Page 27 of Crescendo

The two of them disappeared inside, leaving Olivia with me in the street, giving me a wry look. I sighed.

“Thanks.”

“Next time they’re trying to aggravate you, you don’t need to engage, just let me know.”

I shrugged, looking away. “They were just concerned about Ella… that’s all. Well, Eliza was. Hard to say what’s actually on Hannah’s mind.”

“Hm. I somehow suspect that concern for Ella’s well-being was not the only thing on either of their minds. You’re a professional. Don’t sink to the level of bullies trying to pick on you. Well, have a good night, then.”

No sign of Ella once I got inside—safely tucked away in her room, judging by the lights on under her door. I considered knocking, if just to ask how she was doing just at a polite level, checking in, and saying goodnight, but somehow I found myself drifting past it and on to my bedroom.

Didn’t get any better come morning, either—woke up to a note left in the kitchen,headed out for an early breakfast with Alisha and Sian, I’ll see you in class today – Ella xx

Two kisses at the end of a message was hard to parse. Was that few enough it meant she was mad? Did it depend too much on the person? I wasn’t British enough to parse it.

I did see her in class, though—showed up just a minute before the morning lecture in the auditorium started, slotting in next to me, although judging by that stony look in her eyes, she wasn’t doing any better today. She didn’t acknowledge me beyond a quickgood morning, and I barely heard her keyboard tapping taking notes through the lecture, seeming more like she was checked out.

The woman was a doctor. She knew how to pay attention to a class, how to take notes. But here we were.

I saw some of it for myself this time—we ended up in a music theory workshop together right before lunch, and Ella was frozen solid when she was up at the piano keyboard, her fingers curled into the keys like claws. She played the chords that the instructor mentioned, but it would have had more soul in it if a chord-shaped wooden block had fallen on the keyboard. I could see the disappointment, the frustration, in the teacher’s face—or maybe it was just that the teacher in this one was a German woman, so disappointment and frustration were her default settings—and it wasn’t what Ella needed, tensing up more and more until she looked like she’d cry. I didn’t even try to chase her down for lunch this time, once we broke, going out with a big group this time, Bansi having made best friends with a group he’d been put on composition homework with and inviting me along.

Ella hurried back to the apartment ahead of me when we finished, and I took a walk the long way through Kensington Gardens while I talked to Melinda on the phone, going on aboutevery part of the program, of London, of music—everything except Ella. Stayed on the phone with her while I grabbed falafel, and she left me withI’ve gotta get to work, so go do something productive with yourself, you bum,and I walked back home with nothing but the sound of my own thoughts to accompany me, at least until I got back to the apartment, where I could hear—I didn’t realize until I’d stepped into the foyer and shut the door behind me—music. Piano music. Ella playing, from the music room, where the door was shut, just a whisper of the keys from inside.

Chords, simple arpeggiating. A soft, pretty thing, simple, but it was… shaky. Like she wasn’t all there.

At least, I really hoped it was Ella.

Cautiously, I cracked the door, pushing open just enough to peer through—Ella hunched over the piano, her posture slack, defeated, small. Maybe Clara was right, maybe Melinda was right, and maybe I needed to give her space, but… I was human. I couldn’t help myself when I saw someone looking that broken, bleeding into even the simplest melody. I slipped through, moving carefully, and with a quiet touch, I knocked on the open door. Ella jolted, looking back with a tear-streaked expression, and—damn, the woman even cried beautifully. One eye dark as a lake at night and the other one shimmering with refractive tears, picture-perfect streaks down her cheeks, she looked like a movie poster, and I felt the tug of heartbreak looking at her as if I was experiencing whatever was haunting her.

“Oh, god, Lydia, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Hey,” I said, shutting the door and stealing across the room to her, laying a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. “You’re picking up the piano chords quickly. Can I sit and listen if I bribe you with tea?”

She laughed, thick through tears, wiping her face. “I’m so sorry, I’m all… I’m such a snotty mess.”

I waved her off. “Ella, please. You should see me when I cry. I’m actually in awe of how dignified you look when you cry. I’ll put some tea on for us both.”

She choked out a quick laugh, shaking her head. “God, Lydia, you don’t need to just drink tea now you’re in the UK, you know—you’ve already given up meat. You’re American. How can you possibly survive without coffee and hamburgers?”

“Hm. I’ll let that comment slide, but only because you’re sad. Don’t get used to it, Ella.”

I brought a tray back from the kitchen a minute later with a pot of English breakfast tea and two cups, and a little plate piled with Rich Tea biscuits, Ella’s favorite. She’d stopped playing when I got back, slumped over the piano instead, and even tea didn’t pick her up. I hesitated, just for a second, before I pulled up a stool next to the bench and sat by her side.

“I’m not going to make you practice anything,” I said quietly. “But I’m here if you want any advice or direction.”

She shook her head, quietly, with a shaky breath out, and she said, “Lydia… I’m really sorry I’m like this.”

I pushed my luck with, “Like what?”

She gestured frustratedly to the piano, sitting up taller. “I’m a bloody disgrace, that’s what. I’m not an idiot. I swear. But I feel like one, with classes… everything… it’s not like that,” she said, her voice thin, reedy, as she hugged herself. “I promise I know music. I know these things. Ishouldknow these things, but… it’s all… locked away. Like it’s right there. Just out of reach…”

I studied her for a long time before I heard myself say, quietly, “That is what it feels like.”

She shot me a wide-eyed look. “Like everything is out of my reach?”

“I’m notthatmean to just up and say that to someone even if it were true. No. That’s…” I picked up my tea, sippingdelicately at it. “That’s how it’s felt for me, lately, too. Looking at a score sheet telling myself I’m supposed to know how to do this, but it all… slips between my fingers. Like I’m reaching for it, and my fingertips brush the edges of the music, but I’m just short of reaching.”

She looked at me, wide-eyed. “I can… hardly imagine you not able to compose.”

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