“Hello, dear,” she said in a British accent. She continued walking.
Nicole kept pace easily. “I’m studying under Professor Stephen Nielsen at the university. But only for the next two weeks.”
“How lovely.”
And then, when Mrs. Morse realized she had a walking companion, she started chatting. A lot. Her dialect was so strong and so hard to follow, Nicole only caught a word here and there. She gathered that the woman had grown up in a small town somewhere near London. Or maybe far from London. Or maybe she grew up in London itself—Nicole had no idea. Her mind started to drift from the woman’s monologue.
She couldn’t help but wonder how Mrs. Morse still played the cello. Her fingers were bent out of shape, her shoulders stooped so much it had to be impossible to hold the instrument correctly. But hearing Mrs. Morse play, it was obvious she had been doing it forever. She’d probably adapted over the years as her body changed.
After several minutes of hiking up the steep road, they reached the apartment building. Mrs. Morse looked at Nicole with curiosity and asked a question that could only be something along the lines of whether Nicole lived there or not.
“Yes, this is my apartment.”
They walked in together, Nicole holding the door for the elderly woman. Mr. Landon was at the front desk, typing at the computer. He ignored them as they waited for the elevator to drop to the first floor. Mrs. Morse continued chattering.
As they stepped onto the elevator, Nicole realized her opportunity was about to pass. She waited for a pause in Mrs. Morse’s conversation, but one didn’t come, so she put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
Nicole hesitated for a moment, trying to get up the courage. “I’d like to hear you play, and perhaps accompany you sometime.”
The lady gasped and backed up against the elevator wall. All the blood rushed from her face, and her hands shook. She said something so quickly, Nicole felt a moment’s panic at being unable to understand.
“I’m sorry—would you please repeat that?”
Mrs. Morse put a hand on her chest and took a deep breath. “I don’t know . . . if that’s . . . possible.”
“But please, I’m learning to Channel my own powers, and I’ve heard you at night—you control things. I can sense it. It would help me so very much to learn from you.”
Mrs. Morse shook her head and didn’t say anything.
“You’re so talented, and Professor Nielsen said I needed to talk to you and hear you play and actually play with you sometime. Please? I really, really need to understand how you do it.”
Mrs. Morse finally nodded and said something that sounded like a positive answer, and Nicole couldn’t help the smile that crossed her face. Her heart still raced, however, from the woman’s initial response. Why would she freak out about having someone hear her?
The elderly woman got off the elevator on the seventh floor and beckoned Nicole to follow her down the hall. At the end, Mrs. Morse pulled out a set of keys and, with some concentration, got one of them into the lock on the door. She pushed it open and they entered a large, one-roomed apartment that was bigger than Nicole’s place.
Nicole did her best not to look around, but couldn’t help notice how sparsely furnished Mrs. Morse kept the apartment. Only a bed in one corner with a dresser near it. No decorations on the walls. No carpet or rugs—just scuffed-up floorboards and old linoleum under the kitchen sink.
Sheet music lay strewn across the floor near a music stand and Mrs. Morse’s cello case.
After showing Nicole to a chair and waiting until she’d sat down, Mrs. Morse sat in another seat and pulled out her cello. She wiped down the front of it with a soft piece of cloth, a loving expression on her face, then tightened the bow. The cello was scuffed up and old looking—it had been well used.
Then she started playing. Nicole leaned forward, eager to see what the elderly woman did to bring the magic out through her cello.
But nothing special happened. Nicole recognized Mozart, Bach, and even some Beethoven, but nothing like what she’d been hearing every night. And even though Mrs. Morse was talented and the cello sounded and looked like an Amati, Nicole felt her heart drop.
After an hour at least, the woman played the last strain and lowered her bow. She didn’t look at Nicole.
Nicole cleared her throat. “That was lovely. But . . . it’s not like what I’ve heard you play. I want to learn from you—to understand how you captivate the magic with your cello. This is what I’m studying at Katon University—it’s my magic. And it’s why I’m here at this university, studying under Professor Nielsen.”
Mrs. Morse didn’t respond. She turned her face away, and Nicole frowned with confusion. Then something hit her—maybe the woman didn’t know which songs Nicole meant. That couldn’t be possible. She played them for several hours every single night—Nicole had dark circles under her eyes from staying up. Trying to remind Mrs. Morse of the tunes, Nicole whistled a few measures from one of the more prominent pieces.
Mrs. Morse jumped from her seat and crossed the space between herself and Nicole, surprisingly fast for a woman of her age.
“No! No, no, no!” she said, slicing her hands through the air in front of Nicole. “Not this. Not this!” She glanced at a large curtained window Nicole hadn’t noticed earlier.
“What’s wrong? The music is fascinating! It’s very special and I like it!” Nicole stood and crossed to the window, intending to look out. But as she reached for the thick fabric, Mrs. Morse grabbed her hand and yanked her away. Nicole fell to the ground in shock, not even pulling her hand back from Mrs. Moore’s grip.
The elderly woman tried to drag Nicole toward the door. She spoke very quickly, her thick accent masking the words.
With impatience, Nicole attempted to jerk her hand from the woman’s strong grasp. “Let go! I’ll leave now!”
Mrs. Morse’s eyes widened and she released Nicole. It seemed like she realized what she’d been doing, and her shoulders slumped even more than they already were, a bright red flushing her papery cheeks. “Please,” she said, motioning to Nicole’s chair. “Please sit.”
Nicole hesitated, unsure of what to do. Finally, she sat. She glanced at the door, wanting more than anything to disappear. Why would the woman respond like that? So violently? Nicole had never been treated that way. Where she’d grown up, people didn’t try to throw each other around, especially practical strangers. And what was so bad about looking out the window? Nicole glanced that way and regretted doing so at once.
Mrs. Morse noticed and she started talking rapidly. Nicole shook her head—the woman could’ve been from Japan, for all Nicole understood.
The lady grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled on it for several long moments. She handed it to Nicole.
At first glance, the note wasn’t written in English. But Nicole was able to pull a few words out here and there, and then finally, the overall meaning. According to the note, Mrs. Morse was begging Nicole’s forgiveness. She’d been alone for too long and suffered from hysteria and episodes—Nicole wasn’t sure about those two words—that affected how she treated other people. Then it mentioned being grateful for Nicole’s apparent friendliness, that she hadn’t met a young person in a long time.
Then the note said something that made Nicole’s heart drop. How would she tell Professor Nielsen? Mrs. Morse was very sorry Nicole had heard her playing at night. She wasn’t supposed to hear—no one was. It was Mrs. Morse’s private time, and she wanted Nicole to relocate—buildings? Wasn’t that a bit extreme? Nicole squinted, pulling the note closer. No, she must mean rooms. And Mrs. Morse would cover the difference in cost. Wow. Nicole glanced up.
Mrs. Morse looked like she was holding her breath—her entire body was tense, her face tight. Nicole couldn’t believe the woman felt so strongly about not letting other people hear her play. For someone who’d been playing all her life, it was weird.
Nicole took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “Well, if you feel that way . . .”
The expression on Mrs. Morse’s face—still intense, but trying to hold back the hope that crept across her eyes—made Nicole feel bad about her harsh response earlier. Living like this would be so difficult. The woman was lonely and obviously scared of . . . practically nothing.
Nicole held back an urge to glance at the window. She pressed the note into Mrs. Morse’s hand, looking into the woman’s eyes. She tried to convey how she now felt—compassion for the woman’s situation, willing to help wherever needed.
The woman needed a friend, that’s what. And Nicole could be that friend. She’d volunteered in rest homes many times during high school, after all.
“I’ll come visit you as often as I can while I’m here. I’ve only got two weeks left, but I’ll make the most of it.”
Mrs. Morse smiled uncertainly and showed Nicole to the door.
As Nicole walked down the hall to the elevator, she vowed to win the woman over. “All she needs is some Texas hospitality to cheer her up,” she whispered to herself.
***
The next day, after talking to Mr. Landon, Nicole moved two floors down. Apparently, Mrs. Morse had spoken with the building manager right after Nicole left and had paid the difference for the two weeks already.
Nicole was okay with the new arrangement—the apartment was much bigger than her first. The shower was located in the bathroom. She rolled her eyes at that and plopped on the bed, dialing Lizzie’s number.
***
Nicole soon discovered that Mrs. Morse wasn’t nearly as approachable or happy to see her as the first time, even after frequent “music sessions” together. Along with her cello, Nicole almost always brought something with her: new music from Professor Nielsen, cookies—which Mrs. Morse loved—and sometimes Sudoku puzzles, another favorite of the woman’s. It didn’t seem to matter, however. Mrs. Morse got increasingly agitated about having Nicole in her apartment.
But Nicole was determined to win the elderly woman over. Being able to figure out why Nicole couldn’t Channel was so important! Her future—her safety—depended on it.
Their visits always took place in the late afternoon, and no wonder—the lady played all night long. Nicole didn’t understand how she functioned at all on the little sleep she got.
Nicole practiced her cello with the woman each time, but again, nothing exciting or different happened. Mrs. Morse would sometimes reach over and pencil in a note or circle a fermata or rest while Nicole played. And lessons with Professor Nielsen were similar. He still hadn’t really brought up magic. This frustrated Nicole. She’d paid good money to come and study with him, and she usually left their lessons feeling dispirited. The latest he’d said was, “We first need to find the music you feel most strongly about. You have a great many passions—The Moldau, for instance—but they aren’t pulling the magic from within.”
Nicole didn’t understand how she could be more passionate about music.
Lizzie was the only other person who knew of her obsession with Mrs. Morse’s songs. Nicole wished she could talk to Austin about these sorts of things. She wished they could talk about anything at this point—just hearing his voice would almost be better than hearing Mrs. Morse play the cello. But they rarely communicated except through Lizzie.
“Nicole, this is seriously weird,” Lizzie said. “There’s something wrong with that woman, and something especially wrong with that apartment!”
“Professor Nielsen encourages it. He thinks it’ll be the key to unlocking my magic.”
“The cello is the key to unlocking your magic. Please, Nicole, stay away from that woman. Nothing good is going to come of this.”
Nicole snorted. “Look, Lizzie, you’re sounding worse than my dad. She’s just an elderly woman who’s protective of random things.”
“And plays really creepy music late at night that she doesn’t want other people to hear.”
Nicole didn’t answer—Lizzie was right.
“Okay, Nicole. Do what you want—you will anyway.”
“Come on. Don’t act like that.”
“Like what? A friend? Trying to support you even when you get these crazy obsessions?”
“It isn’t crazy.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay, I’m going to bed now.” Nicole looked at the clock. Mrs. Morse would start playing soon.
“Right. You mean, you’re going to listen from your old apartment now.”
Nicole chuckled. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After they exchanged goodbyes, she hung up the phone, grabbed her jacket, and pulled on her shoes. She dashed to the elevator, punching the up button over and over again. “Come on, come on.”
Lizzie was right—Nicole had started going back up to her old apartment and listening from there. Mr. Landon didn’t lock the door, and she was able to sit on the bed right under the vent for as long as she liked. She kept the lights off, not wanting to draw attention to herself and her . . . okay, weird obsession.
A couple of nights, she freaked herself out, imagining that she wasn’t alone in the apartment—that others listened with her. She did everything she could to keep thoughts like that away so she could tune in to the music.
Mrs. Morse was the most talented cellist she’d ever heard. No one like her existed or ever would. Her music was all over the place—harmonies so different and complex it was amazing there weren’t two or three or even ten other cellos accompanying her. How did she play like that?
A few times, Nicole found herself wondering at her need to listen. Was it healthy?
Professor Nielsen believed it was okay, so she continued to do it.
Another thing—Mrs. Morse serenaded her window. Maybe unknowingly, but Nicole had seen where the woman’s eyes drifted when she was involved in her playing.
One day, after seeing the elderly woman walk away from the building, Nicole sneaked upstairs. She wanted to touch Mrs. Morse’s cello. Her senses heightened, realizing the woman could return at any moment, and she ran down the hall toward the room at the end.
She grasped the knob. It was locked. Nicole rattled the door—if she tried hard enough, she could probably break it down.
Then something moved at the other end of the hallway—a cat? A dog? Spooked, Nicole ran back to the elevator, hitting the button for her floor until the door shut.
She decided not to try again.
***
“Nicole, you’re an exceptional student. In the past two weeks, I’ve really seen this music come alive under your hand.”
Nicole blinked a few times—it took several seconds for what Professor Nielsen had said to sink in. “Thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow, and Nicole sighed. “Sorry, Professor. I’m just tired.”
“Still listening to old Mrs. Morse?”
Nicole nodded. “And not learning anything new.”
“Perhaps it’s time you put a stop to it.” He rushed to continue. “Not playing with her directly, but listening late at night.”
Nicole looked down at the bow still in her hands. He was right. But listening was her favorite part. She hoped he wouldn’t make her promise not to do it anymore.
“Besides,” he continued, “I want to try something different today.”
Nicole glanced up. He was sifting through a music book they’d gone over her first day under his tutelage.
“Ahhh, here it is.” He folded the book backwards a couple of times so it would stay open, then placed it on the stand in front of her.
She stared at it, then looked up at him, trying to keep the distaste from her face. “Pachelbel’s Canon?”
He chuckled. “Not exactly a cellist’s favorite, I know, but it’s not the music that’s so important this time. I want to hear your magic.”
She blinked. “Really?” Her heart sped up, and her palms started sweating. Finally! Magic! “Oh, I’d love that!”
He chuckled again. �
��I know, I know, it’s about time. I was hoping we’d Channel your powers through your favorite pieces, but this might just be the key.”
“Bore me into magic, I get it. Funny.” She lifted her bow, not even needing to check her fingers to know they were in the right place. She’d memorized the basic notes to this song years ago.
“Play just the first few measures.”
She did so, without hesitation. Perhaps too quickly. When she’d finished, she waited to see what he’d say.
He steepled his fingers. “Okay. Do it again, but this time, focus on the air in this room. Try to move it—stir things up.”
Nicole nodded, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She’d found that visualizing the wind as it rushed in and out of her lungs helped sometimes. She played the notes again, this time slower, with more purpose, concentrating, trying to find the ocean that separated her from her magic.
Nothing happened.
“It’s just like always,” she said, opening her eyes. “I know I’m a Wind Arete—”
“Of course you are; you hair is blond.”
She nodded. “But magic just doesn’t happen the way it should, if it happens at all.” Unlike Lizzie, who’d made progress with her version of powers, and Austin, who wowed everyone with his abilities.
“We’ll figure it out.” He reached for the book, shutting it and putting it back on the shelf. “Obviously, you don’t need this in front of you. Try it again.”
So she did. And this time, she quickly sensed the ocean of water and even felt the slight trickle of magic she’d sensed once before while playing.
“Excellent!” Professor Nielsen clapped. “I think we may have found a key here—music you aren’t terribly passionate about, and it must be memorized and simple, allowing you to focus.”
She gave him a half smile, trying to let him feel like he’d hit on something. But on the way home, the now-familiar discouragement hit her. She knew he was most likely right about two of the three things—she needed to have the music memorized, and it probably had to be simple, at least for now. But the other part just didn’t sit right with her. How could she produce passionate magic without using passionate music?
Praxis Novellas, Mosaic Chronicles Book Two Page 2