by Mary Fan
I tell myself I’m jumping to conclusions, making dire leaps of logic that barely make sense. Of course he’s not talking about dying. Maybe he just means he’s going to be assigned to a deep space exploration ship, like the kind that discovered Earth, and that the journey through the unknown reaches of the universe could take the rest of his life.
I feel like I’m plummeting through the endless questions, and my heart is heavy with disappointment. Though I barely dare think it, let alone speak it, it wasn’t lost on me that if I make it to Adrye, I might see Dámiul in person someday.
Dámiul’s firm expression makes it clear that I won’t get any answers out of him, at least not today. And if telling me his secrets would get him in trouble, then I don’t want to press him.
“All right.” I sigh in resignation. “Then answer this: why me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hundreds of Artists have been sent to Adrye over the years, and more go each day. What about everyone else? Why are you so worried about training me to guard my mind?”
Dámiul leans back in his holographic chair. “Because by giving you the Zexa device, I put you in danger.”
I recall what he said about how just by talking to him, I’m breaking interstellar laws. If I’m right about what his government’s doing to him for trespassing, then I hate to think about what could happen to me. Still, it’s too late for regret. “You didn’t endanger me. I did that myself.”
“Even so, I see in you something too precious to be destroyed. If the worst should happen, I can’t protect you, so I’m teaching you to protect yourself.”
His eyes blaze, drawing me in. I don’t need him to show me his thoughts to know he means what he says. My mind lingers on the word “precious,” and I warn myself not to read anything into it. Every life is precious. And without free will, there is no life.
Dámiul breaks his gaze, glancing at the window. “As for the others… The more people know about me, the more likely it is that the authorities will discover my presence. They’d scour the population and punish all who knew I was here. And I could never return.” He turns back to me. “I know I’ve said it before, but please, you can’t tell anyone about me.”
I nod. Before Dámiul left yesterday, he warned me to keep quiet about his visits. I wanted to make an exception for Milo, but Dámiul was adamant. That I have to hide something from my closest friend doesn’t feel right, especially since it meant I had to lie and tell Milo that I’d given up on understanding the Adryil device. “I promised I wouldn’t.”
Dámiul leans forward. “Not even your friend Milo.”
I give him an irritated look. “Not even him. Don’t you trust me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to doubt you.” Dámiul tilts his head. “But he was the only one you specifically wanted to tell, and you don’t seem happy about keeping this from him.”
“I’m not. But I keep my promises.” I brush a stray hair out of my face. “It’s just that this is something he’d want to know, and I don’t like lying to him.”
Dámiul furrows his brow. “Is he your lover?”
A laugh bursts from my lips. “My lover—of course not! He’s like my brother!”
Suspicion creeps into Dámiul’s expression, which surprises and annoys me. Why would he think I’d lie about Milo? Unless… Could he possibly be jealous?
“I promise, we’re just friends.” For some reason, those words remind me that I’ll probably never know what it’s like to share a life with someone. A familiar ache presses against my heart, and I look away. “Though that’s probably the closest thing to love I’ll ever find. I’m nearly invisible around here.”
“Then everyone here is a fool. I can see you perfectly well.”
His smile, so full of sincerity, sends a pang through my heart, and I look away. It won’t do me any good to dwell on these thoughts.
“Anyway.” I turn back to him, looking to change the subject. “Let’s continue the training.”
CHAPTER 11
A LONE SHAFT OF WHITE shines in the center of the rehearsal stage. Master Raucci stands before it, his hands clasped behind his back. His dark ponytail and black outfit blend into the shadows, making him look like a stern, disembodied face.
I try not to jitter as I wait in the wings for my turn to audition. I tap my fingers against my fingerboard, moving them to the notes of the Lament’s run and listening to the faint pitches the strings make. The song is so drilled into me, I do this every time I hold my viola. During rehearsals, while everyone else takes their seats. Backstage, while the others are tuning. And now, in the wings, while I wait my turn.
I know this piece. I know this piece. I know this piece. I might have a better time believing myself if I had, as I led Milo to believe, spent all my time practicing instead of mind training with Dámiul. Which was a really foolish thing to do, since each session left me too worn out to do anything but sleep afterward.
My entire future hinges on my ability to attract a patron. This solo is my opportunity to be seen for once. How could I have let myself become so complacent about it?
I sense Dámiul’s presence, and I turn to see his hologram standing behind me. Ever since the night we met, I carry the Zexa device around everywhere in case he appears. His schedule is so unpredictable, even he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to visit me, and I don’t want to risk missing him.
He gives me an encouraging smile. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
“Thanks.” I check to make sure no one’s nearby.
“Do you mind if I watch?”
“Of course not.” Anxiety squeezes my insides, and I draw a long breath, trying to relax.
“Are you all right?”
“Just nervous. I wish I’d practiced more.”
A look of guilt fills his expression. “I’m sorry if I monopolized your time.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Choosing to spend time with Dámiul instead of practicing was my own fault. Each time he asked to appear, I was too curious to say no. After the fifth or sixth time, I should have known better than to think I could be disciplined enough to send him away after the time I allotted him. I’m usually so good about my schedule, but then again, I’ve never had a distraction from another world. I keep telling myself that I’ve played the Lament so many times, a few more repetitions wouldn’t have made a difference. But with my audition moments away, my mind keeps fixating on the “what-if.”
Dámiul puts his hand on my arm, and although I know he’s just a projection of colored light, my skin tingles. “You play beautifully. I’m sure the master will love your performance.”
“Thank you.” It brings me some measure of comfort, knowing that he’s here for me. At the same time, the sight of his hand on my arm sends a twinge through my heart. Instead of the warmth of another’s touch, all I feel is empty air.
Master Raucci claps his hands, and I turn toward the stage. “Quiet in the wings!” His sharp Italian accent makes everything he says seem more commanding. “First up: Estelle Carver.”
Footsteps approach, and I whirl. Fortunately, Dámiul’s hologram is no longer visible. Estelle brushes past me as she makes her way onto the stage, flashing a smile. Unease washes over me—there was malice behind that grin.
Master Raucci extends an arm toward her. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Estelle places her viola on her shoulder, raises her bow, and strikes the strings. A sorrowful melody floats from her instrument, filling the stage with rich, mournful notes.
My mouth falls open. There’s no mistaking the opening of “Butterfly’s Lament.” She said she was going to play the Adagio! Did she know I was playing the same piece? Or is this an unlucky coincidence?
I try to force myself to relax. It doesn’t matter if we play the same song. Now, I’ll get to show Master Raucci that I can do anything Estelle can.
Estelle goes into a dissonant run, the one Vera never stopped scolding me about. My heart sinks. Estelle’s finge
rs fly so effortlessly, portraying the mounting madness with perfection. How can I compete with that?
She plays a frenzied variation of the opening melody, high on the A-string, and finishes with a flourish. She keeps her final pose for a few moments to let the last reverberations fade, then relaxes and looks to Master Raucci.
Master Raucci beams. “Very good, Estelle.”
“Thank you, sir.” Estelle flounces off stage. As she passes me, she whispers, “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure out your secret weapon?”
I glare after her, shaking with rage. How could she have known? I never told anyone.
“Iris Lei,” Master Raucci calls.
I inhale deeply and walk to the spotlight. I have nothing to lose, and I’ve played this piece a hundred times. I just have to do it once more.
Master Raucci nods at me. “Go ahead.”
I bring up my viola and lower my jaw onto the smooth curve of the chinrest. In my nervousness, even the familiar scents of varnish and rosin make my stomach turn. The spotlight is so bright, I can barely see Master Raucci anymore.
I glimpse a hologram from the wings. It’s Dámiul, watching me with a subtle smile. Closing my eyes, I imagine that I’m playing for him, and him alone. For someone who’s seen me play and thinks me brilliant. Someone I find infinitely fascinating, and who, for whatever reason, sees me the same way. Yet chances are I’ll never really be with him, and that thought hurts more than I care to think about.
I begin the song, and the soft melody rises from the strings, a plaintive sigh that embodies everything I’m feeling. My fingers move to the melody, smooth and effortless.
So far, so good. I open my eyes as I move into the next section, which involves shifting up the A-string. A section of my highest string feels rougher than usual—frayed with tiny metal threads. The sound comes out choked—how did I not notice before?
I accelerate as I move into the fast section, which takes place primarily on the A-string. Each time my fingers press against the rough patch, I tense a little. The sound coming out of my viola is awful. My string sounded fine when I warmed up earlier. How did it wear out so quickly?
My fingers keep slipping slightly out of pitch. I tell myself to focus and at least finish strong. I start the run—
Snap!
My heart stops. I stare, frozen in disbelief, at my broken A-string, hanging pathetically off the edge of my fingerboard.
A snicker. I look into the wings and see Estelle standing there with a satisfied grin. Fury burns within me. She was behind this—I know it.
Master Raucci clears his throat. “Thank you, Iris. Next time, make sure to check your strings. Next up—”
“Wait!” Glaring at Estelle, I bring my bow toward my remaining strings. “I can finish it.”
The notes I need can be achieved through high positions on lower strings and harmonics. Estelle may have lost me the solo, but I won’t let her have the last laugh.
I start the run once more. This time, instead of moving onto the A-string, I shift up higher and higher on the D-string. As I near the upper limit, where the distance between the strings and the fingerboard is greater, my fingers ache from the metal digging through my calluses. When I run out of pitches, I shift back down and place my fingers gently on the strings. Empty harmonics ring out in place of what should have been rich notes. They may be hollow, but at least I’m playing them.
I finish the piece with an angry flourish, then turn to Master Raucci. “Thank you, sir.”
Knowing he’ll upbraid me for wasting his time, I sweep off the stage without looking back.
Estelle blocks me, a simper spread across her pale face. “Nice playing.”
I clench my teeth. “How did you know about my song?”
“Oh, please. It was obnoxiously easy. You were always plucking it during warmups.”
My mind flashes back to all the times I let my fingers run up and down the strings while everyone else was tuning. I never played the melody aloud, but if Estelle was watching me…
How could I be so stupid? I push past Estelle and keep running until I reach my case. Kneeling beside it, I realize, to my dismay, that the lights aren’t glowing, which means the lock’s disengaged. I recall leaving my viola unattended for a few minutes to help Zuriel tune his instrument after he told me he was too anxious to do it himself. He must have been in on Estelle’s scheme.
A flicker of light. Dámiul crouches beside me. “Well done, Iris.”
“You don’t have to say that.” I open my case and shove my viola inside.
“I’m sure the master won’t blame you for an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident!” I slide my bow into its slot. “Estelle replaced my string with one she knew would break.”
“What?”
“She practically told me so. I should’ve checked but… I didn’t think I had to.” I slam my case shut, my hands trembling. “I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not.” He clenches his jaw in anger. “It’s this place—how they rank you, pressure you, pit you against each other… It’s toxic. They use false promises to manipulate you, forcing you into a life of desperation. And for what? Just to entertain them.”
That’s how Phers talked. I can’t stand hearing such words from someone who couldn’t possibly understand how grateful I am to be here. “Papilio didn’t sabotage me—Estelle did. There’s nothing wrong with this place, only the people who don’t know how to play fair.”
“That’s the problem.” Dámiul’s eyes flash. “Nothing about Papilio is fair. Your Earthling government knows the Arts are the only thing on your planet worth selling to Adrye, so they let Papilio use you to enrich themselves.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Phers was wrong about a lot of things, but he had a point when he said that the school profits off our sweat. And they in turn pay the government in taxes. But leaving would mean bowing down to a miserable future. “What would you have me do? Quit? Where would I go?”
Dámiul is quiet for a moment. “You’re right, of course. I apologize. I just believe you shouldn’t have to live in a world where survival dictates your life.”
“It’s more than survival that drives me.” I run my fingers across my case’s smooth surface. Losing my instrument would break my heart. That would be the worst part about aging out—worse, even, than a life in the tenements. “Performing is what I love. I don’t expect you to understand, but music… it’s who I am, what I believe in. In a way, it’s my faith, standing side-by-side with the Creator.”
“You really love playing, don’t you?”
“More than I could ever say.”
Any trace of his previous fury has seeped from Dámiul’s expression, leaving only that strange sorrow I wish he’d let me understand. He opens his mouth as though to say something, then shakes his head. “I’m afraid I must go. I’ll see you soon.” His hologram vanishes.
Without him, the backstage area suddenly seems lonely, with only a few distant viola notes from someone else’s audition breaking the silence.
CHAPTER 12
MILO’S ROOM IS BY FAR THE neatest I’ve ever seen. I should know better than to compare myself to a member of the famously disciplined Ballet, but I could try a little harder to keep my closet in order, rather than slamming the door shut to hide the mess each time Dámiul asks if he can visit.
“Hello, stranger.” Milo gives me his familiar carefree smile, which seems incongruent with his strained posture. He sits on the floor with his right leg extended in front of him, positioned on top of a wooden device that seems designed for torture. His heel fits into a groove in the slab of wood, a rubber pouch covering the upper part of his foot. The device forces him to arch his foot into an almost complete C.
I cringe at the sight.
But if the device hurts him, Milo doesn’t show it. He flattens his torso on top of his stretched leg. “So you’ve crawled out of the practice hole. How’d the audition go?”
“Horribly.” I
plop down in the chair by his desk and recount how Estelle stole my piece, then sabotaged my instrument. “How could she? I’ve never done anything to her! And now Master Raucci’s telling everyone how brave she was for playing ‘Butterfly’s Lament.’ He thinks I copied her!”
“What a bitch.” Milo rises up onto his left knee, keeping his right leg in the device and holding it against his thigh. I can’t tell whether the look on his face is in reaction to the strain from the foot stretcher or if he’s as angry as I am.
“I was so careful, too.” I lean back sullenly. “But she was watching me. Even enlisted Zuriel to distract me so she could replace my string with a faulty one. Why would she do that? I’m not even a threat!”
“Don’t be so sure. Your ranking jumped past eight hundred overnight.”
I bolt up. “What?” I haven’t checked Linx since the audition yesterday, since the last thing I needed was to see Estelle’s number take off while mine continued sinking.
Milo nods at my watch. “See for yourself.”
I scramble to bring up my profile, and, to my shock, a green 709 sits beneath my name. I finally broke a thousand. Several shout-outs from various members of the Orchestra congratulate me for finishing a difficult piece with a broken string, including one from Brent welcoming me to main ensemble. Once, that might have made my heart flutter, but now, I do my best to ignore it. I still can’t believe he was cruel enough to smirk when Alfred left.
It hits me that I’ll finally perform on stage—not just in the pit—at the next Spectacle. That’s a small consolation next to what Estelle cost me, but it’s something. And I’m on my way up—a patron might actually notice me now.
“See?” Milo says. “It wasn’t a total loss.”
“I guess not.” I return my watch to its clock setting, somewhat mollified. Spotting a wooden crescent under Milo’s desk, I approach and pick it up. “What’s this for?”
