Strange Sweet Song

by Rule, Adi

  She clambers over the balcony railing in defiance and looks up with a smirk. He is leaning against the railing, closer than she anticipated, and for a moment there is nothing between them but silence and shadows and breath.

  Her voice surprises her, seeming to come of its own accord. “Maybe … maybe you could play the intermezzo for me again sometime?”

  He nods, inclining his upper body slightly, almost a bow. A strange light illuminates his face, and she realizes it is coming from the stone around her neck. She raises a hand to it, clutches it, and the light shines white and red through the cracks between her fingers.

  She doesn’t look up again as she descends the fire escape, the warm darkness rising over her like a pool. But she knows he is still there, watching. And somehow, a tiny bit of her insides, always shivering, always shivering, is quieted, and she knows it will never tremble again.

  Fifty-four

  AS A MATTER OF SURVIVAL, the Felix nurtured within herself the discipline of shutting out the deaths of stars. She learned long ago that her terrestrial spirit could not absorb the enormity of such losses. When she first fell to earth, the new emptiness she felt at each exploded life was overpowering to the point of madness. But, gradually, she learned to open her eyes, to ground herself in the pattern of a tree’s bark or the darks and lights of water. To block out the vast sky in all its beauty and bleakness.

  But, cut off from the universe as she now was, a different kind of madness—savagery—began to settle over her. If it hadn’t been for the Cat part of her mind, she would have torn out her own eyes and eaten her own legs. The Cat knew to sleep and hunt and drink and leave its scent. The Cat knew how to be alive here.

  The Felix hasn’t heard the call of the stars for a very long time, but she knows the sounds coming from the human place on the other side of the fence are something like it. Perhaps this is why her child continues to be drawn there, and why she herself feels the need to listen to the man-crow play his strange instrument on dark evenings.

  Recognizing the draw that she and her child share has brought her dulled earth-senses into a new, vague understanding. She allows him to go to the fence now. Sometimes, in the new dawn, she waits in the underbrush and listens to the girl, and sometimes, when the stars rise, the child comes to hear the man-crow.

  When the human place is quiet enough, the two cats venture closer to the tower. And when the sky is dark and the air is clear, the Felix can see the musician through his tall, yellow windows, seated at the instrument, hands moving purposefully. On these nights, she can see his heart, a purple, pulsating glow that surrounds him. It grows brighter as he plays and fades when he is done. Something about that vibrant purple glow shudders her insides with nameless regret and makes her long for the sky. It is in these moments she can almost touch the days before the hunger and fierceness; she can almost hear the stars again.

  Tonight, she and the child hide on the white lawn, wearing the invisibility of night. The child is mesmerized by the glow of the man-crow’s heart, his eyes bright with the reflection of it. The Felix allows her body to relax. They listen for a long time, until at last the sounds stop and only a fading purple haze indicates the now dark tower.

  But the snow is comfortable and the humans are asleep except for a few hurrying blindly through the cold from shelter to shelter, so for a while, the Felix and her child rest in the silent, open air. She licks the stick-up fur between his soft ears.

  Later, with a soft chrrp, the child raises his head. Even though the moon offers little light, the Felix senses what he has—that the girl is coming through the snow toward the tower building.

  When the tower is lit again a short time later, they see the man-crow crossing to his instrument and the girl seating herself nearby. The beautiful sounds begin for the second time that evening, and the two cats listen contentedly, ears cocked forward, tails curled. The purple glow of the man-crow’s heart is brilliant, rivaling its radiancy during the first few days of his transformation, so long ago.

  The sounds last only a few minutes. The girl stands and they talk. Then the girl leaves, down the outside of the stone tower, and the man-crow watches her.

  The Felix stares at him in confusion. Though he has long since stopped playing the instrument, the bright purple glow doesn’t fade or even dim as he stands there. The Felix senses joy from her child—a thing she can still recognize but not hold. But as she watches the man-crow, his heart shining like a flame, she can think only of the bright deaths of stars.

  Fifty-five

  CROWS ARE MORE ATTRACTIVE IN WINTER, Sing thinks, studying vibrantly black, glossy bodies against the ashy trees and white sky. She leans against the fence with her notebook. The morning is soft and winter-warm, but she wears her coat out of habit.

  Unfortunately, “more attractive in winter” isn’t a valid scientific finding.

  With all the people arriving for the Autumn Festival, it feels strange to be out here looking at crows. But as impossible as it seems, Angelique will be over soon, and her report will be due.

  “Caaaw!” a crow calls from a high branch.

  “I’ve got that one already!” she shouts up at him. He ruffles his wings. She can say anything to them now, do anything, and they don’t care. She could probably climb up to the high branch and sit down right next to that crow and he wouldn’t even budge. They don’t mind Tamino anymore, either, even when he takes an occasional swipe at a low-hanging branch.

  However, when Ryan and Lori Pinkerton saunter by, the crows scatter noisily.

  “You are good judges of character!” she yells as they resettle. A few yell back at her. She sighs and taps her pencil against her notebook. “Good judges of character” doesn’t seem particularly scientific, either.

  “I am not a good judge of character,” she says. “I’m wrong about everyone.” The crows mutter and grumble. Was that a chrrrp amid the rrawks? Are ice-blue eyes watching her from between the fence posts?

  Sing sinks onto a nearby picnic table. “Well, I was right about Tamino, at least.” She inhales the fresh scent of snow. “But I was wrong about them.”

  She can still see them tangled up in the blankets, Ryan’s green eyes wide, Zhin trying not to laugh. The time afterward was such a blur of anger and meaningless faces and Angelique and all the pushing.

  Until yesterday, and the only clear thing.

  “I was wrong about him, too,” she says quietly, and the outside world disappears for a moment.

  Until, “Caaaw!” A big crow squawks from a lower branch of Hud’s maple tree. Sing squints over at it. Was it really caaaw that time, or was that just what she heard? What she expected to hear? Wasn’t it actually more purry, less crackly? She listens.

  Footsteps swish the snow behind her, and she turns to see Mrs. Bigelow approaching, wrapped in a puffy lavender coat.

  A twinge of panic strikes Sing as she remembers her white tights.

  Her whole laundry schedule was thrown off by Zhin, and she was one pair of kneesocks short this morning; she hoped no one would notice the white tights she’d substituted. As Mrs. Bigelow approaches, she pulls her skirt down as low as it will go.

  “Doing your research, I see!”

  Sing nods. I hope she doesn’t want to look at my notes.

  Mrs. Bigelow reaches her and looks up at the big tree. A few crows look back at her; others have fled to the edge of the forest. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Sing says. But something makes her add, “Not great.”

  Mrs. Bigelow looks at her. “You know, I don’t think I was very fair to you when you chose this project. I thought you were just being defiant. But I’ve seen you out here, studying them. You’ve really put some effort into this. I was wrong, and I apologize.”

  Sing bends her closed notebook, curling it up, down, up, down. She doesn’t know what to say. She was being defiant when she chose crows. But somehow, she thinks Mrs. Bigelow knows that.

  “I’ve been doing a little research mys
elf,” Mrs. Bigelow says. “And I think you may have chosen a more difficult project than you anticipated. Have you written down ‘caw’ yet?”

  Sing rolls her eyes and lets her head flop backward, and Mrs. Bigelow laughs. “Well, did you know that every ‘caw’ can be different?”

  “I kind of figured that out.” She is aware of how quiet the crows are right now.

  “Caws can have different meanings depending on how loud or long they are, or how many in a row.” Mrs. Bigelow looks up at the tree, her puffy jacket rustling. “And different groups of crows have different languages. It’s pretty amazing, actually.”

  “Caaaw!” Sing says in her best gravelly voice to the crows on the lowest branch.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to check up on you. And to let you know Maestro Keppler wants to see you.”

  Sing’s stomach gives a lurch. What could the Maestro want?

  * * *

  His office is in the St. Augustine’s annex, next to the president’s office, behind an oak door. Sing hopes he’s at lunch, but he answers her polite knock with a stern, “Come in.”

  He’s at his desk, fingers woven together, pristine black robes ironed so meticulously, they almost shine. Not much else shines in the stuffy office, however. It reminds Sing of a Rembrandt painting—the Maestro’s face sharp and illuminated yellow, the background merely a murky suggestion of furniture and curtains and objects.

  Sing waits for him to say, “Sit down, please,” which he does, his hard eyes focused on her face. She sits but keeps her gaze on the surface of his desk. His ornaments are spare but old-looking and ornate—a dark silver inkwell, photographs in heavy frames. She studies an old photo of a little boy, grinning and covered in mud, and a picture of the Maestro and Apprentice Daysmoor with—she squints—Gloria Stewart? No, she died twenty years ago. It must be someone else.

  The Maestro doesn’t speak for a few awful moments. Sing is aware of the pressure of the white tights on her waist and legs. I should have known it wouldn’t work, she thinks. What is the punishment for being out of uniform? She can’t afford another censure.

  Finally, she says, “I’m sorry, Maestro. It won’t happen again.”

  He sniffs. “You’re right about that, Miss da Navelli.” Sing detects a decidedly angry undercurrent and ventures a glance at his face. He looks much older than when she first arrived at DC. His jaw muscles are pulsating, his eyes narrow.

  The Maestro doesn’t say anything else, so she says, “Then—then may I go?”

  Now, the lines around his mouth deepen in a way that almost resembles a smile. “Of course. You may go straight back to your room and pack your bags. I’m recommending to the president that you both be asked to leave the conservatory.”

  Sing’s heart jumps. “What?” she cries. Expelled?

  Wait … You both? Is he going to expel her tights as well?

  “You can’t possibly be surprised, Miss da Navelli,” Maestro Keppler snaps, his voice still careful but beginning to lose its cool.

  “But what about Angelique? The New Artist vacancy?” She knows he doesn’t care about her future, but her words are faster than her brain.

  “I think Lori Pinkerton will do just fine, don’t you? I’m sure she’ll impress the representatives from Fire Lake. You’ll just have to explain it to your father. I’m sorry, Miss da Navelli, but you know the rules, and you broke them.”

  Sing’s stomach twists. “But—but they’re just tights! I loaned my last clean pair of kneesocks to Zhin, and I meant to do laundry yesterday, but it took so long to do the theory homework, and I—”

  “Tights?” the Maestro roars, slapping his desk and rising. “You think this is about tights?” His hand still flat on his desk, he leans forward. He looks as though he has more to say, but nothing comes out.

  And then, suddenly, Sing understands the real reason she has been summoned. It must show on her face, because the Maestro’s body relaxes a little and he lowers himself back into his leather chair. “No, Miss da Navelli, we are not here to discuss tights. We are here to discuss what you were doing last night when you were supposed to be in your room. You weren’t in your room, were you?”

  Sing keeps her eyes on his desk. “No, sir.”

  “You were paying a clandestine visit to someone, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who was it?” His voice is darker now, quieter, more dangerous. “Who were you with?”

  Sing inhales. He already knows; why hide it? “Apprentice Daysmoor.”

  The Maestro is silent for a few moments. She doesn’t look up, but she knows he is staring at her. Then he says softly, yet biting, “There are rules regarding inappropriate relationships between students and apprentices. I’m afraid you will both have to leave.”

  Reality sinks in. Apprentice Daysmoor, dismissed, because of her? As unappreciated as he is here, everyone knows the only thing that awaits disgraced DC apprentices is obscurity.

  Sing’s heart beats more quickly. “But it’s my fault!” Her voice is high and crackly. “I went there on my own—he didn’t ask me to. Please let him stay.”

  “He knew what he was doing,” the Maestro spits.

  “It’s not like that.” She is surprised at her own boldness and leans forward. “He didn’t know I was coming—I snuck over there. I just wanted to hear him play again, and he played for me. Just one piece. It—it was Brahms. That’s all.”

  The Maestro’s gaze is appraising now. He frowns and blinks.

  “That’s all,” Sing repeats quietly.

  The Maestro sniffs. “Why on earth would you sneak into the apprentice quarters in the middle of the night? Didn’t you think of the consequences?”

  The edge seems to be gone from his voice. Is he relenting? “I’m sorry, Maestro,” Sing says. “He—he just played so beautifully at rehearsal and—and—” She doesn’t know how to finish. It’s all so ridiculous. Why did she sneak out? What was she thinking? She studies an ornate picture frame on the Maestro’s desk, a nest of twisted metal tendrils.

  When the Maestro speaks this time, she feels invisible. “He does play beautifully. There’s such a—an intelligence there. Such intention. Such humanity.”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  Now his tone becomes focused and sharp. “Are you in love with him?”

  Sing starts. “What? No! Of course not!” What kind of a question is that?

  Her shock must show on her face, because the Maestro says, “All right. Well, I would hate to see a fine musician like Apprentice Daysmoor forced to leave the conservatory because of your poor judgment.” He leans back in his chair. “So what should we do about this?”

  Does that mean she’s not expelled anymore, either? That she can still sing Angelique?

  “It won’t happen again?” She says it like a question, a suggestion.

  He laughs coldly. “No, Miss da Navelli. Be sure that it doesn’t.”

  Sing relaxes a little. Everything is going to be okay.

  Maestro Keppler leans forward. “And to help make sure it doesn’t happen again, I am giving you a censure for insolence.”

  Sing’s stomach sinks, but she knows she has gotten off easy.

  “Also,” the Maestro adds, voice smooth, “from now on, I forbid you to associate with Daysmoor in any way. If you can do that, you may both stay. Do we have a deal?”

  She is stunned. Does he mean at rehearsals, too, and coaching?

  “Do we have a deal?” he repeats. There it is again in his voice, that hard undercurrent.

  She has no choice.

  She nods.

  “Now,” the Maestro says, “I see no reason to go to the president—or to Daysmoor—with any of this. But if I find you have broken our deal—if I find you have said as much as ‘hello’ to Nathan—there will be no second chances. For either of you. I don’t care what your father thinks. Do you understand?”

  Sing nods. Blackmail.

  Maestro Keppler straightens up. “You have been performing a
dequately. Keep it up.”

  It is a dismissal. She starts to rise, but a knock stops her.

  “George? Are you ready to go?”

  At the sound of the low, gravelly voice, Sing’s eyes meet the Maestro’s. She freezes, but he smiles faintly.

  “Come in!” he calls.

  The door behind Sing opens, and she hears Daysmoor approach. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t know you were with a student. I’ll come back.”

  Sing doesn’t turn around as the Maestro says, “No, no, Miss da Navelli and I were just finishing up.” His easy tone implies they’ve been doing nothing more than discussing favorite books or sharing recipes.

  “Miss da Navelli?” Daysmoor rounds her chair. She is afraid to look up, afraid he will be the gloomy, distant stranger once again and that the night she will always remember never happened after all.

  But when she sees his face, her fear dissolves. He has changed—or maybe they have changed, he and Sing. He is smiling—is it because of her?—and she smiles back.

  He says lightly, “I didn’t expect to find you here. Hello.” She is taken in by him for a moment and starts to respond, but stops herself, glancing at the Maestro’s face. The Maestro clears his throat, eyes as dull and hard as dry clay.

  Not even hello.

  She closes her mouth.

  “What’s going on?” This Daysmoor says to the Maestro before turning back to Sing, his face serious now. Sing shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. Please understand.

  But there is no understanding in his face, only confusion. He returns his focus to Maestro Keppler.

  “We’ve been discussing the opera, that’s all,” the Maestro says. Sing hopes he’ll end it there, but Daysmoor’s gaze is unwavering and he continues. “Miss da Navelli has requested a new coach.”

  Sing stares at the Maestro.

  Daysmoor blinks twice. “Two days before the performance? We only have one session left. I—”

  “Well,” the Maestro says, “this is only the first performance of Miss da Navelli’s time here. And, as she’s already making quite a name for herself, she really deserves someone a bit more—accomplished.”