Page 99 of The Princess and the Fraud

It was a beacon to Aaron as well, because he came and stood closer beside me, joining me in the admiration. A soft exhale escaped me at the way the stage lights reflected from the glossy surface, the tension in my body unwinding. But not all the way, not yet. Trembling, I reached out to trace the cello’s neck when Aaron’s hand reached to do the same, and the sides of our hands brushed each other’s. My heart jumped at the contact and sprinted at a rapid pace when Aaron didn’t immediately pull his hand back.

“It’s beautiful,” Aaron murmured, turning to look at me. Our faces were suddenly close. The stage lights made his normally dark eyes seem lighter, alive. “Isn’t it?”

I looked away from him and stretched my hand out further. And then, holding my breath, I pressed my finger to the C string and gave it the barest wiggle. The thick cord gave way beneath the pressure, and I could’ve closed my eyes at the way my body relaxed. My words were quiet, afraid of chasing away this feeling. “This is the first time I’ve touched a cello since my mother died.”

I slid my finger over to the D string, basking in the difference of the thinner cord. The way I poked at them was all wrong, amateur, but I’d need to pick it up to touch it properly.

“When I found out who you were in June,” I began, and this time, my eyes did slip close, “I felt so betrayed. I’d been waiting for the universe to send me someone—my mother to send me someone—and it sentyou.” My finger slipped over to the G string. “Aaron Astor, who got everything he wanted in life handed to him. Aaron Astor, who never had bad things happen to him.”

I could remember how violently my opinion of him had shifted the second I’d found out who he was. Before, I’d almost felt convinced when he’d told me I should jump. And then, when he’d introduced himself, his words had soured within me. It felt as if I’d fallen victim to a scam, because of course Aaron Astor could never understand my struggles.

“But now I know,” I went on in a low voice, eyes slowly opening. “It couldn’t have been anyone else other than you.”

No one had ever understood me the way Aaron did. And, in the beginning, I’d hated it. I’d hated the way he could see right through me, as if I were a piece of sheet music he read and memorized. He’d point out things about me that I’d shoved down, as if those dark secrets had been written all over my face. And even when I got angry, even when I yelled at him, he still welcomed me back time and time again, infinitely understanding.

I’d never thought someone could become so important to me so quickly, but somehow Aaron Astor had become that person.

Holding Aaron’s gaze, I gave the cord a full strum, eliciting a low, quiet note, the first breath of music I’d made in five years. Everything that’d laid dormant inside me fluttered to life. “I want to play for you.”

Aaron’s breath caught. He understood the significance. I could see that realization wash over him as his lips parted. The last time I’d played had been for my mother, who listened to every one of my performances, and that, when she’d died, I couldn’t bring myself to play without her. And now I wanted to play for him. “Are you sure?” His voice was low, slipping along my skin like a deep note of its own.

I didn’t hesitate. “Without a doubt.”

The brown centers of his eyes were dark and deep, almost melting into the pupil as he watched me.

“Go sit,” I told him gently, turning my attention back to the instrument case. “I’ll… set up.”

It was ridiculous to say that I needed a moment, and I didn’t want him to think I had doubts. Aaron wordlessly stood and headed off stage, leaving me alone with the cello. It stared back at me from its case, so grand and beautiful, daring me to do more than caress its strings.

With shaking hands, I unclasped the strap that secured the cello’s neck. For a moment, I paused there.

There’s always tomorrow, my mother had said.

It was officially tomorrow.

The cello was heavy as I eased it from its case, fingers curving around the smooth wood on muscle memory. There was a rock stop in the case that I picked up before I pulled the bow out, and suddenly my hands were filled with pieces of my past that felt so light. Pieces of me.

When I came out to the stage, out from behind the curtain, I found Aaron had pulled the bench seat from the piano to the center of the stage underneath a spotlight. I pulled in a quick breath, searching for him, before finding him seated in the front row.

“Pretend I’m wearing something nicer than my Alderton-Du Ponte polo,” I told him. “Pretend I’m wearing something pretty. And that my hair isn’t in a ponytail.”

“I will not pretend anything,” Aaron replied, attention never wandering from me. “I’m going to take you in, Lovisa Hahn. All of you. Just as you are.”

My heart felt like it was about to explode in my chest. My legs were unsteady as I crossed the stage to the bench seat, sitting down. The first thing I did was transfer the bow to my other hand, gripping the neck of the cello but also pinching the bow between my thumb and finger. I eased the cello onto my lap, pulled out the endpin, and screwed it tight. Then, taking the rock stop, I placed it on the floor, easing the endpin into the gully so it wouldn’t slip on the stage’s hard surface. After I finished, I adjusted the cello between my legs, the sensation as familiar as it was unfamiliar.

This body was different from my eighteen-year-old body. It was curvier, stiffer.It’s been a long time, the cello mused as I settled in behind it.You’ve changed, but it’s good to see you.

As I tightened the bow strings, Aaron leaned back into his seat. “Is this the part where you play the cello and I’m immediately in awe of you?”

“Or the part where I start playing, and we both realize how bad it sounds when someone hasn’t played in five years.”

“I am prepared either way.”

I took in a deep breath as I straightened my spine, a shiver slipping down it as I readjusted my grip on the bow. I closed my eyes, knowing which piece I would play. It was one of the only pieces I could play from memory, but wondered if the music would remember me.

Elgar’s Cello Concerto.

For a moment, I just sat there, transported to a time where my dreams still felt within reach. Before my mom died, before I worked at Alderton-Du Ponte, before my life had become nothing more than going through the motions.

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