by Karin Biggs
Layla dropped her fork. “I knew I picked the wrong table.”
I looked past Genevieve to see Ari at the next table, bobbing his black-haired head as he spoke to the drummer beside him.
He caught my eyes and smiled.
Heat rushed to my face, so I bent my head down to finish my lunch. After Nicole’s dismissal and Genevieve’s story, the singers at my table expressed their dread for our sectional with the maestro. But for once in my life, I eagerly welcomed a distraction.
The rehearsal room lacked the familiar arched ceiling present in the majority of the Mansion. A tall, narrow ceiling rose into layers of smaller tiers trimmed in old copper. The final piece of square ceiling featured a deteriorating painting of angels singing in the heavens. Large fabric rectangles were bolted into the walls, a semicircle of risers filled half the room and a grey-haired man sat at a long black piano. He smiled as we entered and directed us to stand on the risers by voice part. My nerves about meeting the so-called evil maestro calmed when I took my spot on the riser.
But then I saw him.
Leaning against the wall behind the door, the maestro stood over six feet tall with sleek chestnut-brown hair, a square jaw and a pointed brow that sat higher on his forehead than its partner. He rested the back of his head against the wall, as if he too dreaded the sectional. He appeared to be in his forties and in contrast to the other Mansion staff we met, the maestro dressed as if he needed to be ready for a formal event with the king at a moment’s notice.
After the last singer took her spot on the riser, he closed the door and moved to a music stand beside the piano. “I’m Maestro Bernard Leto and this is Francis Bleu,” he said, tilting his head toward the old man at the piano. “You may call me Maestro and Francis is Francis.” He looked down at his music stand and raised his hands in the air. “The Mondarian Hymn.”
The sopranos next to me scrambled to pull the appropriate sheet music out of their assigned folders so I followed suit. I had no idea what the notes on the pages meant, so I only read the words and tried to match my voice to what I heard around me. Thankfully, Heather stood to my left and seemed to know exactly what to sing and when.
My eyes were buried in my music when the piano stopped.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the maestro.
“Yes, sir.”
The maestro leaned his elbows on the music stand. “Good, you all know who you are; ladies and gentlemen. Do you know what that means? That means you are no longer girls and boys. I’d like to invite you all to have a meeting with yourself and ask, ‘what can I do to kill every ounce of girl or boy within me?’” He instructed us to close our eyes and picture our juvenile selves. “Now pick up a long, sharp knife and…RIP THEM TO SHREDS!”
The volume of the maestro’s voice sent a mix of yelps and laughter across the risers.
“Let their blood flow over your arms, pierce the blade into their chest, for the kill. Twist it if you have to, to ensure the heart is destroyed. KILL, KILL, KILL!”
I opened an eye to peek at the maestro. His smile stretched across the width of his tan face, curling up into his cheeks. A piece of hair fled its captive spot on his head, resting in front of his right eye.
“Are they dead?” he asked. “For good? Well, go ahead and let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! Let’s keep it that way! Now that your inner boy or girl is dead, you don’t ever ever have to sing or act like boys or girls again. You’re welcome.” The maestro smoothed his hair back into place, then clasped his hands behind his back. “And because I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you in on a little secret. You may have heard that you’re on this court till the end of the Season, when our king decides who stays and who goes. But the truth is, I can dismiss you at any point. Nobody here is irreplaceable. Everyone can be replaced. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The maestro’s hands flew back into the air. “From the top!”
I tried my best to sing like a Lady rather than a girl and erase the image of a blood-soaked-younger-me from my mind. There were elements of the rehearsal I enjoyed—the exercises to mature our sound, the maestro’s explanation of how our soft palettes affect pitch and the chills that danced across my skin when our sound blended as a harmonious group.
I wasn’t too fond of the maestro’s instruction to keep completely still when singing and to hold a smile at all times.
Heather whispered to me that her face felt like it was going to fall off and I nodded in response.
The maestro stopped mid-sentence while speaking to the basses. “Miss Romaine, I couldn’t help but be distracted from my work to hear your comment. Is there something I missed?”
“No,” Heather said. “I just said my face felt like it was going to slide off from smiling so much.”
“Miss Romaine, do you really want to be on my Court?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I suggest you rehearse everything you can—from responding to me with ‘yes, sir’ to exercising the tiny muscles in your face so that you don’t find yourself sliding off my court.”
Heather trembled beside me. “Okay. I mean, yes, sir.”
The maestro cued Francis to pick up from our latest measure, only to cut us off in the middle of the sopranos’ solo section. “Wow. Miss Marigold.”
Me? What did I do?
I straightened my back. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes zeroed in on me, with his one high-brow arched to capacity. “Where do you look when you’re singing?”
“At you. Sir.”
“Really? Because if you were watching me, you would have seen my cut-off.”
I dug my nails into my thighs. “I was watching, I just didn’t—”
“I don’t need an explanation, Marigold. But…because you’re so confident that must mean that you don’t need me up here.”
“No, that’s not—”
“My kings! Do you ever stop talking?” The maestro tore his eyes off me to face the group. “Hey everyone, Miss Marigold loves the sound of her own voice and she doesn’t need me to direct her.” He stepped away from his music stand and gestured to me. “Come on down, Marigold.”
My body threatened to freeze in place but I took a deep breath and forced myself forward. “Yes, sir.”
The sopranos parted, creating an aisle down to the floor for me. The maestro placed his hands on my shoulders and positioned me behind his music stand.
“Everyone sit. Miss Marigold will sing her part for us and we’ll listen.”
The room spun and my heart failed to keep up with my rapid breathing. Singing in the creek was one thing—singing to a black auditorium was another, but singing in front of people?
I wanted to protest. Run away. Hide.
But I took another deep breath.
Breathe. Focus. Breathe.
I’m a Capalon and I control my emotions.
The piano player cued my intro, and I sang my part, refusing to make eye contact with any faces. I stared at an empty spot on the back wall as my body violently shook, adding an unnecessary vibrato to my singing.
The maestro paced behind the risers, listening intently to my performance. “Oh, you held that note way too long!” He shouted. “Plowed right through that half rest. Didn’t come in on the downbeat.” He continued to shout corrections about my singing until he reappeared from behind the risers with his arms crossed. “The big finish, ladies and gentlemen…can she do it?”
I hit a crescendo with my final note, trying to hold it as long as we had rehearsed, but my lungs abandoned me.
The maestro applauded. “Bravo, bravo. So many mistakes. Tell me, can you even read music, Miss Marigold? And please, don’t lie.”
My eyes held onto the blank spot on the wall. “No, sir.”
His hand flew to the side of his head. “She can’t read music! How many of you can read music?” Maestro faced the singers with a raised hand and nearly all of them mirrored his gesture.
He sh
ook his head and placed his hands on his hips. “If only she had a maestro. Miss Marigold, I think you’ve proved to everyone that you are terrible without a maestro. Do you all agree?”
The room stayed silent.
“Well?” he asked with force.
“Yes, sir,” said only about a third of the room.
“Well, there you have it, Marigold,” he said standing directly in front of me. “They also think you’re terrible.”
I swallowed, a stinging sensation creeping over my eyeballs as my whole body trembled.
“But…if you had a maestro…what do you think?” He tapped his fingers on his chin. “Do you think you’re terrible unless you have me as your maestro?”
I prohibited my eyes from blinking and took in deep breaths, trying desperately to steady my beating heart. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s it? You love explanations, so offer us all one right now. We’ve wasted enough time on you as it is.”
I clenched my fists. “I’m…terrible and I need you as my maestro?”
“Are you asking me a question?”
“No, sir.”
He kicked a chair, sending it into the wall. “Enough with the games, Marigold! Just spit out what you’re trying to say.”
Anger brewed deep in my gut but I breathed through the fire burning at my insides. I wouldn’t allow a Mondarian the pleasure of seeing me unravel.
Breathe. Focus. Breathe.
I’m a Capalon and I control my emotions.
I turned my head and looked him in the eye. “Maestro, I’m terrible unless I follow you for direction.”
He bobbed his large head. “If that’s how you truly feel…okay. Get back on the riser and sing your part again while watching me.”
I climbed up the risers, happy to no longer be the center of attention.
The maestro retrieved the chair from the wall and walked back to his music stand. “Now that I’m your maestro again, here’s a lesson for all of you.” He turned the chair upside down, then rested its middle on top of his head with one hand, keeping his other free. “I’ll direct you once through this whole song with a chair on my head so nobody will be tempted to look away. And from now on, whether you’re singing in this rehearsal room, walking onto the stage in the auditorium or picking your nose in front of the king in the ballroom, your eyes should be on me, wherever I am, at all times. From the top!”
When I was five years old, I self-diagnosed a viral infection from examining my own blood sample under a microscope. During a particularly rainy summer, I built a central processing unit in one day. I was the product of a kingdom that believed in science, facts and rational thinking above all.
But if I wanted to find my mother, I had to throw rational thinking out the window and take direction from a deranged man with a chair on his head.
Agnes ushered the singers into the Polaris Auditorium where we sat in a row of the plush chairs behind the other new court members. The chatter around me guessed at our purpose in the auditorium—possibly a group history lesson on the Mansion’s architecture, another rousing visit from Maestro Leto or even a speech by the king himself.
Whatever it was, I was desperate for it to begin and end, so I could fast-forward to the end of the day’s agenda and use our down time to continue my investigation.
The lights dimmed to black and the red-velvet stage curtain illuminated.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the auditorium speakers. “Please enjoy a special performance by the returning members of the King’s 100.”
Genevieve and Heather couldn’t contain their admiration for the returning members’ show as we walked the hall back to the Lounge. I didn’t offer any words of feedback but it didn’t mean I wasn’t impressed. I pounded my hands together in applause with the rest of the new members when the curtain closed, not just because it was the proper Mondarian gesture. It truly was an incredible display of music and magic, and I was amazed that I had somehow convinced a lunatic to put me on the same stage with Mondaria’s best performers in the kingdom.
When we entered the Lounge, two large speakers boomed a heavy musical beat that reverberated against my rib cage. Layla, Heather and Genevieve’s faces lit up at the sight of the eighty returning court members who filled every square inch of the circular Lounge.
I watched in shock and curiosity at the sight of bodies all around me and their movements, torsos pressed together as they danced in front of the fireplaces, hands on faces as they kissed one another on the sofas, and heads nearly touching in intimate huddles of conversations. Never in my life had I seen such a sight.
Shouting turned my head as a group of court members cheered over four bodies on the floor.
“Oh, a push-up contest!” yelled Layla. “Maybe the drummers will let a singer challenge them.” She headed to the group of drummers and my fingers reached out for her, not ready to be alone among the mix of bodies.
“Maestro seems to be a complete ass, eh?” asked a voice over my shoulder.
I turned to see the mist-blue eyes of Reese Olsen looking down on me. I nodded to avoid shouting over the music.
He stepped closer, causing me to take a step back. “You probably didn’t notice, but I kept my hand down when he asked who could read music. I can’t read a single note, actually.”
“Really?” I asked in a shout.
Reese nodded. “Yeah, I got on the court train pretty late in the game. Thought I had a shot on my own as a musician but it didn’t work out.”
Not having any knowledge of musicians in Mondaria aside from the court, I was at a loss for a response.
He extended his hand. “I’m Reese Olsen, by the way.”
I nodded and accepted his hand, having already recognized him. “You danced with my roommate today. I’m Paris—”
“Marigold,” he said with a grin and a light squeeze of my hand before dropping it. “Maestro said your name enough times for me to have it memorized.”
“Right.”
“I know it had to suck for you, but I’m glad we all got to hear you sing. You have a nice voice, Paris.”
Heat rushed to my face. “Um, thanks,” I said, tucking a strand of brown hair behind my ear.
“I’d like to sing with you sometime. Just the two of us.”
A boy wanted me to do something with him alone? I had never been allowed to do anything alone with a boy in Capalon. The closest thing to being alone with a boy was if we were assigned lab partners of the opposite sex. We might have been at a table together, but we were in a room full of other people.
I wrapped my arms around my waist and took a step back. “I’m going to go look for my roommate now. Goodbye.”
The group of drummers cheered on a new set of competitors in their push-up contest but Layla wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I picked up a sandwich from a food table and scarfed it down as I walked a loop around the enormous stone fireplace, the makeshift dance floor and a serious group of magicians watching a girl dance a small metallic ball over her fingers. I finally spotted Layla behind the magicians with a group of boys.
“Paris!” she shouted to me from their table. “Come on over, we’re playing Sink the Stiff,”
“Sink the what?” I shouted, as I stepped closer to their low table.
“The stiff,” repeated Layla.
“What’s a stiff?” I asked.
A boy with curly blonde hair narrowed his eyes on me. “Are you serious?”
“Homeschooled,” Layla said, tilting her head to me. “A stiff is a Capalon, princess.”
“Yeah, they’re more robotic than human,” said the boy. He moved his head and arms in rigid movements which elicited laughter from the other card players, including Layla.
“Oh,” I said, forcing my eyes not to express the shock that stung in my gut.
The boy shuffled a deck of cards. “Anyway, somebody is randomly dealt the king of spades—that’s the stiff.”
“But Capalon is ruled by a queen,” I interjected.
I shook my head, feeling suddenly nauseous.
A breeze hit my face, steering my attention to the back door. Feeling the need for fresh air, I dismissed myself from the card game and pushed my way through the mass of bodies. I opened the door and walked out into a cloud of smoke, sending me into a coughing fit.
“Hey, New Lady,” said a returning court man with sun-kissed cheeks and a pale head of hair. Two other boys accompanied him, both wearing mischievous smiles. “Wanna smoke?” he asked.
“No,” I choked out.
“What’s your court talent?” asked the pale boy.
I said “singer” through another cough.
“Oh, well if you’re a singer, you should probably stay away from us. Nicotine is damaging to your vocal cords,” he said with a grin. “Doesn’t matter for us, though.” He waved his hand around the thin white object in his fingers and it disappeared, only to reappear in his other hand. “We’re magicians.”
The boys laughed, and I spotted a tall flame in the distance on the lawn. I pushed past them, crossed my arms and squeezed my fists in a march forward through the damp grass.
The Mondarians were a strange, disgusting breed of human. Their behavior was repulsive, and they lived a life full of impure ideals. I sat on a log in front of the fire and picked up a thin stick, breaking off a piece at a time and tossing them into the flames.
“Needed some fresh air too?”
My heart jumped. “Ari,” I said, spotting his face on the other side of the flames.
“I’ve seen a party or two in Badger River, but that’s…well, I don’t know what to call that,” he said with a shake of his head. “Most of our parties are like this—around a bonfire, under the stars. It’s the best way to party in my opinion.”
I reached for another stick and tried to ignore the sting in my eyeballs—not from the smoke of the bonfire or the magicians at the door but from my own stupidity.