by Rule, Adi
Daysmoor turns to Sing and says softly, “Really?”
She looks at him but can feel the Maestro’s threatening stare. She doesn’t dare answer or even shake her head. She doesn’t move a muscle when Daysmoor asks, almost in a whisper, “What did I do?”
“Don’t put the girl on the spot, Nathan.” The Maestro leans in to Sing and says gently, but loud enough for Daysmoor to hear, “I’m sorry this is uncomfortable, my dear, but I had to let him know eventually. I agree with you one hundred percent. Professor Hawkins is a much better match for you, more in line with the type of professionalism you’re used to. We’ll let the apprentices practice on the newer singers, eh?” He chuckles and turns back to Daysmoor, whose face is as still and dark as water. “Oh, come on, Nathan. You hate vocal coaching anyway. Isn’t that what you said?”
He has said a lot of things, Sing knows. But she doesn’t remember any of them now. All she can hear is the Brahms intermezzo, all she can see are his hands, his shoulders moving under a gray T-shirt, his sad, dark eyes. She watches him, unable to speak. The line of his jaw tightens for a moment, but then she sees a release. His whole body seems to relax just a little—not from relief, but because he is hurt.
Daysmoor turns and stalks silently from the room. And Sing, surprised to feel the wrench of her heart, knows for the first time what she would wish for, given the chance.
She would wish for him.
Fifty-six
THOUGH THERE ARE WARM BODIES on either side of her, in truth Sing is sitting by herself at the Gloria Stewart International Piano Competition semifinals. The Woolly Theater, which has been hosting smaller events all day, has never been so packed. DC’s Autumn Festival is really the theater’s grand opening, and patrons and alumni have come from everywhere to be here. She hasn’t spoken to her father, who must have arrived this morning. Their schedules have not yet coincided.
She didn’t have to come. With the demanding performance of Angelique tomorrow afternoon, she technically has the night off. But the diva in her refused to curl up under a blanket in the dormitory; she has to keep everyone in her sights. It is exhausting.
Ernesto da Navelli sits in the front with Harland Griss and several other luminaries. Sing watches some of the bolder audience members approach them politely before the competition begins. The celebrities are gracious and cheerful, but two stern security guards hover nearby, ready for any commoner to put a toe out of line.
Sing can see Marta’s frizzy hair across the room and assumes the apparently empty space she seems to be talking to contains Jenny, too petite to interrupt Sing’s line of vision. Lori, Hayley, and Carrie Stewart are clustered at the back, laughing and leafing through programs. Sing starts to read through the biographies page again but can’t stand Ryan’s professionally photographed face smiling coyly up at her.
The competition has been going on all day behind closed doors. Those left standing in each of the three categories will perform tonight, with the final competition taking place tomorrow after Angelique. DC is abuzz with anticipation as one of its own, Ryan Larkin, is still in contention.
Why has she come? She scans the room again. Daysmoor and the Maestro are just entering, the Maestro taking his listless apprentice by the arm. Sing clasps her hands together; they are cold. She watches Daysmoor follow the Maestro to their seats, hoping he’ll glance in her direction so she can try again to convey a silent message of … something. Apology? But the apprentice looks the way he did when she first saw him at her placement audition, eyelids lowered, movements sluggish.
The lights go down.
The heavy velvet curtains part to reveal a gleaming black grand piano. The Amateurs Under Sixteen are up first. A twelve-year-old boy pushes his way through a Bach fugue like a freight train; the notes reverberate coolly in the theater’s well-designed curves and empty spaces. The audience coos and titters as a perfect little seven-year-old girl whose feet don’t reach the pedals dances lightly through Mozart. They applaud politely for a somber thirteen-year-old girl in a stiff green dress who plays a busier Mozart piece with authority. Sing avoids looking into the children’s tired eyes when they take their group bow.
The Amateurs Over Sixteen take the stage one by one. A red-faced, red-haired woman plays the strange first movement of Shostakovich’s second piano sonata—alternately dark and playful—and Sing is captivated, though she knows this slightly mechanical performance won’t hold up against Ryan’s sparkling style. She sees her father lean in to Harland Griss, who nods.
Next is Ryan himself, striding onstage like a movie star and just as handsome in his black tuxedo. Liszt’s coquettish Valse-Impromptu suits him perfectly. He wiggles his head along with the flashy runs and ornaments, and his copper hair shines. He shrugs his shoulders and rocks back and forth with the undulating tempo. He throws an impish look to the audience during a particularly frisky moment, making girls giggle. Sing’s father will not appreciate this showmanship, but Ryan’s skill is unquestionable. Harland Griss and the famous concert pianist Yvette Cordaro whisper to each other and nod.
It will take a truly extraordinary performer to beat Ryan. He didn’t really need me after all, Sing thinks. Does that mean he actually wanted her? That he liked her? Or only that he thought he would need her influence to win?
She’s surprised to realize she doesn’t care.
The last performer is a serious bearded man with wild hair. He sits on the cushioned piano bench and, as the rest of the musicians have done, contemplates the black and white keys before him. When he is ready, he places his hands on the keyboard for a moment before depressing the first notes.
Sing gasps. It is Brahms. The piece Daysmoor played for her. Her throat closes. This man will play it with two or three of its brothers tonight, she knows; it isn’t substantial enough on its own. It will need to be surrounded by glitter—this simple piece that any modestly talented pianist could play.
She doesn’t allow herself a glance at the place where the Maestro and his apprentice are sitting. She doesn’t need to; Daysmoor’s profile is all she can see when she closes her eyes—the shadow at the corner of his eye, the way a lock of black hair curves in to the line of his jaw.
The rest of the audience seems pleasantly surprised with the performance. This piece is a favorite. Hum-able. Accessible.
Yet the man onstage doesn’t do this Brahms justice. As the music winds on, Sing feels just the slightest tug embedded in the lines, an anticipation of the next thing. The wrong moments are savored, the wrong moments are rushed through. This man plays well, but he is not in love.
* * *
At intermission, she makes her way into the crowded lobby. She thought she wanted to know if Ryan would win, but now she can’t imagine why. He is Prince Elbert, as he has been since the day she met him. Prince Elbert always gets what he wants.
He is in the lobby now, surrounded by friends and fans, mostly girls. But Sing doesn’t go to him. Lori Pinkerton, at his side, shoots her a triumphant look. Lori has been strangely quiet since Sing was given Angelique, no fiery confrontation. Then again, Lori is a diva—ice and patience. Waiting in the wings for Sing to die.
Her father catches her as she is almost to the heavy double doors that lead outside. “Sing, my dear, a hello for your father!”
“I’m sorry, Papà.” She turns to find him looking down at her, overly delighted. Harland Griss stands next to him, navy suit impeccable, dark hair neatly parted and greased, face clean-shaven but beginning to show the lines and folds that come with importance.
“Harland,” Maestro da Navelli says, “you remember my daughter, Sing?”
“Of course.” A soft hand is extended, and Sing takes it. “I understand,” Griss says, “that you are to sing Angelique tomorrow? Impressive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Griss.” Sing doesn’t look at her father for approval. The mark of a professional—don’t let anyone know who’s pulling the strings. “I have enjoyed learning the role. Angelique is a complex character.”
Griss approves, launching into an anecdote about a recent Viennese production of the opera. Sing projects just enough confidence. She knows how to do this part, the schmoozing part. Barbara da Navelli was a master.
Then, over Griss’s shoulder, she catches sight of coal-black hair and even blacker eyes. Daysmoor, across the lobby, with Maestro Keppler nowhere in sight. She stares. He doesn’t look away.
If only she could tell him her silence is protecting them both, that the Maestro lied. But how?
Griss and her father are making small talk, but they are including her. She nods and smiles, willing Daysmoor to stay where he is with quick, furtive glances. His face disappears intermittently as the crowd between them shifts and swirls, but he keeps looking in her direction.
She nods at Griss again, laughing at a witty remark. Her hands begin to shake.
Intermission is nearly over and Daysmoor will join the Maestro again. Who knows what other lies Keppler will tell him?
If she were Barbara da Navelli, she would excuse herself, march up to Daysmoor, and tell him in a clear voice that she—that she didn’t hate him, and the Maestro could go to hell.
But I am not Barbara da Navelli, she thinks, remembering the index card from her first day in Mr. Bernard’s class. But now, rather than the sinking feeling that usually accompanies this thought, she feels just a bit of exhilaration.
Mind churning, she says, “Mr. Griss, I’m so happy you’re coming to the performance tomorrow. Would you like to hear a sneak preview?”
Her father raises his eyebrows, but Griss seems amused. “Right now?”
“Of course.” Sing’s heart is thudding. She can’t possibly do this. But Daysmoor is looking at her with uncertainty, not yet dislike, and she refuses to let this chance slip away.
Griss watches her with interest, hands in his pockets. Her father crosses his arms but remains quiet. Sing knows he has decided to trust her judgment. She doesn’t yet know if he is right to.
“It would be bad luck to do something from Angelique, so here’s a little Magic Flute,” she says. And starts to sing.
The first note, in the middle part of Sing’s range, cuts through the low chatter of the lobby like a bell. She doesn’t need to think about plot or character; she is Mozart’s princess, grieving from misunderstood silence. By the time she reaches the first high note, everyone is watching her. Most people smile, some seem annoyed at having their conversations cut off, and some—mostly other sopranos, Lori Pinkerton among them—are plainly hostile. Her father, taking his cue from Griss, seems pleased.
But she doesn’t care about any of them. She watches Daysmoor for a reaction, some kind of understanding. He wears his mask, but she sees through it now—it’s astonishing that everyone can’t see him for what he really is. The man who should have been playing Brahms tonight. The man who should be playing for the world.
From across the crowd, he watches her for the entire duration of the aria.
The aria ends not with wailing despair, but with low resignation. For Sing, tonight, it becomes a last entreatment. Across the lobby, Daysmoor’s face is as impassive as ever. Amid warm applause from the spectators, he turns back to the doors to the theater and leaves.
The spell over her breaks. Blood rushes to her face as she realizes what she has done. She can’t bear to look at her father.
“Brava!” Harland Griss says cheerfully. “Well done, Miss da Navelli. You would make a charming Pamina.” Sing nods appreciatively before a woman steals Griss away with busy compliments and important questions.
People come up to her now with small words of praise, and she responds gratefully. A voice hisses in her ear, “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” but Lori Pinkerton is a yard away, leaving only the scent of roses, by the time Sing turns around.
A heavy arm corrals her shoulders and guides her out the front doors and onto the cold steps. She looks up and says, “I’m sorry, Papà. That was rude, wasn’t it?”
Her father squeezes her shoulders. “They are lucky to hear you sing. I am—amazed at the progress you have made here. I am very pleased. Harland is interested. But your Angelique can speak for herself. You did not need special tricks to draw his attention.”
She looks away. “It was a stupid thing to do.”
“Never!” He takes her face in his hands. “Why do we sing if we do not love to sing? I’m very happy you’re free with your gifts.” He lets his hands drop and looks out at the snowy quad. Lights on posts and from windows illuminate the campus. People Sing doesn’t know stroll the grounds in their winter coats. Her father sighs. “Sometimes you remind me so much of your mother.”
Sing stretches and curls her fingers. It wasn’t a compliment. Barbara da Navelli sought the spotlight with elegant ferocity. But Sing can’t explain her real motives to her father; she can hardly explain them to herself. “I’ll do better, Papà,” she says.
With a burst of light, one of the Woolly’s massive front doors opens and someone leans out, looking around.
“Can I help you, my dear?” Ernesto da Navelli says.
“Oh, Maestro da Navelli! I’m so sorry, I was looking for—oh, Sing, there you are.” Marta emerges, silhouetted.
“Bene, carina, I will see you later, eh? Don’t catch cold.” Her father gives a little bow to Marta before heading inside.
Sing feels a rush of warmth that starts from her stomach and spreads to her shoulders. “Hi!” She grins. “I didn’t think—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you and your dad.” Marta sounds sincere, but her voice has a flatness to it that pulls the grin from Sing’s face.
“Oh. That’s okay,” Sing says. “Intermission is probably just about over, anyway. Though I think I’m just going to head back to Hud. You … you want to join me?”
“No,” Marta says, but adds, “I, um, really want to hear the rest of this round.”
“Oh.”
“I just came to give you this.” She holds out a glossy, printed page.
Sing takes it. “What—?”
“Bye, Sing.” Marta heads for the doors. “Um. Have a good show tomorrow.”
Sing’s face falls. It isn’t a plea for sympathy, just a natural reaction. But Marta notices. She bites her bottom lip and says softly, “I do mean it. You sound really good. You’re going to get everything you want. I’m happy for you.”
The door shuts behind her with a leathery thud.
Sing leans against one of the Woolly’s fat pillars. Everything is so strange now. Only a few weeks ago, she and Jenny and Marta made shy conversation at the Welcome Gathering. Angelique was a lifetime away.
She looks at the folded paper, a page torn from tonight’s program. She unfolds it to reveal a few words scribbled in pen over the print.
If you have something to say, meet me tonight at St. Augustine’s. I will leave the door unlocked. —Nathan
Fifty-seven
THE FELIX AWAKENS WITH A ROAR that shakes granules of dirt and snow from the rocks around her. She turns her gaze upward. The sky is black with night clouds.
It was a dream. Stars moaning, distorted, burning themselves out in spectacular, horrific displays of vivid golds and blues and purples. The whole of the night sky smeared with glittering, galactic death.
The Cat part of her mind has no time for this. It has already sensed what the Sky part is too distracted to notice—the child is gone.
This time, however, the Felix knows where he has gone. She feels the same inexplicable pull, toward the human place, that must have woken him.
An old wish is about to die.
Fifty-eight
SING IS CERTAIN SOMEONE will see her, that someone already sees her. Maybe Maestro Keppler, peering out from his dark office, scowling, or her father from his luxurious room in Hector Hall. Maybe Ryan, his head turned briefly toward the window of whoever’s room he is in right now.
She inhales deeply, the frigid air stinging her lungs.
St. Augustine’s looms in the darkness.
It looms enough in the daylight, or when the windows are warm and bright for an evening rehearsal, but now, in the bleak, whispering cold, it seems to tower over the rest of the conservatory. Sing reminds herself she’s not superstitious. Yet she thinks of Tamino—sweet Tamino—proof of either magic or madness, neither one of which is nice company in the middle of the night.
She finds the massive door unlocked, as Daysmoor said it would be. The door scrapes, but to Sing’s relief its two-hundred-year-old voice is too tired for squeaks or squeals. She pulls it shut behind her.
Her footsteps do not echo; they are too small to affect the high walls or distant ceiling. Someone is playing the grand piano. It sings from the concert hall, vibrating the bones of the old building.
The music feels too loud, too noticeable. Surely the Maestro or the president will come striding in any moment. No, she tells herself. Hector Hall is all the way across the quad. No one will hear. No one will know.
Outside the hall, the reality of what she is doing—what she is doing again—hits her in the chest, and she stops. Daysmoor—Nathan, as he called himself in his note—is in there. His fluid, passionate notes are as distinctive as his own voice.
She pushes open the door. He is sitting at the piano on the other side of the hall, but he rises quickly when he hears her. She looks at the shiny old floor as she crosses the room. The golden light from the piano lamp leaves most of the hall in shadows, illuminating only a small, safe haven around the piano.
He watches her uncertainly. She suddenly wishes it were not so late and lonely and that he were wearing his voluminous, stodgy robes instead of, of all things, the gray T-shirt—the one he grabbed out of the laundry basket in his bedroom that night. She doesn’t want to see the outline of his shoulders so clearly, remembering what they looked like without the T-shirt covering them. She wishes he were scowling, slouching; but that was Apprentice Daysmoor, and he has cast off that persona. This young man standing before her, his black eyes deepened by the shadows around him, is Nathan.
