Page 8 of Crescendo

“I think you’re just rather short.”

“Entirely not what I meant, but thank you for that,” Clara said cheerfully as we filtered into the auditorium and took seats.

∞∞∞

I’d been ready to crash hours ago, so when Olivia directedme to the apartment on Queen’s Gate Terrace—we weren’t required to book our accommodation through the Crescendo partners, but they helped subsidize the often unaffordable places around here, with a whole swath of this street apparently rented out with a good deal on a regular agreement for Crescendo students, and even though I could have afforded to go elsewhere, I wanted the full student experience if I was doing this—I fully expected to fall asleep on the floor the moment I got inside.

It was already evening once we got out of orientation, and London was welcoming us as it did everyone with a drizzling rain shower, so turning the key Olivia gave me and stepping inside the warm, toasty air of the foyer felt like paradise, but somehow I felt invigorated coming out of everything instead of as exhausted as I should have.

“And this will be your flat for the time of your stay,” Olivia said, following me into the foyer but staying by the door. “You have a flatmate here—the last one of the students I’m liaisoning for, Ella—so try to be on your best behavior, if you think you can pull that off.”

“Doubtful, but we’ll see.”

“Hm. I choose to believe in you. On the ground floor, you’ll find the kitchen dining room, and the living room, which is also stocked as a rather simple music room. On the first floor will be your bedrooms—yours is on the left. If you have any questions, you have my contact. Ostensibly, I am on call for all your questions and concerns, but practically speaking, I do also sleep, so please do not expect a response at three in the morning.”

“Given how jet-lagged I am, I won’t rule it out. California is a long way away.”

“Physically and emotionally. Are you quite certain the lack of sunshine and beaches won’t kill you?”

“I’m in my brooding artist phase right now. The gloomier the better. London is perfect. Well,” I said, standing up taller,turning back to face her, “thank you for everything, Olivia. I look forward to sending you a million whining texts at three in the morning.”

She smiled oddly at me. “I have to say, you’re somehow not at all what I expected from Lydia Howard Fox herself, and yet… I am not at all surprised. Great artists and all that…”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know if this is a compliment or an insult.”

“Unreservedly, a compliment, of course, darling. Well, that’s sorted,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Oh, and—be warned that Eliza and Hannah happen to be your next-door neighbors. Let me know if they try tapping on your windows to wake you up at night or something to that effect.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just privately escalate the situation without letting anyone know until we’ve come to blows.”

“Hm. That would be rather what I am worried about. But you seem like a mature adult, so I trust you. Take care not to prove me wrong. Enjoy your weekend, Lydia.”

She shut the door on her way out, and I locked it, turning back to take in the place. Must have been a good… five thousand pounds a month normally? It was a steal at thirty-five hundred per person for two months. The place was beautiful, immaculately decorated, modern and recently renovated with clean, polished finishings that meshed well with the original historic design like elegant molding, stunning windows, and a modestly sized but stately fireplace. I took my shoes off, hung up my jacket, and I walked slowly through the building, taking it in, and I stopped in the doorway at an odd sight.

A woman. My roommate, I deeply and desperately hoped. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the living room, which was set up nicely with a few key instruments and even a basic recording setup, and on the floor in front of her was a clarinet sitting in its case.

Girl seemed to be having a staring contest with it. She also seemed not to notice me coming into the apartment at all, let alone an entire conversation with Olivia in the foyer. Sure, the door had been shut, and I could tell from the heft of the door that it had had some soundproofing work done, but still, this woman was locked in on trying to telekinetically play the clarinet.

It didn’t seem to be working.

She was a small thing, probably five three, a white woman with messy hair right at the point where I couldn’t tell if it was more blonde or brown, pulled back in a loose braid. I’d seen her in passing at the orientation, out of the corner of my eye, but she’d been sitting at the back of the auditorium and, though she’d caught my attention with her eyes—one brown, one a striking green that only stood out more for the heterochromia—she looked like she was going through something.

“It works better if you pick it up,” I said, and she jumped with a shriek that caught in her throat, stumbling up to her feet and whirling on me with a look my way like I was an axe-wielding murderer coming into the room.

“Oh—God—you startled me,” she said, her voice a soft, sweet thing with a vaguely London-esque accent. I wasn’t versed enough in my accents to place it, but she certainly wasn’t putting it on like Eliza.

“Oh, did I? I guess I’m glad that’s not just how you get up from the floor normally. I’d have a heart attack with the shrieking monkey living in the apartment.”

She huffed, a pitch of color spilling out over her warm-hued cheeks, highlighting the freckles spilled over her cheeks. “I am not ashrieking monkey.I wasalarmedwhen somebody crept up behind me and spoke suddenly.”

“And if that somebody just had a full conversation in the next room?”

“Ah. Well.” Seemed like Ella blushed easily. I decided to stop teasing, for now.

“Sorry for scaring you. I’m your new roommate, Lydia.”

She smiled oddly at me. “Lydia Howard Fox… is that right?” She straightened herself out, taking a long breath. “I heard somebody, er—well, having a go at you over it.”

“I’d almost enjoyed, for a minute, people not knowing who I was until Eliza and her sidekick shouted it to the world,” I said lightly. “But yes, that’s me. Lucky you, getting stuck with a washed-up has-been deep in the rut of creative burnout.”

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