by Rule, Adi
And she has no idea who he is.
“Um,” she says, taking off her coat and draping it over a chair, “I got your note.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “This would be quite a coincidence otherwise.”
She stifles her annoyance. He has a right to be huffy with her. She inhales. “You’ve really … helped me. I—still need you. I need your help, I mean. I just couldn’t tell you that in front of the Maestro … I’m sorry.”
The corners of his mouth turn up just a little, and her insides feel strange. “Well, it’s nice to be wanted,” he says, “even in the middle of the night.”
Do not think about wanting him in the middle of the night, she tells herself, and says, “I’m nervous about tomorrow. I was really disappointed we didn’t get our last coaching session.”
“You’ll do fine.” He clears his throat. “But I’m glad you want my advice. I mean—I guess what I mean is that I’m glad you came back.” His eyes glint. “And I liked your secret code.”
Sing is glad for the shadowy room as she feels a blush creep into her cheeks. “I didn’t come back. I didn’t leave in the first place. The Maestro made all that up. He knew I went to the tower. He gave me a censure and said he would kick us both out if I talked to you again.”
Nathan’s face darkens. “He would say that. But he’s not going to kick me out anytime soon.”
“The Magic Flute was the only way I could think of to explain.” Sing realizes how easily she is speaking to him, with the familiarity of a—a what? A peer? A friend? And that he seems to be speaking to her the same way. Nathan is so different from Apprentice Daysmoor.
“I should have known,” he says, and sighs. “I’m sorry.”
Relief tingles her chest. “What were you playing just now?” she asks. “Are you going to play for me?” Why did her voice sound like that—perky and amused?
Oh, my God, she thinks. I’m flirting. Stop flirting.
“Well, I have been practicing.” He sits at the piano.
She is all politeness. “I don’t think you could play the Brahms any better.”
A hint of color rises in his face, and she wonders how often he receives compliments. “I haven’t been practicing Brahms,” he says.
“What have you been practicing?”
He raises his eyebrows mischievously. “Liszt.”
Liszt. Why does the word embarrass her? “Oh,” she says.
“I hope you’ll indulge me.” He moves his hands to the keys with a flourish, and before Sing has even lowered herself into one of the folding chairs, the concert has begun.
He plays nothing like Ryan. Ryan played Liszt with a wink, with conceit. With “fast little notes,” Sing remembers Nathan saying. But Nathan plays Liszt as he does Brahms—with exhilaration and precision. This piece, the Totentanz, which Sing remembers her father playing, begins with low, dark, angry shouts. But it has more to say. Sounds flash and zip and cavort as Daysmoor’s long hands rush along the keyboard like water. Then it becomes pensive. Sing hears the famous eight-note Dies Irae repeated, over and over, but there is no wrath in Daysmoor’s performance. Only life.
He plays magnificently. She’s cascading through space.
At last he stops, and she can hardly believe it when she looks at her watch to find he has played for only fifteen minutes. They both laugh, though Sing doesn’t quite know why. His eyes, which she once thought so hard and arrogant, are now vibrant.
“There, I’ve given you another private concert. Be careful what you wish for,” he says. “But you wanted to sing. Isn’t that what this is about?”
What is this about? she wonders.
He opens an Angelique score. “Where shall we start?”
The question gives her pause. She doesn’t know where to start. What will it be like tomorrow, in front of the whole conservatory, her professors, her father? Is she ready for this?
“Are you all right?” he says after a moment, and she realizes she’s been standing there, staring at nothing. She looks at him.
“Look,” he says. “You have something to prove. I get that. I … I’m sorry I haven’t been understanding about it. I’m not always very understanding. Let’s just sing this through first, okay? This first aria.” He begins to play, and she rolls her shoulders.
She sings through the aria. Somewhere in the middle, she realizes the light, resonant tone coming out is—well—
Is what she sounds like.
She, herself. Her real voice. Because of Nathan.
The tension in her shoulders subsides a little. “Wow,” she says after the last note. “That was okay.”
Nathan laughs. “That was okay.”
She grins at him, a warm sense of comfort spreading out from her core.
“All right, let’s go back,” he says, turning the pages. “From the beginning, and we’ll work.”
Sing feels even better about it this time. It is as if until now she has been on the verge of reaching a plateau—sometimes gaining a sure handhold, sometimes slipping back—but now she is there, the ground solid underneath, no longer struggling against gravity. The overall physical exertion hasn’t changed that much, but now as she sings, she is simply sustaining. She is in a place of resonance and air, and the sound makes her whole face tingle. Invincible.
Nathan stops playing. “That part was very good. But let’s see if we can get some more harmonics in there. Here, find the space right here—” He demonstrates, placing his fingers on his throat. “Got it?”
Sing feels the underside of her jaw, runs her fingers down the sides of her own throat, pushes in to find her larynx.
“At the top, just here—you see?” he says, prodding his throat and rising.
“You mean my larynx? Or—”
“No, here,” he says, suddenly very close to her. He places his fingers on her throat now, finding the space below her jaw. Sing closes her eyes, hardly breathing. She is used to being prodded and manhandled by her voice teachers; it’s part of the process. And a coach as knowledgeable as Daysmoor—as Nathan—has certainly prodded and manhandled lots of singers. But she wills her heart to stop beating so quickly. He can probably feel her pulse. “See?” he says. “Keep your larynx low and you won’t have to work as hard. Feel that?”
He takes her hand and guides it to the space below her jaw. She doesn’t look at his face, but her eyes trace the ivy tattoo until it disappears under his gray shirtsleeve. She feels the warmth of his graceful fingers on her own, his breath on her forehead.
But she realizes his touch is no different from that of Professor Needleman, or Maestra Collins, or any of them. This closeness they are sharing will be over in a moment. It isn’t real—it only has the shape of truth. He is interested in her cartilage, not her skin; her trachea, not her neck; her consonants, not her mouth.
Still, she wants so badly to feel her face close to his, the way it was on the tower balcony. A month ago, maybe even an hour ago, she would never have dared look up. But her voice is giving her strength. She feels liberated by her own identity.
She meets his gaze.
“You—see?” He falters a little. “The … the space here…”
His voice has never faltered before, she thinks with a shiver of exhilaration. Is he nervous? Is she making him nervous?
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and he doesn’t look away. She wondered in the past if Apprentice Daysmoor had any feelings at all. Now, she wonders if, maybe, he has feelings for her.
Is it possible?
The voice in her head sounds like Jenny. There’s only one way to find out.
She leans in. Her lips brush against his. He inhales deeply, and for a split second, the tips of his fingers slide upward from her throat, finding her face.
But then he steps back, clearing his throat. Her stomach leaps; her body tenses. She was wrong, she was wrong. Her mind turns frantically. How to undo it? How to take back the last ten seconds? It is impossible. What has she done?
His shou
lders look stiff. “Sing—”
She backs up, words shooting out. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” But, looking at his face in the muted light of the piano lamp, she knows exactly why she did it. “I’m sorry,” she says again, taking a step away into the shadows on the periphery of the lamp’s glow.
“No—don’t say that.” He puts a hand to his forehead. “Forget it.” He sits at the piano and begins to plunk out something vapid and simple. “This was a crazy idea. You need sleep, not more singing.” She watches him, almost silhouetted. Only a short time ago, he was playing Liszt for her. Now they will probably never be friends again. If only he really were Apprentice Daysmoor, haughty and talentless, someone she’d be glad to be rid of. If only he weren’t Nathan.
The cold teardrop crystal around her feels so heavy. She looks down to find it shimmering through her white shirt. Nathan’s eyes flick to it as well.
“This thing weighs on me,” she says, undoing the clasp. He stares at the teardrop but says nothing.
She takes a step closer, holding it out. “It isn’t mine.” When he doesn’t move, she takes his hand and presses the tear into it.
He closes his fingers and considers her. “It’s mine, isn’t it? All this time. It should have been mine.” She wants to leave but finds herself watching him, waiting for more. After a moment, he says, “It’s like George’s entire life is about keeping me here. He’s let himself turn to dust. His music, his dreams, gone. All that burns in him now is a—a fierce scrabbling. I don’t know how to describe it. He’s clutching. At me, at this magic, maybe at his own existence.”
Sing listens to his low, ragged voice. There is something familiar about it, she realizes. Who is Nathan?
A faint glow pulses from between his fingers. Sing feels lighter without the crystal and its strange sadness around her neck. “You have the tear now,” she says. “You can leave. Do anything you want. Enter the Gloria Stewart competition. It’s not too late. My father could arrange it.”
He puts the necklace into his pocket. He doesn’t seem to be speaking to her. “It makes me … afraid.” Now he looks at her. “Do you really think your father could help me?”
As she studies his tired, lean face, there are two things about which she is certain. One is that she will never forget the kiss they almost shared. “Yes,” she says. “I’m certain my father could get you into the competition.”
Nathan’s face brightens a little. “That would be—”
A scrape-groan muscles its way into the quiet hall. The outside door.
“What—?” Sing begins, but Nathan puts a finger to his lips. He leans in and whispers, “George. He comes here at night sometimes, to play. We have to get out of here. He can’t find us.”
His urgent tone startles her. She looks to the door, but he shakes his head. They would certainly meet the Maestro in the hall if they tried to get out that way. Nathan takes her hand and leads her to a small wooden door behind the platform on which the piano sits. His fingers reach for the lamp cord as they pass, but he seems to decide against turning it off. Sing agrees; better to let whoever has come in think the lamp was left on accidentally, in case its light was visible from the outside.
The door, which Nathan locks behind them, leads to a narrow, twisting, wooden staircase. In utter darkness, they start to climb. The air grows colder as they ascend. Nathan doesn’t let go of Sing’s hand until they reach a little landing and he whispers, “We can sit here until he goes away.”
The stairwell smells like metal and dry old wood, but Sing can’t see anything. She sits next to Nathan in the blackness. After a few minutes, they hear the piano—a flowery piece Sing doesn’t recognize.
“It’s him,” Nathan whispers. “Don’t worry. He’s probably antsy about the performance tomorrow and can’t sleep. He’ll play for a while, then go to bed.”
They are silent for a moment. Sing pulls her coat closed and, realizing, whispers, “You don’t have a coat.”
“I left it in the hall,” is the reply.
“Are you cold?”
“Damn right I’m cold.”
Sing can’t help a whispered giggle at this, to which Nathan mutters, “Oh, thanks.” She listens to the busy, muffled music coming from the hall below them. She hears Nathan rub his hands together and resists the urge to put her arms around him.
“I come here sometimes when I need to settle down,” he says. “To think.”
“The stairwell?”
He laughs quietly. “The roof.”
She gives him an incredulous look he cannot see. “The roof!” she hisses. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall off?”
“The peak is actually flat.” He sounds amused. “And there’s a pretty wide ledge the gargoyles sit on.”
“Still—it’s a long way down. And the gargoyles!”
He pats her leg. “Believe me, there’s nothing less dangerous than a stone monster, ready to save the place from flooding or whatever it is they do. And our gargoyles are especially artistic. They’ve been soaking up good music for a lot of years.”
He hasn’t moved his hand from her leg, a warm weight in the chilly darkness, and she doesn’t want him to. She puts her own hand on top of his. His fingers seem to tense for just a moment, but he doesn’t move. They sit, silent, in the blackness for a while. Maestro Keppler has started playing Bach.
Eventually, Nathan whispers, “Now will you tell me what the Felix wanted with you?”
That night. Those violet eyes. She hesitates. “I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with—well, I met someone in the woods. A cat. A little one. I mean, he’s big, but—I think he might be the Felix’s baby.” Sing finds it easier to talk in the dark. “He likes me. I named him Tamino. He follows me around sometimes.”
“The Felix is a dangerous enemy,” Nathan murmurs.
“I know,” Sing says. “But Tamino—he likes to hear me sing. I think the Felix was angry about that.” She traces a circle on the floor with her shoe. “Thank you for saving me that night.”
She hears Nathan exhale. Then he squeezes her leg. “Well. I like to hear you sing, too.”
Feeling braver, Sing whispers, “Will you tell me what you wished for now?”
He doesn’t respond at first. She wishes she could see his face, worried she has offended him. But after a moment, she hears him sigh, feels the movement of his shoulder against hers as he does so.
Then he says, “I wished to be human.”
Fifty-nine
ALONE IN ST. AUGUSTINE’S CAVERNOUS HALL, George plays. Sometimes, when it’s Bach or Schubert, it seems to him almost as though Nathan and the crystal don’t matter. It is like when he was a child, playing his grandmother’s tinny upright piano for hours at a time. No one disturbed him when he was focused on music. Not even the day his brother drowned, when George should have been with him at the river. But George had been captivated by Beethoven and spent the day crawling clumsily through his piano sonatas. The family let him finish them before they broke the news.
Lately, it has been more and more difficult to lose himself in music, at the piano or in heady dreams of conducting glorious pieces. He used to allow himself to be consumed by music. Now something else consumes him. It feels like music, but it looks like Nathan Daysmoor.
And now, ever since the crystal disappeared, he feels the weight of his overdue years pressing him from all sides. It has driven him nearly mad. But it has puzzled him as well. Nathan has no knowledge of the crystal. Why would he steal it, even if he could?
Then, today, he saw it.
On the da Navelli girl, the one following in the entitled footsteps of her mother. She had it on a chain around her neck at the Gloria Stewart competition, when she was singing in the lobby. She didn’t see him watching her. Neither did Nathan.
He knew something was going on between them. He saw how Nathan looked at her during rehearsals. Tonight, he watched Nathan cross the snowy quad, using the shadows t
o hide his progress. George wouldn’t have seen him if he hadn’t been looking. And the da Navelli girl followed a while later.
George comes to the end of a Bach invention, pauses, then starts on another.
Now they are hiding from him. Nathan’s black coat is thrown over one of the chairs at the back of the hall. They must be in the stairwell.
He feels like playing a bit longer. It doesn’t matter. The crystal is here, and he will have it back soon.
Then no one will take Nathan away ever again.
Sixty
“YOU’RE NOT … HUMAN?”
Sing’s body tenses. Nathan takes his hand from her leg. “Not really,” he says. “I mean, I am human, yes, physically. Mentally. But my soul—my essence—is something else.”
Does she believe this? Here in the dark, she feels she could believe anything. And wasn’t she the one to tell him the tiny crystal was a Felix tear? His wish?
She touches his shoulder.
“When the Felix caught me,” he says, “I was a crow. But I had discovered the beauty of human music. I longed for it more than anything, and it broke my heart that I could only make ugly sounds. So she granted my deepest wish, to become human.”
Sing doesn’t want to believe it. It’s too crazy. But suddenly, she realizes why his voice sounds familiar. She remembers the ugly caws and crackles from the snowy branches of the big tree. “I can hear it,” she whispers. “You sound like them.”
Her eyes are growing more accustomed to the darkness, and she can just see him turn toward her. “Yes,” he says. “She didn’t—or couldn’t—change my voice. It’s much lower now, of course, but it’s the voice I’ve always had.”
Carrie’s conspiracy theories come back to her, the mysterious, ageless Apprentice Daysmoor. “You knew the Maestro when he was young, didn’t you? And you’ve been here all this time?”
He seems to consider this. “I was just about to enter my second autumn when I was changed. That is where I have been frozen. Time doesn’t pass for me as it does for you.”
