night. The gray sky and chilly, damp grass are keeping Mrs. Bigelow’s other students off the lawn this morning, which suits Sing fine. Let them do their research in the library. It will be easier to listen to the crows out here.
She has set up under the large maple tree behind Hud, near the barbarian f
ence, and sits cross-legged on an old blanket, notebook in hand.
“Caaaaw,” the crows say.
Maybe Mrs. Bigelow was right. Crows are certainly not songbirds. In fact, the only song Sing has written out in the notebook over the past month of observation is, “Caw (crackly).”
Yet she feels she is getting to know them just a bit. Unlike their more musical neighbors, the crows radiate an intelligence that Sing finds fascinating. They have strong opinions about people—not people in general, but individual people. From her first day studying the crows, Sing has taken pride in the fact that they don’t fly off when she approaches their big tree. Lately, they’ve even stopped making an irritated fuss when she arrives, ruffling their shiny feathers and shifting their weights from one clawed foot to the other and back again. Being accepted by the crows—even grudgingly so—has to count for something, she thinks. There must be something fundamental about her that is good, or pleasant, or kind. Something utterly un-diva.
She has not felt good, or pleasant, or kind, since the night of the Noble Call. She can’t shake the memory of the exhilaration of beating Lori Pinkerton. It makes her feel powerful. But it also makes her sick to her stomach.
“Caaaw,” the nearest crow says from its perch on a springy branch that still sports a few brilliantly red leaves.
“Caaaw yourself,” she answers, and the crow cocks its head suspiciously, which makes her laugh.
Suddenly, silently, the crows leave. A few leaves drifting down and some bobbing branches are all that indicate the presence of these big black birds only seconds before. Sing frowns and looks around. She listens but hears nothing. Still, something disturbed them.
Without the crows to occupy her, she begins to feel the sting of the damp air. What did they see, or hear, that threatened them?
There’s no reason to sit here all nerves. She closes her notebook.
The slightest rustling from the unruly bushes next to the fence catches her ear.
She smiles. Then, mind empty except for a warm peace, she sings, “Farfallina, bella e bianca…”
Was that the glint of a wide blue eye, half hidden by the dark leaves?
“Vola, vola, mai si stanca…”
Tamino emerges hesitantly, soft ears swiveled in Sing’s direction.
“So you scared my crows away,” she says. “You shouldn’t be out here during the day, my love.” The last three weeks have gushed by in a wash of wet gray skies and brown leaves. She has taken to getting up early to meet Tamino near the picnic tables at the edge of campus. He doesn’t always come, and their time together is cold and dark, but she gets to do her warm-up exercises early and he gets to listen.
“You are easy to please,” she says as he butts her shoulder with his big head. “I don’t think the Maestro would be moved by children’s songs.”
The large, ice-blue eyes watch her expectantly.
“Gira qua, gira là.” She turns here, she turns there. Sing flutters her fingers, stretching her arm and moving her hand in a jerky, irregular figure eight. “Poi si resta sopra un fiore.” Then she rests on a flower. Sing swoops her hand down to gently grasp Tamino’s nose. He follows the motion with his eyes, and she laughs. “I can remember three more verses. Would you like to hear them?”
He would. She sings, and Tamino listens.
“If only it were that simple,” she says after all the verses are done, as she scratches the fuzzy orange fur between his ears. “If only we could just sing.”
If he has an opinion, he doesn’t voice it. After a few minutes, a subtle, humming change in the atmosphere quickly becomes a swelling, chattering, rattling cacophony that signals the change of classes. Tamino disappears into the bushes.
Sing gathers her things and rises, her mind returning to the conservatory, her classes, her music. As she leaves the shadow of the maple tree and joins the crowd of students, an arm snakes around her waist. “And how were your little crow friends today?”
“Just the same.”
Ryan pulls her close as they walk, and she enjoys the envious stares. As usual, though, she dreads meeting Lori. What will she say? Sing knows it’s too much to hope the three of them will never meet by chance on such a small campus. Lori has been as distant as ever at rehearsals, but she must know, right? She must know about Sing and Ryan and their … whatever it is they’re doing.
“How’s the Liszt going?” she asks.
“Funny you should ask.” He pulls an envelope out of his pocket. Sing reads the letter inside.
“Wow! Congratulations!”
“Yup,” he says, folding the letter again. “Passed the recorded audition. They’re only going to hear twenty-five in the Amateur Over Sixteen category, and one of those twenty-five is going to be me. And none of the other DC students, I might add. So, to answer your question, the Liszt is going well.”
Sing smiles, catching the eyes of two snobby-looking girls. “How’d the faculty do?”
“Very well. Both Hawkins and Dunlop made it to round two in the Professional category, and we’ve only got four piano faculty as it is. Oh, and Plays-poor? He was telling the truth, you know; he didn’t even submit a recording.”
“Figures.”
“So now I’ve got two weeks to practice my little fingies off.” He tickles the back of her neck and she laughs.
Then it dawns on her—two weeks! The Autumn Festival is only two weeks away! She had the date in her head, of course, but hadn’t really thought about it in terms of weeks. It seems so much closer now.
Two weeks until her father finds out about Angelique.
“Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?” Ryan slows his pace.
“Yeah, it’s just … my dad. He doesn’t know we’re doing Angelique.” She knows she doesn’t need to explain, but part of her wants him to ask.
“Oh. He’ll still judge Gloria Stewart, right?” he asks. “You don’t think he’ll have a fit or something?”
“No. He’ll be there.” She wonders again why her father told her about Harland Griss coming to the competition. She has met Griss several times; another schmoozing opportunity isn’t really that noteworthy. So what was her father getting at?
“Well. Aren’t you sweet.” The cold voice catches Sing off guard. She stops abruptly. Lori Pinkerton takes a sip of coffee from a cardboard cup while two other girls—Hayley and someone Sing doesn’t recognize—stand behind her, watching, shoulders and hips skewed fashionably.
“Thanks,” Ryan says. He smiles as easily as if he were talking to a cute stranger instead of a clearly hostile ex-girlfriend.
Sing is frozen with the heightened awareness of the other students swirling around them, and the vast gray sky overhead.
“Haven’t seen much of you lately, Ryan.” Lori says his name confidently, with ownership. “Too busy with your famous girlfriend, huh? Too bad. She was an innocent little thing, wasn’t she? You must have had to teach her a lot.” The other girls giggle.
“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Princess Pinkerton,” Ryan says, winking at Lori’s friends, who giggle more. Sing feels her face reddening.
“And lying doesn’t become you,” Lori says, smiling at Ryan. Then she fixes Sing with her dazzling eyes. “Aw, don’t mind me, Miss da Navelli. I’m just looking out for you. He isn’t what he seems.”
“Gorgeous and charming?” Ryan says, eliciting more giggles.
Lori steps closer, her pink lips close to Sing’s ear. “I’m not worried. I’ll have him back as soon as Gloria Stewart is over with. Don’t you know? If your father wasn’t judging, Ryan would still be with me.” She shrugs. “Hey, I’m not mad. I’d do the same thing.”
The shine of Lori’s blond hair, so close to Sing’s face, and the maddening smell of roses, make something in Sing’s mind snap. She steps between Lori and Ryan, her face smoothing into the most perfect, porcelain party mask she has ever worn. “Ryan doesn’t need anyone’s help to win Gloria Stewart,” she says. “But thanks for the confession. I guess some people have to
use people to get ahead, instead of having talent. I don’t really know what that’s like.”
The girls behind Lori suck in their breath simultaneously. Lori juts her jaw. “Your talent wasn’t enough to get you the lead, was it?” And she swishes off, hair and messenger bag swinging, followed by her two not-quite-as-beautiful friends.
Ryan smiles at her, but she pulls away from him a little. They reach the door to Durand, and he kisses her on the cheek as the other students flow by. She senses their glances, and the pride that has churned her stomach since the night of the Noble Call gives a lurch. But she feels it suppressing something else. Is it the uncertainty, the half arrogance, half terror that used to be there? That is there still, chipping away at this new pride?
There is still something missing from your voice, she tells herself. You will never be great without it. She almost drowns out the words with the noise of her own confidence. But not quite.
She has heard her name in the crowd again and again these last few weeks. Her mother’s name. Being with Ryan has done nothing to stave off the whispers; he is not protecting her, only bringing her into greater prominence. She feels like she is being dragged headfirst up a hill.
Forty-four
IT HAS BEEN A DELICATE OPERATION these last few weeks, arriving just as her voice lesson is set to begin. Sing knows she is being cowardly, but she doesn’t want to risk meeting Lori, whose lesson ends fifteen minutes before hers starts. Today, however, Lori has apparently lingered to talk to Professor Needleman. Sing sees her long hair through the narrow window in the door.
She leans against the wall and looks at her watch. Five minutes pass. Ten. Sing knocks tentatively on the door.
Lori’s eyes meet Sing’s. Professor Needleman calls, “Come in,” and looks at the clock on the wall.
“Sorry, Professor,” Lori says. “I’ll get going.”
“That’s quite all right, Lori.” Professor Needleman takes a book from her piano and shelves it. “Sing knows she should just come in when it’s her lesson time. Work on the two Wolf songs for next time. I think those are good to keep in mind for your senior jury.”
