Fred took a long, bracing breath, but another knock at the door saved him from having to explain. He opened it for Walter Bramwell, a fae male who was at the top of my mamá’s list of eligible bachelors she wanted me to consider. He flashed a too-white smile at us, smoothing back his golden blonde hair as he held the door open for James Yoon who hurried in behind him, loosening his signature scarf.
“I’ve never seen you come in late before,” Cecelia said to James. “Aren’t you usually waiting by the door by the time Fred comes to unlock it?”
James tossed his long, black hair over one shoulder flippantly, as though we hadn’t all just seen him rush in. “Where’s Paolo?” he rasped, glancing around the room as he hung up his coat. I’d heard that an accident in his youth had damaged his vocal cords, but I’d never asked him about it, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable about his rough and scratchy voice.
“He’s already warming up,” I said.
“Good, we’re all here,” Fred said, tapping a hoof. “We’re going to have to do the sound check without DeShawn, so you’ll have to bear with me. Who would like to go first?”
“I will,” Walter said, and they walked to the stage together. James claimed the practice room next to Paolo but I stayed put. I was eager to get warmed up, but I wanted to give Paolo more time to cool down before going in there with him.
Cecelia eyed the violin case I carried. “Good thing your voice is serviceable enough that your mother could bully Fred into getting you a duet since you’re not good enough to be featured on the violin.”
I inhaled through my nose, willing myself to be patient. “Cecelia, my mother has nothing to do with my position in this orchestra.”
I could see why she didn’t believe me. We were standing in de Bourgh Hall, after all, and my mamá was on the board of directors.
While I believed that Fred had more integrity than Cecelia was implying and usually felt confident that I deserved to be second chair—and to sing this solo—it didn’t mean that the other musicians believed it. “You can’t just buy your way into a solo,” I said.
“It seems to have worked for Bramwell.” Walter wasn’t the symphony’s usual harpist; that was Lillian Daniels. But everyone knew that Walter’s family had made a large donation to the symphony’s foundation, and nowhehad been selected to play the Nutcracker cadenza this year. So maybe Fred wasn’t above bribery after all.
“Cecelia, we don’t have to do this. You’re the concertmaster. While I would have loved to play your solo, you beat me fair and square.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m ordering food from the Curry Cauldron.” I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. She was almost as good at verbal warfare as my mamá. Her statement might be construed as an invitation, but it was one that would require me to ask her if she’d add me to her order and I had no interest in playing her game.
“Great. Enjoy your food.” I glanced at the clock. 1:08. I’d better get to warming up with Paolo. I found him in the practice room, his fists still clenched from his earlier argument. “Can you believe what Fred said about replacing me?” he asked indignantly. Apparently, I hadn’t given him enough cool down time.
“He just wants things to go smoothly,” I said.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t understand what it’s like to have a great reputation to uphold.”
My reply caught in my throat, so thick I almost choked on the words. Upholding my family’s reputation was the foundation upon which I built my entire life, the measure by which I weighed every choice. Every decision was scrutinized under my mamá’s critical eye, every desire and preference and opinion gradually chipped away until all that was left of me was the girl who upheld our family’s great reputation. I swallowed around the lump in my throat and kept the words in.
Paolo threw back his shoulders. “I’m going to go talk to Fred.”
“Can’t you talk to him after we rehearse?”
“Absolutely not.” He flung the door open and stormed through. I closed it behind him and plunked out some notes on the piano as I ran myself through some vocal warm-ups, trying to block out strains fromCarol of the Bellsthat rang out from the room next to me where James was practicing.
I tried my best to shut out the odd tinny quality of the glockenspiel and concentrate on my own warm-up. Ideally when I practiced, I would stop suppressing my power and letmyself feel every vibration, hear every subtle variation in tone and resonance, but that was not an option here. Even with the stopper on my enhanced senses, I couldn’t block out how James was making a mistake in the same spot, and rather than stopping to correct it, he kept playing it incorrectly over and over again.
I checked my phone. 1:25. The rest of the orchestra would be here soon, and I hadn’t even had a chance to run through my duet. I blew out a breath, conceding defeat. The longer I kept my power locked up tight, the quicker I became fatigued, until I couldn’t regulate it at all. I had to get out of this room and find a quieter place where I could release my power for a few minutes. I left the practice room, letting sensation wash over me as I unleashed my power and strode off toward the backstage area.
From behind the curtain, I heard a sharp intake of breath, drops of liquid hitting the wood floor, and a heavy thump, followed by hurried footsteps.
I pushed my way through the thick velvet curtains that hung in my way and stepped into the warmth of the stage lights. A maze of metal music stands and chairs blocked my path but I pushed forward until a bright yellow sweater caught my eye.
Paolo lay face down at center stage.
He was dead.
Chapter 2
I’dalwaysthoughtofmyself as the kind of person who could jump into action when an emergency arose, but in this case, I did absolutely nothing useful. I was still frozen in place when James put a hand on my shoulder. “Is he…”
I shook myself out of my stupor. “Yes, he’s dead.” My enhanced senses had instantly picked up on his still chest and lack of pulse. And I needed no extra ability to notice the knife sticking out of his back.
I stood numbly next to Paolo’s body while James gathered all the others. Even if I had been a talented healer like Charles Bingley, there was no magic that could bring someone back from death.
