Page 19 of The Kiss Of Death
“I’m Gunther,” the boy said. He was a Guardian, and his posture was so erect that I instinctively straightened my own back. “I’m a pianist; you may know me as Mozart’s reincarnation from the viral video of me at age six. I also won second prize in the international Chopin piano competition.”
The professor signaled for the next student. Tactician.
“I’m Maria, a violinist, and I studied at the Karajan Akademie on top of winning the Tchaikovsky International competition.”
Each student’s accomplishments seemed more impressive than the last, and I couldn’t help but feel like an impostor among these prodigies. Then again, it would be a good opportunity to learn from them.
“Our latecomer, Dalia Mercier—never heard of you before,” the professor stated, adjusting his glasses.
My heart raced as I rose to my feet, my hands clutching my uniform. “My mentor was Lucie Delombre. She performed for l’Opera Garnier in Paris.”
“I didn’t see any recommendation letters from her in your application. Do you have any noteworthy references? Any impressive musical achievements, or have you found your way into my class by mistake, Miss Mercier?”
I felt the weight of every student’s gaze upon me. Lucie’s approach to teaching music had been unconventional. Instead of focusing solely on string learning or perfecting score reading, she’d taught me to speak with the music.
“I played for our church group,” I said.
Some of the other students giggled. I hunched down back in my seat, lowering my head. I had my place here. I’d prove I wasn’t just here because of Dad’s name and money.
“I may not have won international competitions or graced grand stages yet, but I’m here to learn and to challenge myself to become the best musician I can be,” I muttered.
The professor considered me for a moment. “It seems you have quite a few gaps to fill if you wish to progress to the next year. However, perhaps there’s a hidden talent lying beneath that unassuming exterior. Play something for me, Miss Mercier.”
“Now?” I grasped my violin case, the calluses visible on the pads of my second and third finger.
“Of course. You’re a musician, aren’t you? Play mele3ème mouvement du concerto pour violon de Sibelius.”
One of the most demanding violin music scores ever written.
“I—yes.”
I swallowed, a chill running down my spine. I practiced five hours a day before coming to Pantheon to prepare myself. I recalled Lucie’s advice:if you feel overwhelmed, close your eyes and count your breathing. It’s just you in the room. Perfectionism is a creativity killer because it’s inhuman. Therefore, it can’t express the right emotions because our emotions are messy and imperfect. Use your fear in your music.
I opened my case, and a vision of horror appeared in front of me. My violin was broken. All the cords were cut. I froze, memories of the destroyed Cigno Nero resurfacing. My fingertips graced the broken parts, and I thought of the onlyperson capable of doing something so horrendous. A person who knew this act would humiliate and devastate me. It was payback.
Levi.
That was why he’d been acting so smug earlier. He had sabotaged me. I was stuck in a nightmare.
“What’s taking you so long?” the teacher asked.
I won’t allow him to destroy this for me.
I shut the case. “I can’t use my violin.”
“So you came to class without a proper working violin?”
“Can I borrow one?” I said, my heart about to jump out of my chest. “Just this one time.”
“Fine, you may do so.” He waved, already bored.
I took one from the music room, but this one didn’t feel like mine—the sensations were different; my fingers weren’t in the positions I was used to. Just a tiny difference in manufacturing could change everything.
Taking my stance, I settled the violin on my shoulder and closed my eyes tightly.
“Eyes open,” the teacher reminded me.
I started the first notes, but my fingers faltered into a bad intonation. I lost the tempo, not breathing enough with the music, which made some students laugh again.I’m terrible. I tried again but struggled to focus on the music score, my mind sending signals that I would never make this work. I wasn’t a clean musician, playing the perfect intonation. I was messy and—
