Strange Sweet Song (16 page)

The car crackles through some sizable puddles as the raindrops rattle the windows. Mr. Bernard and Marta chatter away in the front seat.

“It’s just a stupid party game,” Daysmoor says after a moment.

“Fine,” Sing says, more rudely than she meant to.

Now Daysmoor turns to her, fixing his shadowed eyes on her face, and she gets a strange sensation in her stomach. Quietly, almost as though he doesn’t want the front seat to hear, he says, “That—that song you were singing in front of the Woolly, the night of the Welcome Gathering. Just sing that.”

She feels her mouth open. “The
farfallina
song? It’s just a kids’ song. It’s silly.”

He turns away again. “Or don’t,” he snaps. “I don’t really care.”

Thirty-three

I
T IS THE DAY THE FELIX’S CHILD
goes missing.

No longer content with the songs of birds and streams, he has been tempted by
other
sounds: the pining of violins, the airy babble of flutes, and above all, the enchanting, mysterious wails and growls of human voices. And the girl, who made the sounds he prefers over all others.

The clouds have been gathering worriedly for days, finding and clinging to one another; some ripple and billow, some drift quietly in a morose calm. The Felix’s child pads hesitantly away from the dark softness of the den and into the gray afternoon light.

He must find the sounds again.

Thirty-four

T
HE VILLAGE OF DUNHAMMOND
huddles quietly at the base of the mountain whose snowcapped summit watches over the conservatory. Main Street is home to most of the local businesses, while a few small farms nestle along the smaller dirt roads. Low stone walls trail out from the center of town in all directions like a spiderweb.

The Mountain Grill is not entirely equipped to handle the bubbly, wriggly, forte group of students who follow Mr. Bernard through the low, dark front door into the low, dark dining room. Tables are hurriedly pushed together in a row; the lone waitress scurries back to the kitchen and appears again a moment later, looking frazzled.

Sing and Marta sit next to each other at the end of the row of tables. Mr. Bernard is in his element, patting students on the back and remembering everyone’s names even though it’s still the first week of school and all the students are wearing identical clothing. Daysmoor acquires some kind of beverage nearly instantly and slouches into a chair at the corner of the table, not speaking to anyone. The empty chairs gradually fill with bodies until there are only two remaining seats, the ones directly across from Sing and Marta. And it appears they will remain empty until the low door creaks open once more and Lori and Ryan stumble in, laughing.

Sing stiffens. Lori and Ryan sit down, Lori greeting Marta like an old friend while retaining one hundred percent of Ryan’s focus.

“I don’t think we’ve really met,” Sing says as Lori is turning back to Ryan. “I’m Sing.”

“Oh,” Lori says. “Hi, Sing. Nice to meet you.”

She hasn’t told me her name,
Sing thinks.
She assumes I know it.

Lori snakes her left arm around Ryan’s right. “And you know Ryan Larkin, of course.”

“Yes,” Sing says, not meeting Ryan’s gaze, which she thinks is probably on Lori in any case.

“Sing is a singer, too,” Marta says.

“Lucky, with that name!” Lori laughs. “Anyway, of course I know all about Sing. She’s my understudy.” She leans in, and rose fragrance prickles Sing’s nose. “You must be very talented!”

Sing shrugs. “It’s just an understudy.”

“She
is
talented,” Ryan says. “She sang a Janice Bailey vocalise for her placement.” Sing’s heart gives a hopeful flutter.

Lori raises her eyebrows. “Wow! How did George like that?”

She means the Maestro,
Sing realizes, and wonders if she calls him George to his face. “Not very much.”

Lori frowns, jutting her lip out in a mock pout. “He is
so
old-fashioned sometimes. Don’t worry. I’m sure you sounded
great.
”

*   *   *

Sing stares, glassy-eyed, at the remains of her cheeseburger. Lori is telling a story about losing the heel of one of her designer shoes just before she had to go onstage for a recital.

“So I just kicked off the other one! I mean, the dress was right to the floor, right? Who was going to know? But when I did my bows, one of my
naked feet
poked out. Oh, my God, I thought Benny was going to
die
.”

“Benny” would be legendary composer Benjamin Stanhope, who gives master classes at Fire Lake during the summers, and Lori clearly enjoys the admiring gasps her clumsy name-drop prompts. Sing purses her lips. None of these people know that “Benny” is famously outgoing and is on a first-name basis with legions of students.

Lori barrels on. “It’s so lucky Hayley had convinced me to get a pedi the day before! At least my toes were presentable!”

Everyone laughs except Sing. Even Marta, whose smile hasn’t faded all evening, chuckles a little.

“Hayley can always be counted on to peer pressure you into a spa,” says Ryan, and Lori punches his arm playfully.

“You know you love the spa!” she says. “Let’s see your pedi! Come on, I know your tootsies are all pretty!”

Sing wonders if she could possibly fake food poisoning to get out of the rest of dinner. It wouldn’t be that hard to make herself vomit.

At least Apprentice Daysmoor, when he glances their way, seems even more nauseated with Lori than Sing is. He has spent most of the evening blearily contemplating his salad, as though it’s trying to communicate with him and he isn’t impressed with what it has to say.

Mr. Bernard rises and taps his water glass with his fork. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The chatter dies down. Even Lori composes herself and turns politely toward the head of the table. “It is time for the Noble Call!”

Sing looks at Marta, who shrugs. Some of the students look confused, but others laugh or cover their faces. An older boy conspicuously makes to leave, but Mr. Bernard pushes him down, laughing, and says, “Just for that, Derek, you’re first!”

Derek, whom Sing recognizes as one of the chorus members, protests, but Mr. Bernard shakes his head. “I am lord of these lands, and I decree that you shall be first! Noble Call!”

“What’s a Noble Call?” Marta whispers.

“Some kind of tradition,” Ryan says. “Irish or English or something. The Noble—that’s the person throwing the party—has the right to make everyone else perform.”

Sing groans. So this is what Mr. Bernard was talking about in the car. Why is her life nothing but performances?

Ryan laughs, reaches across the table to pat her hand—thank goodness she had her hand resting there!—and says, “It’s not bad, really. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. You could just say, ‘My cheeseburger was really good,’ or something. He won’t pick you early, since you’re new, so just watch everyone else and decide.”

Derek has chosen to recite a poem, something about a man who gets drunk and wakes up in a ditch next to a pig. Mr. Bernard looks scandalized, in a theatrical sort of way, and hoots along with everyone else at the punch line.

Several students recite poems, a few sing, and one girl even does an Irish step dance in honor of the tradition’s heritage. Marta, surprisingly, does a magic trick involving a napkin and a disappearing butter knife and earns hearty applause. Ryan regales them all with a dreadful yet enthusiastic version of the famous aria
“Nessun dorma”
and earns equally enthusiastic boos as well as two dinner rolls to the head.

“Princess Pinkerton,” Mr. Bernard booms, pointing, and Lori stands to scattered claps and whistles.

Sing expects her to play the insincerely modest “Oh, gosh, whatever shall I do?” card, but Lori is a true performer. There is no hesitation in her expression or her voice—her fierce gaze and confident body language instantly command attention. Sing notices with a sickening feeling that Ryan’s eyes seem to sparkle as he watches the resident diva.

Lori sings a musical theater song—bouncy, funny, animated, and with the obligatory money note at the end. Sing estimates it’s a high C and that it can be heard all the way to the conservatory. The Grill bursts into ecstatic applause, and Mr. Bernard makes a big show of cleaning out his ears with his fingers.

Lori nods and sits gracefully, and as the applause dies, Sing realizes with horror that Mr. Bernard is now pointing at her. “Duchess da Navelli!”

Follow Lori? Is he crazy? How can she out-diva the resident diva?

She stands, trying to keep the motion smooth and confident, and looks out over the crowd of students. They are quiet, expectant. What can she do? It would be pointless to do an aria; even if she sang flawlessly, no one here would appreciate it—they’re all still under the spell of Princess Pinkerton. Going for another money note would just seem like copying, and frankly, she realizes with a sinking feeling, she’s not sure she could outdo Lori’s high C. It was good.

But she is standing, and everyone is looking at her. She scans the room, buying time, trying not to make eye contact.

She sees Daysmoor watching her. Of all the faces in that room, why has she found his? No smile of support, no thumbs-up. Nothing to indicate he gives a damn whether she triumphs or fails in front of all these people. Just that inscrutable stare from those eyes that unnerve her.

He wanted her to sing the
farfallina
song, a silly kids’ song! But somehow, frozen, she can’t think of anything else.

So she starts in, remembering how her father sang it when she was little. Her father, whose voice is as ratty as old burlap.

“Farfallina, bella e bianca; vola, vola, mai si stanca…”

She sings it the way he used to, letting his voice laugh a bit at the funny lines and cry a bit at the sad ones.
Little butterfly, beautiful and white; fly, fly, never get tired …

It occurs to her as the swelling applause starts that it is probable no one else fully understood the words; maybe a few other singers, since they’ve studied Italian. The audience’s warm reaction, therefore, surprises her even more. Everyone applauds heartily—even, she notices, Lori.

But above her broad, fake smile, Lori’s pretty eyes convey nothing but a new dislike. Despite herself, Sing can’t help but stare back, fascinated and triumphant. She has seen Lori’s expression before, on the face of each city’s most popular soprano when Barbara da Navelli came to town. It is the look of a resident diva who fears for her throne.

As the applause increases, she notices Daysmoor isn’t clapping. But he gives a curt nod when she meets his eye, and it makes her stomach buzz.

Sing pries her gaze from the apprentice and smiles genuinely at the crowd. And when Ryan whistles appreciatively, she can’t help but beam.

Thirty-five

A
T THE EDGE OF THE FOREST,
the Felix watches the tower. She stares wide-eyed into the yellow windows, ears pricked to capture what they can. She still does not understand the patterns of sound that captivated the crow those years ago. All she understood then was his despair, his longing. That she understood well.

But ever since, she has wondered. For the first time since her fall, she has wondered about the world outside despair. And somehow, watching the tower makes her feel closer to that world, watching the man-crow play his instrument. Every night he plays, and every night she watches.

Recently, she has begun to feel that the child should be with her. That perhaps he too is a link to this other world and not just a thing she must feed rather than kill for reasons she can’t quite grasp. This evening, under the gray sky with the gentle but chilly breeze riffling her fur, she feels it especially. Enough to pull herself away, back through the crunch and scrape of the piney woods, through the icy streams and into the safe, tamped-down place where he will be waiting.

But she returns to find only marks in the earth and his scent. He is gone.

The rain starts.

Thirty-six

T
HE STEEP ROAD FROM DUNHAMMOND
to the conservatory is less appealing after dinner. Skipping down the hill and playing in the puddles along the way was fun, but now most of the students are hitting up those with cars for rides rather than walking home, tired, in the rain.

Marta has again chosen Mr. Bernard’s old coupe, but now Lori squeezes into the backseat as well. Sing decides to walk.

She pulls up the collar of her garbage bag raincoat and starts up the hill.
It’s only a mile,
she tells herself as her right boot squishes down into a cold mud puddle. Chilly raindrops slide down her face and under her collar, but they don’t bother her. Though it will be dark soon, she is still full of light and warmth from the Noble Call.

After a moment, she hears the splash of someone running up behind her. Before she can turn around, an arm is around her waist and a friendly voice breathes into her ear, “A little damp?”

Ryan slides his umbrella open and holds it up. Sing is grateful for the shelter, but she’s also afraid she is going to collapse—it can’t be healthy for someone’s heart to be beating as forcefully as hers is now. She turns to him and says, “Thanks,” in a completely professional voice, but she makes the mistake of looking into those mischievous green eyes and nearly falls over.

“Easy, there!” He catches her elbow. “We’ve still got almost a mile to go.”

Remain calm,
Sing thinks.
A gorgeous rehearsal pianist has his arm around you and is protecting you from the weather with his own umbrella. Don’t screw this up!

Indifference—that’s always a good tactic. She remembers Lori’s indifference toward Aaron and how it seemed to make him even crazier about her.

Sing smiles. “You should have gotten a ride. It’s going to be a pretty soggy walk.” Was that indifferent enough?

Ryan feigns indignation. “And leave a damsel in distress to slog back to the castle alone? What kind of knight in shining armor would I be then?”