Strange Sweet Song (28 page)

Sing keeps her eyes on his desk. “No, sir.”

“You were paying a clandestine visit to someone, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was it?” His voice is darker now, quieter, more dangerous. “Who were you with?”

Sing inhales. He already knows; why hide it? “Apprentice Daysmoor.”

The Maestro is silent for a few moments. She doesn’t look up, but she knows he is staring at her. Then he says softly, yet biting, “There are rules regarding inappropriate relationships between students and apprentices. I’m afraid you will both have to leave.”

Reality sinks in. Apprentice Daysmoor, dismissed, because of her? As unappreciated as he is here, everyone knows the only thing that awaits disgraced DC apprentices is obscurity.

Sing’s heart beats more quickly. “But it’s my fault!” Her voice is high and crackly. “I went there on my own—he didn’t ask me to. Please let him stay.”

“He knew what he was doing,” the Maestro spits.

“It’s not like that.” She is surprised at her own boldness and leans forward. “He didn’t know I was coming—I snuck over there. I just wanted to hear him play again, and he played for me. Just one piece. It—it was Brahms. That’s all.”

The Maestro’s gaze is appraising now. He frowns and blinks.

“That’s all,” Sing repeats quietly.

The Maestro sniffs. “Why on earth would you sneak into the apprentice quarters in the middle of the night? Didn’t you think of the consequences?”

The edge seems to be gone from his voice. Is he relenting? “I’m sorry, Maestro,” Sing says. “He—he just played so beautifully at rehearsal and—and—” She doesn’t know how to finish. It’s all so ridiculous. Why did she sneak out? What was she thinking? She studies an ornate picture frame on the Maestro’s desk, a nest of twisted metal tendrils.

When the Maestro speaks this time, she feels invisible. “He does play beautifully. There’s such a—an
intelligence
there. Such intention. Such humanity.”

She nods. “Yes.”

Now his tone becomes focused and sharp. “Are you in love with him?”

Sing starts. “What? No! Of course not!”
What kind of a question is that?

Her shock must show on her face, because the Maestro says, “All right. Well, I would hate to see a fine musician like Apprentice Daysmoor forced to leave the conservatory because of your poor judgment.” He leans back in his chair. “So what should we do about this?”

Does that mean she’s not expelled anymore, either? That she can still sing
Angelique
?

“It won’t happen again?” She says it like a question, a suggestion.

He laughs coldly. “No, Miss da Navelli. Be sure that it doesn’t.”

Sing relaxes a little. Everything is going to be okay.

Maestro Keppler leans forward. “And to help make sure it doesn’t happen again, I am giving you a censure for insolence.”

Sing’s stomach sinks, but she knows she has gotten off easy.

“Also,” the Maestro adds, voice smooth, “from now on, I forbid you to associate with Daysmoor in any way. If you can do that, you may both stay. Do we have a deal?”

She is stunned. Does he mean at rehearsals, too, and coaching?

“Do we have a deal?” he repeats. There it is again in his voice, that hard undercurrent.

She has no choice.

She nods.

“Now,” the Maestro says, “I see no reason to go to the president—or to Daysmoor—with any of this. But if I find you have broken our deal—if I find you have said as much as ‘hello’ to Nathan—there will be no second chances. For either of you. I don’t care what your father thinks. Do you understand?”

Sing nods.
Blackmail.

Maestro Keppler straightens up. “You have been performing adequately. Keep it up.”

It is a dismissal. She starts to rise, but a knock stops her.

“George? Are you ready to go?”

At the sound of the low, gravelly voice, Sing’s eyes meet the Maestro’s. She freezes, but he smiles faintly.

“Come in!” he calls.

The door behind Sing opens, and she hears Daysmoor approach. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t know you were with a student. I’ll come back.”

Sing doesn’t turn around as the Maestro says, “No, no, Miss da Navelli and I were just finishing up.” His easy tone implies they’ve been doing nothing more than discussing favorite books or sharing recipes.

“Miss da Navelli?” Daysmoor rounds her chair. She is afraid to look up, afraid he will be the gloomy, distant stranger once again and that the night she will always remember never happened after all.

But when she sees his face, her fear dissolves. He has changed—or maybe
they
have changed, he and Sing. He is smiling—is it because of her?—and she smiles back.

He says lightly, “I didn’t expect to find you here. Hello.” She is taken in by him for a moment and starts to respond, but stops herself, glancing at the Maestro’s face. The Maestro clears his throat, eyes as dull and hard as dry clay.

Not even hello.

She closes her mouth.

“What’s going on?” This Daysmoor says to the Maestro before turning back to Sing, his face serious now. Sing shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.
Please understand.

But there is no understanding in his face, only confusion. He returns his focus to Maestro Keppler.

“We’ve been discussing the opera, that’s all,” the Maestro says. Sing hopes he’ll end it there, but Daysmoor’s gaze is unwavering and he continues. “Miss da Navelli has requested a new coach.”

Sing stares at the Maestro.

Daysmoor blinks twice. “Two days before the performance? We only have one session left. I—”

“Well,” the Maestro says, “this is only the first performance of Miss da Navelli’s time here. And, as she’s already making quite a name for herself, she really deserves someone a bit more—accomplished.”

Daysmoor turns to Sing and says softly, “Really?”

She looks at him but can feel the Maestro’s threatening stare. She doesn’t dare answer or even shake her head. She doesn’t move a muscle when Daysmoor asks, almost in a whisper, “What did I do?”

“Don’t put the girl on the spot, Nathan.” The Maestro leans in to Sing and says gently, but loud enough for Daysmoor to hear, “I’m sorry this is uncomfortable, my dear, but I had to let him know eventually. I agree with you one hundred percent. Professor Hawkins is a much better match for you, more in line with the type of professionalism you’re used to. We’ll let the apprentices practice on the newer singers, eh?” He chuckles and turns back to Daysmoor, whose face is as still and dark as water. “Oh, come on, Nathan. You hate vocal coaching anyway. Isn’t that what you said?”

He has said a lot of things, Sing knows. But she doesn’t remember any of them now. All she can hear is the Brahms intermezzo, all she can see are his hands, his shoulders moving under a gray T-shirt, his sad, dark eyes. She watches him, unable to speak. The line of his jaw tightens for a moment, but then she sees a release. His whole body seems to relax just a little—not from relief, but because he is hurt.

Daysmoor turns and stalks silently from the room. And Sing, surprised to feel the wrench of her heart, knows for the first time what she would wish for, given the chance.

She would wish for him.

Fifty-six

T
HOUGH THERE ARE WARM BODIES
on either side of her, in truth Sing is sitting by herself at the Gloria Stewart International Piano Competition semifinals. The Woolly Theater, which has been hosting smaller events all day, has never been so packed. DC’s Autumn Festival is really the theater’s grand opening, and patrons and alumni have come from everywhere to be here. She hasn’t spoken to her father, who must have arrived this morning. Their schedules have not yet coincided.

She didn’t have to come. With the demanding performance of
Angelique
tomorrow afternoon, she technically has the night off. But the diva in her refused to curl up under a blanket in the dormitory; she has to keep everyone in her sights. It is exhausting.

Ernesto da Navelli sits in the front with Harland Griss and several other luminaries. Sing watches some of the bolder audience members approach them politely before the competition begins. The celebrities are gracious and cheerful, but two stern security guards hover nearby, ready for any commoner to put a toe out of line.

Sing can see Marta’s frizzy hair across the room and assumes the apparently empty space she seems to be talking to contains Jenny, too petite to interrupt Sing’s line of vision. Lori, Hayley, and Carrie Stewart are clustered at the back, laughing and leafing through programs. Sing starts to read through the biographies page again but can’t stand Ryan’s professionally photographed face smiling coyly up at her.

The competition has been going on all day behind closed doors. Those left standing in each of the three categories will perform tonight, with the final competition taking place tomorrow after
Angelique.
DC is abuzz with anticipation as one of its own, Ryan Larkin, is still in contention.

Why has she come? She scans the room again. Daysmoor and the Maestro are just entering, the Maestro taking his listless apprentice by the arm. Sing clasps her hands together; they are cold. She watches Daysmoor follow the Maestro to their seats, hoping he’ll glance in her direction so she can try again to convey a silent message of … something. Apology? But the apprentice looks the way he did when she first saw him at her placement audition, eyelids lowered, movements sluggish.

The lights go down.

The heavy velvet curtains part to reveal a gleaming black grand piano. The Amateurs Under Sixteen are up first. A twelve-year-old boy pushes his way through a Bach fugue like a freight train; the notes reverberate coolly in the theater’s well-designed curves and empty spaces. The audience coos and titters as a perfect little seven-year-old girl whose feet don’t reach the pedals dances lightly through Mozart. They applaud politely for a somber thirteen-year-old girl in a stiff green dress who plays a busier Mozart piece with authority. Sing avoids looking into the children’s tired eyes when they take their group bow.

The Amateurs Over Sixteen take the stage one by one. A red-faced, red-haired woman plays the strange first movement of Shostakovich’s second piano sonata—alternately dark and playful—and Sing is captivated, though she knows this slightly mechanical performance won’t hold up against Ryan’s sparkling style. She sees her father lean in to Harland Griss, who nods.

Next is Ryan himself, striding onstage like a movie star and just as handsome in his black tuxedo. Liszt’s coquettish
Valse-Impromptu
suits him perfectly. He wiggles his head along with the flashy runs and ornaments, and his copper hair shines. He shrugs his shoulders and rocks back and forth with the undulating tempo. He throws an impish look to the audience during a particularly frisky moment, making girls giggle. Sing’s father will not appreciate this showmanship, but Ryan’s skill is unquestionable. Harland Griss and the famous concert pianist Yvette Cordaro whisper to each other and nod.

It will take a truly extraordinary performer to beat Ryan.
He didn’t really need me after all,
Sing thinks. Does that mean he actually
wanted
her? That he liked her? Or only that he
thought
he would need her influence to win?

She’s surprised to realize she doesn’t care.

The last performer is a serious bearded man with wild hair. He sits on the cushioned piano bench and, as the rest of the musicians have done, contemplates the black and white keys before him. When he is ready, he places his hands on the keyboard for a moment before depressing the first notes.

Sing gasps. It is Brahms. The piece Daysmoor played for her. Her throat closes. This man will play it with two or three of its brothers tonight, she knows; it isn’t substantial enough on its own. It will need to be surrounded by glitter—this simple piece that any modestly talented pianist could play.

She doesn’t allow herself a glance at the place where the Maestro and his apprentice are sitting. She doesn’t need to; Daysmoor’s profile is all she can see when she closes her eyes—the shadow at the corner of his eye, the way a lock of black hair curves in to the line of his jaw.

The rest of the audience seems pleasantly surprised with the performance. This piece is a favorite. Hum-able. Accessible.

Yet the man onstage doesn’t do this Brahms justice. As the music winds on, Sing feels just the slightest tug embedded in the lines, an anticipation of the next thing. The wrong moments are savored, the wrong moments are rushed through. This man plays well, but he is not in love.

*   *   *

At intermission, she makes her way into the crowded lobby. She thought she wanted to know if Ryan would win, but now she can’t imagine why. He is Prince Elbert, as he has been since the day she met him. Prince Elbert always gets what he wants.

He is in the lobby now, surrounded by friends and fans, mostly girls. But Sing doesn’t go to him. Lori Pinkerton, at his side, shoots her a triumphant look. Lori has been strangely quiet since Sing was given Angelique, no fiery confrontation. Then again, Lori is a diva—ice and patience. Waiting in the wings for Sing to die.

Her father catches her as she is almost to the heavy double doors that lead outside. “Sing, my dear, a hello for your father!”

“I’m sorry, Papà.” She turns to find him looking down at her, overly delighted. Harland Griss stands next to him, navy suit impeccable, dark hair neatly parted and greased, face clean-shaven but beginning to show the lines and folds that come with importance.

“Harland,” Maestro da Navelli says, “you remember my daughter, Sing?”

“Of course.” A soft hand is extended, and Sing takes it. “I understand,” Griss says, “that you are to sing Angelique tomorrow? Impressive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Griss.” Sing doesn’t look at her father for approval.
The mark of a professional—don’t let anyone know who’s pulling the strings.
“I have enjoyed learning the role. Angelique is a complex character.”

Griss approves, launching into an anecdote about a recent Viennese production of the opera. Sing projects just enough confidence. She knows how to do this part, the schmoozing part. Barbara da Navelli was a master.