Strange Sweet Song (15 page)

Would George?

He took a deep breath. “Look, Nathan…” But he couldn’t find the right words.

Nathan leaned forward. “It’s
me,
George. I can handle the world outside Dunhammond. You had no problem with me coming along to all your international engagements. Prague, Moscow, Vienna, Paris—you certainly had no problem
then
. My God, what happened to the old days?”

“Those days are gone.” Maestro Keppler was surprised to feel a lurch in his chest as he said it. “They’re gone. The conservatory is a safe place for you. People forget you here. I believe it is the forest that protects you from their questions.” He did believe that.

The young man said quietly, “My students are going to keep asking questions.”

“Well, perhaps it is no longer safe for you to teach private lessons.” The Maestro hadn’t meant to say it. But now that he had, he was resolute. It was the best solution. “You can still practice, of course, and help with the voice students occasionally—you do have enormous talent there. But this is really the best way.”

“You can’t take my students!” Nathan cried, growing pale.

The Maestro threw up his hands. “Your students don’t even
remember
you! Three years you taught Molly Stewart, and she
introduced
herself to you at the alumni banquet last week!”

“They may not remember me, but I remember them,” Nathan said quietly.

The Maestro’s face became hard. “I’ll recommend to the president that your talents would be put to better use elsewhere.”

Nathan’s mouth was set, his eyes dark. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he said. “Tell the president whatever you want. I’m going on that tour. You can’t stop me.”

He was serious. He was going to leave.
Leave.

George looked back at that youthful, defiant face and struggled to keep his own face placid as the anger welled inside him.

“I’ve given up a lot for you, Nathan, so we could be here. A real career.”

“I never asked you to.”

“Damn it, I’ve given you
everything.
Even your damn name!” George’s heart felt hot, pounding against his ribs. His fingers clutched the crystal as he seethed, face reddening, breath becoming blustery. Nathan said nothing.

From the desk, a boy looked happily out of an old photograph. Crooked teeth, muddy clothes. George felt his brother’s faded stare, the real Nathan, the Nathan who should have survived that plunge into the river. Who was this ungrateful young man who stared at him now with such ferocity, jaw set, from the other side of the desk? He clenched the crystal hidden in his hand so hard, he thought his bones might break.

And as he did so, a strange thing happened—Nathan’s breathing became more rapid, his shoulders stiffened, and he doubled over in his chair. Fascinated, George squeezed the crystal more tightly, using both hands now, hidden under the desk where the apprentice could not see them. He channeled his rage through his fingers; he could almost feel it sparking. Nathan began gasping violently and slid out of his chair altogether.

George was exhilarated. He knew he was doing it, through the crystal, with his strength or his anger or the sheer force of his will. He released his grip and tried to force a neutral expression, though he could barely keep from grinning. Adrenaline shot through his chest and arms and legs. Nathan looked up, eyebrows drawn, eyes wide, as though he had seen a monster.

The Maestro leaned forward. “I
can
stop you, my boy. I can.”

Something about Nathan changed in that moment. The lightness around him dissolved, his handsome face fell into an ugly, droopy mask, and his eyes dried into hard, dull stones. He left without another word.

The Maestro tossed the crystal onto his desk. He put his hands to his face and laughed, then sighed, stopping himself before the sigh became a sob.

And so I have robbed the world of one of its great artists.
It was unconscionable. But it was for the boy’s protection, wasn’t it? George couldn’t just pick up and leave the conservatory, follow Nathan across continents, watch from the shadows as the world fell in love with him. No, Nathan must stay here. With the crystal. With George.

And now, George knew how to make him stay.

The Maestro laid his head on his vast desk.

After seventy-two years, it was the first time Nathan Daysmoor had asked to leave.

Thirty-one

S
ING IS SO MAD, SHE COULD STOMP.
She could stomp right on Apprentice Daysmoor’s smug face. How dare he? How
dare
he say those terrible things to her? How
dare
he sleep through the rest of her coaching session? Maybe if he weren’t up all hours sitting in trees, he’d be able to stay awake.

And how
dare
he report her to the president and get her a censure? She should report
him.
She should go straight to the Maestro, request a new coach, turn Daysmoor in for being the useless, self-absorbed lump he is.

She storms into the lobby of Hud, wishing the doors weren’t so frustratingly civilized and would allow themselves to be slammed. But no, despite her best effort, they gently hiss closed as she clomps across the lobby to the stairwell.

Jenny answers the door after three sharp knocks. “Sing, what’s up? I was just about to go to quartet practice.”

“I need your help.” Sing brushes past her and plops onto the closest bed. Jenny and Marta’s room looks like it was decorated by a monster that vomits dirty laundry, hair care products, New Age boutiquery, and sheet music.

“Um, okay,” Jenny says.

“I need dirt on Apprentice Daysmoor. Something really embarrassing. Or awful. Ryan says all apprentices have stories.”

Jenny cocks her head. “Wow. I know he’s a wet blanket, but why the venom?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sing says, trying not to think about the question. “Do you have any info on him? Can you get some from your newspaper or something?”

“Generally, if the newspaper has interesting info, they print it,” Jenny says. “But I can maybe dig through the archives. There isn’t much digital right now, and I’m sure as hell not going to read three years’ worth of papers just to help you satisfy your weird rage, but we are developing a computer directory that might be useful.”

“Thanks.” Sing strides out of the room and down the stairs to the lobby. She sinks into an ugly maroon chair and tosses her
Angelique
score onto a battered coffee table. With sharp, jerky motions, she pulls a notebook and pencil from her backpack and begins writing.

Dear Papà,

How are rehearsals for the new season going?
[Interest in what he’s doing, a good way to start.]
School is fine. My classes are fairly decent so far, except trigonometry, which is hard, and Nature of Music, where we just listen to birds all day. I’m understudying the lead in the opera.
[This revelation might elicit a curt note to the Maestro or President Martin, but she doesn’t hold out much hope it would change anything.]
Rehearsals are fine, except for my coaching, which is useless. I don’t even have a real coach, just some Apprentice—Daysmoor—who sleeps all the time and doesn’t know anything about singing.
[Offhand enough not to seem like whining.]
Anyway, the scenery is very nice, and I can’t wait to visit the village. Say hi to Zhin for me. I hope she is making you proud!

Baci,

Sing

She frowns at the last two sentences, then erases them.

She can still hear Daysmoor’s horrible, raspy voice.
Breathe. Support.
No kidding. Did he think that was helpful advice, that she didn’t know singing requires
air
?
Stuck-up little diva,
he called her. Since when is “diva” a bad word? A diva is a queen, just like Barbara da Navelli was—queen of the stage, queen of the business.

Sing knows she struggles with her own diva-ness; her mother was always telling her to act the part more.
If you play a thing strongly enough,
she used to say,
you make it true.

Yes. Yes. Make it true.

Writing the letter has helped her anger to subside. She lets her shoulders fall and sinks into the chair. Then she reads it over one more time. It’s very
diva,
she realizes. Her mother would be proud.

She tears it out of her notebook and rips it up, clutching the pieces in her fist.

Thirty-two

I
N THE PARKING LOT,
swirls of bodies huddle in groups, duck into cars, shake umbrellas. Gray clouds spit out masses of rain in bad-tempered torrents. Sing and Marta stand awkwardly in the main doorway to Hector Hall, rain pattering in a steady hum punctuated by short, blustery bursts.

Sing hasn’t worn her regulation raincoat before; it looks more like a black garbage bag tied in the middle. “We don’t have a car,” she says, making an indeterminate gesture at the weather. “You want to walk all the way in this?”

Marta peers through the rain. “Mr. Bernard said he could take a few people.” Her raincoat, though still garbage bag–esque, looks slightly better than Sing’s because she’s taller and thinner.

Hopping a ride with the teacher. Great.
Sing pulls her regulation rain hat down over her eyes.

“Don’t you want to go?” Marta says. “It’s supposed to be a blast.”

Mr. Bernard’s famous getting-to-know-you excursions are supposedly one of the highlights of making Opera Workshop. But Sing doesn’t feel up to a rollicking night on the town.

Still, it is an opportunity to make connections. “Yeah,” she says, pushing her hands into her garbage bag pockets. “We should probably schmooze, right?”

“I’ve heard it’s the thing to do,” Marta says, laughing a little.

Sing can’t picture Marta schmoozing. She realizes with a pang of pity that Marta will never have a career without this essential skill. “It’s how the business works,” she says. “It’s how my mother got her career, really.”

Marta seems taken aback. “Your mother was
wonderful,
Sing. She was
amazing
.”

Sing feels her cheeks reddening. “Well, yeah, she was.”
Was she?
“But she wouldn’t have been anything without my father. He already had a name, you know. He was already world-famous. She used that.” Marta’s gaze snaps away. Sing doesn’t know why, but she continues, speaking softly to the back of Marta’s shiny, plastic shoulders. “She would have used anyone, I think, who could have helped her. I’m not sure she even loved him.”

Marta turns back but doesn’t acknowledge Sing’s words, which is just as well. “Thought I saw Mr. Bernard.”

Sing squints through the rain, half hoping their teacher has already gone. Her eyes are drawn to a cozy scene over by a little alcove, and after a moment she realizes she is staring.

You’re obsessing.
She hears Jenny’s voice even though she’s not there.
That’s not true,
she tells herself, turning away. She isn’t even remotely interested in what Ryan and Lori Pinkerton are doing over there under that umbrella. Not even remotely.

“I like your necklace,” Marta says, studying the strange crystal Sing now wears every day.

Sing says, “Thanks,” but tucks the necklace into her shirt, where it chills her skin.

Marta shouts, “Hey! Mr. Bernard! You have room for us?”

Please, no,
Sing thinks. But Marta grabs her elbow and leads her across the lot to where Mr. Bernard is standing next to a decrepit old coupe. “But of course!” he says. “There’s always room for a couple of sophisticated ladies!”

Sing insists Marta take the front and clambers into the cramped, muggy backseat. Her knees press into the back of Marta’s seat as the coupe wheezes itself to life.

“I can’t wait to start blocking
Angelique,
” Mr. Bernard says, the car still in park. “We’re going ultratrad on this one—none of that ‘setting it in an office building with everyone in business suits’ crap. We are talking
wigs
! Period costumes! Backdrops with trees, not triangles and splotches or whatever the hell else is
arteestic
lately.” Marta laughs, and Sing can’t help but join her. Mr. Bernard taps the steering wheel. “Sorry, girls, we’re waiting for one more. Sheesh, I’m going to be late to my own party. Oh, here’s Cinderella now!” He waves. The rain on the window obscures the figure crossing the lot toward them.

“Is that Apprentice Daysmoor?” Marta asks. “Is he coming?”

“Sure.” Mr. Bernard creaks the car into gear as the figure approaches. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

Sing says, “
The
Apprentice Daysmoor? The one who looks like a corpse?”

“Only less charismatic?” Mr. Bernard adds, then says, “Sorry! Sorry, forget I said that.”

Marta giggles. “Oh, he’s not that bad.”

The door creaks open and Daysmoor folds himself up in the seat next to Sing, knees up to his chest. She turns to the window as the car lurches into gear.

“Glad to have you with us, Nathan,” Mr. Bernard says as they rattle along in the rain.

“One of us has to make an appearance, and George sure as hell wasn’t going to come,” Daysmoor says.

“Delightful. Well, I hope you’ll grace us with a performance later. There’s a first time for everything, right?”

Sing frowns. Performance? What kind of dinner is this?

Daysmoor doesn’t answer, and Sing glances at him. He is staring out the window. Thinking about his last “performance”?

Marta’s hair bobs. “I’ve been thinking, Mr. Bernard, about my character. You know, in Greek mythology…”

And she’s off. Sing likes Marta, but it just seems like her ears turn off when Marta starts in about mythology.

Daysmoor is absorbed in the misty trees ambling past. Sing asks, “So what’s this performance?”

He doesn’t turn to her. “You’ll see.” He doesn’t say it in a way that invites her to investigate further.

Sing huffs, not caring if he hears.
Fine.