Discern (Mosaic Chronicles Book 1)

by Andrea Pearson

  The conductor stopped walking. “You aren’t one, are you?”

  “No, I play the cello.”

  “Nicole Williams?”

  She started. “Yes?”

  He laughed. “I’m Professor Nielsen. I believe you’re here to study under me.”

  Nicole stood, extending her hand. “I am! Looking forward to it too.” She motioned to the stage. “They sound really good.”

  He nodded. “Indeed they do. They’re the best orchestra on campus and have worked hard. You won’t be joining them, though, will you?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just here for the three weeks.”

  “Ah, yes. But I’ve heard enough about you to know you could play with us if you had more time.”

  Nicole’s cheeks flushed. “After what my parents put me through, I hope so.” She glanced down at her cello. “Though, with the cello given to me by Katon University—long story behind that—I don’t know if I could. This thing is pretty bad.”

  They laughed. Nicole was grateful—she’d get along well with him. Good thing too, since it was his job to help her further her expertise not only of the cello, but her special kind of magic.

  He picked up a box of music at the back and she grabbed her cello, and they walked together to his classroom.

  ***

  An hour and a half later, Nicole left feeling discouraged and disappointed. They hadn’t even discussed magic that entire block of time! He’d had her play practically everything she’d ever learned, and then gave her tons of sheet music to master before the next day. She sighed.

  The early afternoon was chilly—the warmth of the morning had given way to possible thunderstorms, and Nicole walked quickly back to her apartment.

  The one thing that had been different about Professor Nielsen from what she’d expected was his interest in the tenant living in her apartment—the one who played the cello. She’d told him about hearing the music, and how it had taken her several moments to figure out what instrument it was. He encouraged her to seek out Mrs. Morse and talk to her. Ask her where she’d learned cello and who was her composer.

  ***

  After several days, Nicole discovered two things. First, Professor Nielsen probably wouldn’t talk about magic for a while. He seemed determined to study music. Odd, considering he was a music professor. Nicole laughed to herself as she pulled the covers up to her chin one evening after a long day of practicing.

  The second thing was how very difficult it was to find Mrs. Morse, and then even more difficult to corner her.

  Every night since arriving, Nicole had stayed up late, listening to the foreign and strange music coming from above. Tonight was no different, and it was making her go crazy.

  Leaning over, she dug through her purse and pulled out her cell.

  She didn’t even give her best friend time to adjust. “Lizzie, I have to figure this out!”

  “Girl, why are you awake? It’s got to be one thirty in the morning there!”

  “It’s driving me nuts—she plays all night long. I don’t understand it. And it’s with meaning. For a purpose. I need to know why!”

  “Okay, honestly? I have to get up early. Just go talk to her—figure out what’s going on. Isn’t that what your professor told you to do?”

  “Yeah, but she’s kind of intimidating—she’s really good. And I’m only eighteen. She’s ancient. I saw her once. At least, I think it was her. She has to be in her eighties or nineties.”

  Lizzie snorted. “You? Intimidated? Come on.” She took a breath. “You know, she might be able to help you with the cello itself, not just music. Approach her from that angle.”

  Nicole sat up in bed. “That’s it! You’re a genius!”

  Lizzie chuckled. “I’m surprised—really surprised—that you didn’t think of it yourself. Call me at a decent hour, after you’ve talked to her.”

  ***

  Two days later, Nicole was successful in that quest. They happened to be grocery shopping at the same time in a nearby store. When the store clerk called the stooped, little woman with the scarf over her head “Mrs. Morse,” Nicole made her purchases and raced to catch up as the woman was leaving.

  “Mrs. Morse?”

  The elderly lady stopped and turned. “Mmm?”

  “My name is Nicole Williams. I’m a cellist, and Mr. Landon said you also play the cello.” Nicole smiled her most winning smile, and Mrs. Morse rewarded her with a grin that showed old, twisted teeth.

  “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 st
rewn 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.

  To continue reading, download Praxis Novellas from Amazon.