Formata – Autumn
Formata
Autumn
T he long and lush notes of Bach’s Chaconne pull me closer as I walk down the west wing of the estate. The strings from the violin sing as if they’re being tamed by a professional—perhaps Adele’s teacher—but when I peer into the room, the teacher is staring at the sheet music.
Adele is standing near the window, playing the piece without even looking at the printed notes.
I lean against the doorframe and listen in awe, letting her precision lure me out of my thoughts. I’m falling into the story, feeling my fingers itch to play along, when suddenly the teacher taps a ruler against the stand.
“Very nice,” she says. “Let’s stop for today.”
“Bravo!” I clap from where I’m standing. That doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve just heard.
The two of them look toward me, and I clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t help it. You’re incredible, Adele.”
“Thank you, Miss Jane.”
“Acht, acht, acht!” Her teacher taps the ruler again. “Curtsy or bow with your thanks, child. You know better.”
Adele forces a smile and curtsies. “Thank you, Miss Jane.”
“Much better.” The teacher motions for me to step inside and extends her hand. “Mrs. Hannah Foglienne, a long-time friend of the estate.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand. “I’m Adele’s nanny.”
“Well, don’t be offended if she runs you off after a few days,” she says. “She tends to have that effect, but I’ve learned all her ways over the years. I even knew to expect her back from London this week. I just know.”
Adele walks toward her case and opens it.
“What are you doing, child?” Mrs. Foglienne asks.
“I thought we were done for the day.”
“You thought wrong.” She points to a chair. “I’m done, but you still owe a performance of the first part of Bruch: 1. Violinkonzert , and you’ll play it for Miss Jane. Play it well, and when I return, I’d like to hear some feedback.”
She hands me the sheets and whispers, “This piece takes at least fifteen minutes to perform. Enjoy.”
Grabbing her mug and scarf, she pats my shoulder before leaving the room.
Adele sighs and picks up her bow. Then she shuts her eyes and begins the concerto with ease.
Like before, the notes are full and beautifully strung, painting a picture that fills the room.
At least, they would be to someone who’d never played them before.
I can hear exactly where she cuts corners—where she chops off a note instead of letting it linger, rushes through rests, or slides into the next phrase. It’s the mark of a prodigy who’s so gifted she never has to try. She knows they’ll excuse a fudged vibrato or a hurried passage.
Just like I did.
“She’s so young…” they said. “It’ll come with time.”
“So, Miss Jane?” she asks after the last note fades. “Did you like it?”
“It was okay.”
“Okay?” She scrunches her face. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it.” I walk over to the instruments near the window, picking up a maple violin and a bow. “You missed a few notes.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.” I test the strings, adjusting them. “I heard them.”
“You’re making that up.” Her cheeks redden. “How would you know?”
“Because you skipped the best stanza.” I play the frantic, energetic passage that transitions into the somber ending.
Her arms cross. She listens.
“And something tells me you know how to play a vibrato, but—” I demonstrate. “You also know no one will ever call you out on it. For now.”
She stares at me for several seconds, then smiles.
Repositioning her bow, she plays it back—nailing the phrasing and vibratos.
“Much better,” I say. “That time was more than okay.”
“I didn’t know you could play.” Her eyes light up. “And well, too! I mean, I don’t expect most people to be trash, but… you’re not at all. A bit rusty maybe on the upswings, but—wow.”
“I used to be like you,” I say. “But you’re definitely further along in your own lane.”
“You stopped?”
“Yes and no… Life got in the way.”
“Is my dad really forcing you to look after me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not as bad as my teachers in London and Mrs. Foglienne claim,” she says quietly. “I promise.”
“I believe you.”
“Can you try not to tell my dad anything bad about me while you’re watching me? Please?”
“Um, sure.” I blink. “Why would I ever do that?”
“I need you to promise.” She holds out her pinky. “If I don’t run anyone off, maybe he’ll let me stay.”
I swallow, knowing he’s definitely sending her back.
“I won’t tell him anything bad about you, Adele.” I twist her pinky. “I’m looking forward to hanging out with you.”
“Me too, now that I know you can play.” She grabs a chair and motions for me to sit, stacking sheet music on the stand in front of us. “You play the first part, stop, and I’ll pick up where you left off.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to object. Her bow’s already poised.
Midway through, Ryder steps into the doorway, watching. But by the time we finish, he’s gone.
Later that night, I thumb through the racks of designer clothes that were delivered to my room.
I have forty minutes before I’m due to meet Adele and Ryder for late-night ice cream and Chopin, so I settle on lavender silk pajamas. While reviewing the list of approved contacts for Adele, I pause at the last entry.
Crafts & Notes.
I glance at the number and smile. My old job. But… what about Adele’s friends?
I walk to Ryder’s office to ask, but he’s not there. As I’m heading down the hall, I catch sight of him stepping into his bedroom, phone pressed to his ear.
“I said no,” he says. “That’s the end of it. And there’s only one more thing I need to know before I leave tonight.”
His back is turned, but the tension radiating from him is unmistakable.
“I’ll shoot him myself. Just make him suffer until I arrive to finish the job.”
A chill races down my spine. His voice is calm—almost bored—but the words are razor sharp. My breath catches, and I instinctively step back, only to bump into the wall.
“No. That won’t be necessary. Thank you.” He ends the call and turns around.
When he sees me, something hard flickers in his eyes—like I’m not someone he was inside days ago. Like I’m a threat.
“I uh…” I hold up the list. “I was just?—”
“I have somewhere to be tonight, Miss Jane.” His tone is all business. “Since I’ll be flying out, I’ll have to raincheck. But I’d appreciate a video of Adele’s Chopin.”
I nod.
“Were you eavesdropping, Miss Jane?”
“No.”
“Then why were you standing there?”
“I wanted to ask about Adele’s contacts.” I hand him the list. “There aren’t any parents or friends listed.”
“And?”
“Does she have any friends I can call?”
He blinks. “I’ll be back in a couple days.”
“Surely—”
“Whoever is on that list is it,” he snaps. “That’s it. Those are the only people I trust, so they’re the only ones you can call.”
“I was just asking.”
“You previously noticed that no Uber drivers come here,” he says, stepping closer. “There are a lot of people who know better, but we’re not extending invitations to those who don’t.”
He looks past me. “My daughter doesn’t need friends here. She has me. That’s enough.”
He shuts the door in my face.
“Hurry up, Miss Jane!” Adele calls from down the hall. “I’m toasting the waffle bowls! It’ll be just me and you tonight!”
Relieved that Ryder already told her, I push away the urge to scream. His eyes were too cold. Too distant.
As much as I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, Kylie’s binder is calling me again, and tonight, I’ll be flipping through it—rubbing my terrible decisions in my own face.
Since Adele’s still setting up toppings, I pull out my phone.
I know you’re mad, but… Can I call you later about something?
Kylie
Is the something him?
It doesn’t have to be…
Forgive me for not understanding you clearly have feelings for him. I’ll listen, but you still have to let me warn you—and you can’t get mad.
I won’t.
10 o’clock work?
Yes.
Perfect. (By the way… That man has never loved anything but chaos and money. Not even his own family.)
I’ve seen the way he looks at Adele, so I can’t vouch for that. But Adele isn’t my secret to share.
“So, is this a tradition you and your dad have?” I ask Adele.
“It would be if he actually showed up to one.” She hands me a vanilla cup. “He’s always busy.”
“This time, something came up last minute.”
“Something always does.” She gives me a spoon. “I have more rainchecks than real memories.”
I bite my tongue.
“Sometimes, I don’t think he wants me to be home with him at all.”
“You don’t mean that.”
She shrugs and tops my scoop with butterscotch. “Let’s pretend it was always just me and you for tonight. What other toppings do you want?”
End of Episode 15