Page 54 of Her Alien Guardian

When luncheon was served, the dining room was filled with the enticing aromas of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and fragrant herbs. Yet despite the sumptuous spread before us, I found I could hardly eat. My stomach churned with anxiety, making even the thought of food unpalatable. I pushed a piece of perfectly roasted chicken around my plate, the silverware feeling unnaturally heavy in my trembling hands.

Glancing at my companions, I saw that Lydia and Elara seemed equally afflicted. Elara’s face was pale, her freckles standing out starkly against her ashen complexion. She nibbled half-heartedly at a roll, her usual appetite nowhere to be seen. Lydia, typically so vivacious and chatty, sat in uncharacteristic silence, her fork hovering over her plate without ever quite making contact with the food.

Mrs. Porter’s watchful gaze swept over us, her lips pursed in a mixture of disapproval and understanding. “Come now, girls,” she said, her voice stern but not unkind. “You must eat to keepup your strength. A proper young lady always maintains her composure, even in trying circumstances.”

I forced myself to take a small bite of chicken. The succulent meat, which I could tell distantly was some of the best I’d ever had, tasted like sawdust in my mouth nevertheless. I chewed mechanically, swallowing with difficulty. The weight of Mrs. Porter’s expectations and the impending punishment seemed to press down on me, making even this simple act a monumental effort.

After the interminable luncheon, I followed my fellow pupils to the music room for what Elara told me were afternoon piano lessons. The room presented a vision of refined elegance, with its high ceilings, ornate moldings, and large windows that flooded the space with warm afternoon light. A magnificent grand piano stood at its center, its polished ebony surface gleaming invitingly.

As we entered, my eyes were drawn to Elara. Ahead of me, as she entered the beautiful room, the auburn-haired girl seemed to come alive, her earlier pallor giving way to a look of quiet anticipation. She approached the piano with reverence, her fingers trailing lightly over the keys in a gesture that spoke of deep familiarity and love.

“Go on then, Miss Elara,” said Mrs. Porter, who had followed us in. “You may play your recital piece.”

When Elara began to play, I was mesmerized. My schoolmate’s fingers danced across the keys with a grace and fluidity that seemed almost magical. The music that filled the room was hauntingly beautiful—a complex piece that spoke of longing and hope in equal measure. I found myself transfixed, forgettingeven my anxiety about the approaching correction as I lost myself in the melody.

As the final notes faded away, I felt a sudden, fierce desire to learn to play like that. The beauty Elara had coaxed from the instrument stirred something deep within me, awakening a longing I hadn’t known existed. I wanted to create that magic, to lose myself in the music as Elara had done.

I remembered suddenly what Gamma had said about learning, about teaching me. I felt a surge of love for him and a pang of guilt for my misbehavior. I chewed on my lower lip, my tummy roiling in fear as I thought about the consequences to come, and wondered what the huge blue man I belonged to would think of my conduct.

Mrs. Porter nodded approvingly. “Well done, Miss Elara. Your practice has clearly paid off.”

Elara blushed prettily at the praise. As she rose from the piano bench, her eyes met mine, and I saw a spark of joy there that transcended our shared anxiety about the coming punishment.

“Miss Lydia,” Mrs. Porter said, gesturing to the piano, “it’s your turn now.”

Lydia approached the instrument with a casual air that contrasted sharply with Elara’s reverence. She settled onto the bench, her posture relaxed as she placed her hands on the keys. When she began to play, I was surprised by her skill. The piece was lively and complex, her fingers moving with impressive speed and dexterity.

Yet as I listened, I noticed small imperfections—a missed note here, a slightly off-tempo passage there. I hadn’t ever had the chance to listen to much music, but somehow I could perceiveLydia’s carelessness. These mistakes were subtle, and to my untrained ear, they didn’t detract significantly from the overall performance. But Mrs. Porter’s frown deepened with each error.

As Lydia finished her piece with a flourish, Mrs. Porter’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “Miss Lydia,” she said, her voice sharp with disappointment, “your technical skill is evident, but your lack of attention to detail is unacceptable. I counted no fewer than seven mistakes in that performance.”

Lydia’s shoulders slumped slightly, but her chin remained lifted in a gesture of defiance.

Mrs. Porter’s eyes narrowed at this subtle show of rebellion. “I will be speaking to Dr. Porter about this,” she said, her tone icy. “I believe an extra stroke of the cane for each mistake would serve as an excellent reminder of the importance of precision and diligence in all things.”

I saw Lydia’s face pale at these words, her earlier bravado crumbling. Seven extra strokes of the cane—the thought made me shudder in sympathy.

“Now, Miss Tessara,” Mrs. Porter said, turning to me, “let’s see what you can do.”

With trembling legs, I approached the piano. As I sat down, the cool ivory keys beneath my fingertips felt alien and intimidating. I had never touched a piano before, let alone played one. The vast expanse of black and white before me seemed an insurmountable challenge.

“Place your hands like this,” Mrs. Porter instructed, demonstrating the proper position. “We’ll start with a simple scale.”

As I fumbled through the exercise, each clumsy note feeling like a failure, I couldn’t help but cringe. My fingers felt thick and unwieldy on the delicate keys, producing discordant sounds that made me want to pull my hands away in shame. I glanced nervously at Mrs. Porter, expecting to see disappointment etched across her stern features.

To my surprise, Mrs. Porter’s expression was one of patient encouragement. “That’s it, Miss Tessara,” she said softly. “Don’t be discouraged. Everyone starts somewhere. Try again, but this time, close your eyes and really listen to the notes.”

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and placed my fingers back on the keys. As I began to play the simple scale once more, something shifted. With my eyes shut, I found myself focusing intently on the sounds, on the way each note flowed into the next. My fingers seemed to move of their own accord, finding the correct keys with a sureness that startled me.

“Excellent!” Mrs. Porter exclaimed. “You have a good ear, Miss Tessara. Now, let’s try something a bit more challenging.”

She hummed a short melody, a simple tune that nonetheless felt full of emotion. Without thinking, I placed my hands on the keys and began to play, my fingers picking out the notes as if by magic. The melody flowed from the piano, not perfect but recognizable, filled with a wistful longing that tugged at my heart.

As I played, I forgot about my nervousness, about the impending punishment, about everything except the music that came from my fingertips. It was as if I had discovered a new language, one that spoke directly to my soul. The notes seemed to weave together in the air, telling a story of hope and sadness, of beauty found in unexpected places.

When I finished, I opened my eyes to find Mrs. Porter beaming at me. “My dear,” she said, her voice warm with approval, “you have a natural talent. With practice, you could become quite accomplished.”

I felt a flush of pride at her words, a warmth spreading through my chest. For the first time since arriving at the academy, I felt a sense of true achievement, of having discovered something uniquely my own.

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