Strange Sweet Song (11 page)

The Maestro cues Ryan to begin Angelique’s most famous aria,
“Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre,”
and Lori stands. Sing prepares for the worst.

It is worse than she fears.

It’s actually really good.

Lori fixes a tiger’s gaze on the high windows at the other end of the hall; she looks as though she is shooting lasers from her eyes. Her glossy lips protrude in exaggerated vowel shapes, and her white teeth gleam. The sound is loud and fat and confident, though not as pleasant as Marta’s. Lori doesn’t look at her score. She gestures and moves as Angelique would, hair shining, shoulders back.

Prince Elbert can barely contain himself.

*   *   *

Afterward, the Maestro calls Sing over. She’s not sure how he does this. He doesn’t say anything or gesture, but she knows she is being summoned. She hopes Ryan will linger, but he is already heading for the door, talking to Lori.

No, her only potential ally is Apprentice Daysmoor, standing crookedly behind the Maestro with a look of complete indifference. So much for that.

The Maestro clicks his tongue. “Miss da Navelli”—there’s her name again—“I hope you will pay closer attention at future rehearsals. You are not in the chorus anymore. Set an example.”

“Yes, Maestro.”

“And you need to get in the gym. You heard how polished Lori sounded today—she was at FLAP over break, doing
work
. You sound as though you didn’t croak out a note all summer.”

“Yes, Maestro.”
He knows I was at Stone Hill. He knows I’ve been working hard.

“Your first rehearsal with Apprentice Daysmoor is tomorrow. Please take advantage of his guidance.”

Sing notices the apprentice’s dull eyes on her face now, arrogance radiating from him like chill off a cadaver.
His
guidance? She glares back; she will
never
take advantage of his guidance. “I’ll be fine, sir,” she says, and, searching for strength, finds the memory of Ryan winking at her. “With the rehearsal pianist.”

Is it her imagination, or has Daysmoor’s expression changed from indifference to disgust? She inhales broadly.

The Maestro lowers his voice. “I will be frank with you. I didn’t choose this opera. It is famous, beloved, and inextricably tied to this school, and the administration would have no other piece open our new theater. But Angelique is a difficult and inappropriate role for someone your age. Considering how badly you butchered your audition, I should have cast you as the mute. But the plain fact is we need an understudy, and you were the only decent soprano available.”

Decent.
Well, that was nearly positive.

It doesn’t last, however. The Maestro says, “If it were up to me, Lori Pinkerton wouldn’t even have an understudy.”

“Yes, sir.” Sing’s face is red again as the Maestro stalks away.

Apprentice Daysmoor starts to follow, but she calls out, “Hey!”

The apprentice turns, raising his eyebrows.

She is still stinging from the Maestro’s words but can’t put her frustration where it belongs. “I don’t appreciate being stared at. Just so you know.”

He stares a moment longer. Then he leans in. His voice is low and ravaged, almost a whisper. “Well, just so you know, my name is not ‘Hey.’ It’s Apprentice Daysmoor, to you. And just so you know, coaching Opera Workshop is not number one on my list of things I like to do. In fact, it’s not on there at all. And I like it even
less
when I have to put up with stuck-up little divas.”

Fighting tears for the second time in a week, Sing says, “Well, if nobody wants me here, why did he cast me?” She didn’t mean to sound so young and pounds her fist against her leg.

A flicker of something approaching emotion crosses Daysmoor’s face. After a long moment, he says in a softer voice, “Because someone he respects assured him you could do it. Someone … must have seen something he didn’t.”

He looks at her, frowning, for a second more before the harsh call of “Daysmoor!” echoes across the room. The apprentice turns, obediently following the Maestro through the double doors.

As Sing’s anger dissipates, she stares at the shiny floor. Who could have convinced the Maestro she is worth something?

Is
she worth something?

When she looks up, Ryan is standing there. “I thought you might need to get that coffee,” he says, catching her with his sparkling, steady gaze. “Want to walk down to the village?”

“Really?” she says.
Stupid thing to say.
But he smiles at her anyway, just at her. Warm shivers course outward from her diaphragm; she doesn’t dare move in case she falls over.

Ryan laughs. “Come on. Aaron and Lori are waiting.”

Now Sing freezes for a different reason. Ryan has gestured to the big doors, where a skinny, swarthy boy stands with Lori Pinkerton. Are Aaron and Lori together? It doesn’t seem that way; he isn’t trying to disguise his adoration, and she isn’t trying to hide her disdain. In fact, it seems like the more Lori pulls away, the more sappy Aaron’s eyes get. So are Lori and Ryan together? Or are they all friends? And where does Sing fit in?

Ryan pulls her focus back by taking her hand, which she is certain is disgusting and sweaty. “Hey, take it easy. You look like you’re afraid or something.”

She tries to smile, but it probably looks weird and uncomfortable. “No! No, not at all. Coffee sounds great.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He is still holding her hand. Is that presumptuous or exciting? Her fluttering lungs tell her it’s exciting. She pictures the trip down the mountain to Dunhammond, dusky and quiet, the pine forest becoming leafy below the conservatory, the gravel way enfolded by foliage until it reaches the village. Tonight, the road will be warm, hidden, and lit by a thousand stars.

Ryan squeezes her hand. “Let’s go.”

She smiles. Who cares if Lori Pinkerton is there? Ryan isn’t holding Lori Pinkerton’s hand right now. Ryan isn’t putting his arm around—

Putting his arm around!

—Lori Pinkerton right now. Wait until Jenny and Marta—

She stops. Carrie Stewart’s party!

A cursory scan of the hall tells her Marta is gone. They are probably both in their room already, waiting for her. Brushing their hair. Excited.

Ryan sighs and turns to her. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry—I can’t get coffee now. I’m sorry. I forgot. I have to go to Carrie Stewart’s party.” Her shoulders slump.

“Yeah, we’re going, too. Later. It’s fine.”

“No,” she says, “I’ve got friends waiting for me. I—I’m sorry.”

He looks at her, eyebrows drawn slightly. Does he think she’s lying?

“Oh,” he says. “Well, whatever. Have fun.” Then he smiles that easy smile, shrugs, and walks away.

Sing knows what that means. It means there are plenty of girls who
are
available for coffee. She sees many pairs of mascaraed eyes discreetly following Ryan as he crosses the hall.

Lori puts her arm through his as they leave.

Twenty-three

F
OR CREATURES SO NATURALLY FEARFUL,
humans had a knack for wandering into danger. This occurred to the Felix one evening when the aurora borealis was so bright that her mind became clear again. By the next day, her thoughts had become simpler, but she still observed the humans and their horses and stones and noise from her perch overlooking the abandoned church.

She rarely came to this place. It was too low and exposed. Being chained to the earth was like drowning, but coming down off the mountain was like being buried alive. The last time she ventured down, she was called by the scent of humans. They had built the church and the tower. She ripped their lungs out.

Now there were more of them. A settlement below the church, more horses, more noise, more plowed earth and wood shavings, metal and smoke. They had been gathering for months, or years. She didn’t know. She only knew they meant to stay on her mountain forever. She had to kill them all.

It was easy. Down here, there was no connection to the sky. The only memory the Cat grasped was rage, eating her guts, shooting outward. Each human that fell was her brother, screeching and bleeding and dying over and over again.

When the moon rose that night, all the humans were silent. The flies would arrive in the morning with the sun—she had never figured out how to kill flies efficiently—but for now, the Felix padded softly back toward the mountain in peaceful stillness.

When she arrived at the clearing, she was surprised to see a man standing near the stone tower. Just standing there, arms at his sides, looking at her. Growling, she bounded over.

“You should have taken me first, madame,” the man said. “For I was the only one here who came seeking death.”

The Felix exhaled rotten breath, her eyes level with the man’s own.

“I know who you are,” he said. “I dreamt of you. You were born in the light, but you cannot find your way back.”

The Cat didn’t understand him, but hesitated.

“Do you want to hear my story?” he asked. “I will tell it, and if it displeases you, you will rend my guts. That is not my rule—it is yours.” Now he studied the black-violet eyes of the beast. “But maybe you know my story already?”

And looking into his eyes, she did. The Sky part of her mind awakened in the gathering darkness. In the eyes of this man, she saw loss and despair, as she saw in all creatures. But this loss was different. It wasn’t the loss of a beloved, it was the loss of
being.
Annihilation.

“Ah, you understand, I think,” the man said. “I foolishly transferred my soul to paper, and it burned to ashes. So you see, I am ready for death, for I am already dead.”

The Cat’s teeth tingled, but, as it did on rare occasions, the power of the sky flowed through the Felix’s heart and trickled down her blood-soaked face, solidifying into a single tear, this time stained red.

The man caught the tear in his hand and blinked. “You have given me a gift. I … did not expect that. I would use it to bring back those whose lives were lost today, if it has that power.”

But the eyes of the heavens, who weep through their despairing sister on earth, see only the depths of the soul. And what François Durand really wanted was his life’s work restored to him, and a sanctuary of learning where music could be protected from the horrors of the outside world.

Twenty-four

S
ENIOR FLOOR SMELLS LIKE SANDALWOOD
incense, fifteen different perfumes, sweat, and beer. Sing sits on Carrie Stewart’s bed next to a lamp that has been covered with a red scarf and now casts dim, bloody light. Marta and Jenny giggle nearby.

It was as she predicted: There they were in their room, giddily spraying hair spray and applying makeup, giving each other fashion tips. She tried to seem excited, too, but couldn’t help dwelling on the fact that she was going to yet another party instead of on a moonlit walk with a boy. A real boy, who actually seemed to like her. And who, she might as well admit, she likes back just a little bit. But she ruined it.

The party spills out into the hallway, more open doors. Someone has turned off the hall light and brought out a lamp with a spinning shade that throws blue star and moon shapes onto the walls. Music blares from one of the rooms, Eastern European techno that shakes the floors, and the dancing is energetic.

Sing sips at a wine cooler in a red plastic cup and rests her head back against the wall. It doesn’t matter where the party is. Senior floor, Fire Lake, the mansion of a dignitary—she pretends to be having a good time until the important people are ready to leave. Right now, Marta and Jenny are the important people, enjoying the inane conversations, the thrill of a usually forbidden location, and the exhilaration that accompanies thunderous music. Even if it is only four chords.

She has to admit, though, this is better than a soiree or, shudder, a
gala.
At least she’s wearing jeans and a sweater, not silk and nylon and double-sided tape. No makeup is nice, too; makeup always feels like something to be worn in performance, not real life. Parties are always performances.

Two guys sit down next to her. One wears an old-fashioned brimmed hat in dark plaid; the other seems dressed for some kind of sporting event, lots of cotton in primary colors with big numbers.

Sports Guy cozies up. “Hey.”

Sing sips her drink.
Am I a mark or a sideshow?
She glances at the tanned, tank-top-covered torsos moving confidently around the room, the long hair swishing.
Sideshow.

Sure enough, Plaid Hat says, “Hey, are you related to Barbara da Navelli?”

Impressive. They’re not usually this straightforward. “Why, are you?” she asks.

They laugh. Sports Guy smells like beer and the type of cologne adolescent boys wear by the gallon. “Teddy,” he says, and when she looks confused, he adds, “My name. Teddy Lund. This is Connor.”

Teddy waits expectantly, because apparently now that he has given her this crucial information, he deserves her life story.

Connor stares, nervous, leaning in and smiling. “So? You gonna tell us?”

Sing sets her jaw but sees no reason to lie. Keeping her face blank, she says, “Yes. Barbara da Navelli was my mother.” Where have Marta and Jenny gone? What time is it?

Both guys laugh nervously. “That is so crazy,” Teddy says.

What is it about freaks that attracts guys?
Connor snakes an arm around her shoulders, and Teddy watches.

She shifts a bit, which Connor apparently takes as a good sign, squeezing in closer. Marta and Jenny are nowhere in sight. Some friends. She tries not to think about what Ryan might be doing right now.

Connor says, “So … were you, you know,
there
?”

She freezes.

“Hey, man, that’s not cool.” Teddy shoves Connor, who relinquishes her.

“I’m just asking!”

“Idiot!”

Were you there?

She’s gotten that one before, of course. Everyone wants to know about Barbara da Navelli’s famous farewell performance. And she can’t help saying the answer,
seeing
the answer, in her head.
Yes. I was there.