A trill. Then melancholy.
Erik's voice, pure, true, and carries easily over the crowd.
Maestro brings in a quiet beat beneath it, almost a march.
Erik joins on the piano as his voice rises, and chills break over my skin. The rawness. The power as he tells my story. The gossips who attacked me. The Dark Angel who makes them pay. If only it always worked that cleanly.
A lock of hair falls over his forehead as he bends to the keys.
The piano fades until it’s only his voice and my violin. He leaves the bench and comes to me, cupping my cheek as he sings the final note.
I blink back tears at the pride in his face.
Then applause breaks through as people press forward.
Ruiz steps in behind me. Liu retrieves her violin as the box holders advance. Remy placed them strategically, the highest tier closest. The Calhouns reach us first.
Erik makes quick introductions. I smile, nod, and try to catch names.
Reagan.
“You run Noah’s Second Ark?” I ask, connecting it. “What a wonderful program.”
She beams, one hand resting on her very pregnant belly.
“We started it because of Coulson’s partner. She gave us the idea. I was hoping to set up a time to see if I could entice you into volunteering with us occasionally.”
Remy slides his arm around me and starts to speak. I squeeze his forearm lightly and he stops.
Reagan’s warmth is immediate and disarming.
“I would love to. I was raised in foster care, but I had a mentor who changed my life. Working with your program would mean a lot.”
She gives a delighted little squeal. The tawny haired man beside her laughs.
The austere man behind her shakes his head with quiet fondness and guides her forward.
“I’ll call you,” she says over her shoulder as he murmurs something about keeping the line moving.
The line progresses. Faces and names blur as they step forward to praise Erik’s genius.
I discover I rarely need to speak. It’s easier to let them talk.
A woman in a flame-red dress approaches, her face thin and drawn tight, makeup settling into the lines around her pinched mouth. My back stiffens at the malevolence in her eyes.
Remy follows my gaze. “Carlotta Biancholli,” he murmurs.
“She hates me,” I say under my breath as she nears.
My throat tightens. My palms dampen. I discreetly press one hand to Erik’s back and wipe it down in case I have to shake hers. Remy snorts softly. Erik starts to ask me something when a quick, imperious tapping moves through the crowd, followed by hushed whispers.
“Is it her?”
“It is.”
A stern, tastefully dressed woman approaches in a floor-length black gown. Everything about her is understated and deliberate.
I smile, nerves skittering, as she cuts Carlotta off without acknowledgment and steps in front of us.
