Chapter 7
“I ’m still not over the fact we’re eating in a chapel,” Yasmine whispered, her gaze skeptical as it fell on the silverware neatly arranged on the long wooden tables. Meals at Pantheon felt a little bit like a royal banquet. Today was the welcoming lunch for the first years. “I think I’d have to sell an organ on top of working at the library to afford to eat at this place. Did you have any luck with the choir group?”
It was the last day for the applications, but for some reason, I kept thinking about what Sylas had said about fencing. A sport for the brave. I wanted to be brave too. Like Mom.
“I really need to talk to them, don’t I?” I glanced at the choir group seated beneath the stained glass. I didn’t even want to be in the choir. I’d disliked it at home, but it was one of my father’s conditions for my attendance.
I rose, my momentum interrupted by the butler picking up our plates the moment we freed the space because, yes, Pantheon even had a butler for events like this.
“Thank you, Alfie,” Yasmine said, and the old man frowned. “Alfie, as in Alfred, as in Batman. It’s a compliment.”
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself. Yasmine and I approached the choir group, which was distributing prospectuses about their upcoming concert. “Did I tell you I have my first advanced class for musical interpretation and ensemble performance with Mr. Delgado? He’s one of—”
“The best interpreters of our time, and you’ve been wanting to meet him since forever. He’s the one selecting the students playing at the opera at the end of the school year. I know. I even googled him thinking he must be hot or something. Imagine my disappointment when I saw his age and—”
“Hi,” I cut Yas off, attempting a smile, facing the whole group and their glares. “I’m a first-year musicology student, and I want to join the group. I’ve been in a choir for a couple of years in my hometown and—”
“I’m sorry, we’re full,” the woman in the middle quipped with the fakest smile. “Plus, we have too many women already.”
“Oh.” My lips were tugging in a smile despite myself. “Can you write it down for me as proof?”
“Maybe you could even record—” Yasmine chimed in.
“No,” the woman from the choir grimaced at us both.
“Okay.”
Yas and I ran out of the hall like thieves chased from a palace, laughing. We parted ways. She had her theater class, and I had to return to my dorm to grab my violin. I couldn’t afford to be late for my next class. I made a mental note to register for the fencing club after.
I stopped in my tracks in front of the opera house and quickly glanced around me. I wanted a moment of privacy, alone. My stomach tightened into a knot as I read the victims’ names on the plaque. Monique Bellfieux. Richard Greenwald. Hortense Zuckaria. Diana Caron. My fingers grazed the last name on the plaque, and I clenched my violin case.
The bell rang, pulling me out of my reverie. I had to hurry. But as I was about to leave, I spotted Levi sauntering past me, probably exiting the sciences building, wearing his Tactician black and purple uniform. His eyes locked on mine, and then they fell to the green ribbon I used for my ponytail, his hands casually resting in his pockets. I adjusted my skirt, as per instinct, my mind stuck between trying to avoid him and still having hope that I could fix my mistakes despite the fact he loathed my entire existence.
“Levi, I—”
He halted, assessing me with a raised eyebrow. I remembered our church group motto, “Kindness will heal even the darkest souls,” but facing him, I was mute. I didn’t know what to say.
“Having a great first day, Mercier?”
“Yes,” I said, pinching my brows together. His being nice and calling me by my last name didn’t add up. “And you?”
“Before running into you, I was.”
This sounded more like him. “Right.”
He hummed, his eyes landing on my violin. I clutched it tighter.
His lips curled. “What are you doing here? Enjoying a little tragedy?”
“No! Who could enjoy something like that?” I blurted out.
“Who knows, the human race is horrible. The fewer people around, the better,” he said flatly, his words bleeding through me, my heart clawing in my throat. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I think you’ll want to get to your next class.” He had his handsome, cruel smile sewn on his face, too stretched out to be real. “We can’t have you late on your first day and make a bad impression.”
My eyes widened. Right. The bell. I had to get to class before it rang a second time. “I-I need to go.”
I dashed through the buildings, weaving past students clad in their uniforms. Thank god it was on the ground floor. Once I found the correct door number, I knocked and pushed the door open, gathering my breath.
“I trust you’ve all come prepared,” Professor Delgado paused, his gaze landing on me. “A latecomer. I guess every class needs one. You must be Dalia Mercier.”
I opened my mouth to speak. I’d still made it before the bell rang a second time; I was still on time.
“That wasn’t a question. Sit down.” He pointed at the spot next to him, right in the front row of the students forming a circle, each one carrying their own musical instruments.
I took the seat, the room smelling of rosin from the bows. Rental violins, cellos, flutes, and pianos were scattered about, each waiting to be played. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again and—”
The second bell rang.
“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine.” His lips twitched into a smile under his black mustache. “I’m the one who’ll be sorry if you’re late again because then I’ll have to kick you out of my class. I’m expecting you to be ready when the first bell rings.”
I swallowed, shrinking into my chair. I’d just been reprimanded by a soloist for the Royal Theater of Madrid; a composer who’d had most of his research books published; a professor whose students had taken the most prestigious positions in some of the best philharmonics in the world.
“As I was saying before our interruption.” Mr. Delgado paced the room, his black hair tied back in a bun. He reminded me of what I imagined Count Dracula would look like. “I overheard some of you gossiping about the rumors surrounding the upcoming reopening of the opera house for next spring.”
My heart tightened, and a hush fell over the room. Apparently, we all had the same dream.
“If these rumors turn out to be true,” he said sternly, “and if you believe performing at the Pantheon Opera will be handed to you simply because you’re a student here, you’re mistaken. Only the most exceptional performers will receive the honor to audition, and it’s highly unlikely that any first or second-year students will be selected.”
I rubbed my hands together. It wouldn’t be easy, but we had a whole year to prepare.
Professor Delgado’s stern countenance and sharp, critical eyes scanned the room until they settled on me. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I replied with a smile.
“Now, when I call your name, you’ll introduce yourself. You, the student with the badly shaved mustache and strawberry hair—you go first.”
“I’m Gunther,” the boy said. He was a Guardian, and his posture was so erect that I instinctively straightened my own back. “I’m a pianist; you may know me as Mozart’s reincarnation from the viral video of me at age six. I also won second prize in the international Chopin piano competition.”
The professor signaled for the next student. Tactician.
“I’m Maria, a violinist, and I studied at the Karajan Akademie on top of winning the Tchaikovsky International competition.”
Each student’s accomplishments seemed more impressive than the last, and I couldn’t help but feel like an impostor among these prodigies. Then again, it would be a good opportunity to learn from them.
“Our latecomer, Dalia Mercier—never heard of you before,” the professor stated, adjusting his glasses.
My heart raced as I rose to my feet, my hands clutching my uniform. “My mentor was Lucie Delombre. She performed for l’Opera Garnier in Paris.”
“I didn’t see any recommendation letters from her in your application. Do you have any noteworthy references? Any impressive musical achievements, or have you found your way into my class by mistake, Miss Mercier?”
I felt the weight of every student’s gaze upon me. Lucie’s approach to teaching music had been unconventional. Instead of focusing solely on string learning or perfecting score reading, she’d taught me to speak with the music.
“I played for our church group,” I said.
Some of the other students giggled. I hunched down back in my seat, lowering my head. I had my place here. I’d prove I wasn’t just here because of Dad’s name and money.
“I may not have won international competitions or graced grand stages yet, but I’m here to learn and to challenge myself to become the best musician I can be,” I muttered.
The professor considered me for a moment. “It seems you have quite a few gaps to fill if you wish to progress to the next year. However, perhaps there’s a hidden talent lying beneath that unassuming exterior. Play something for me, Miss Mercier.”
“Now?” I grasped my violin case, the calluses visible on the pads of my second and third finger.
“Of course. You’re a musician, aren’t you? Play me le 3ème mouvement du concerto pour violon de Sibelius .”
One of the most demanding violin music scores ever written.
“I—yes.”
I swallowed, a chill running down my spine. I practiced five hours a day before coming to Pantheon to prepare myself. I recalled Lucie’s advice: if you feel overwhelmed, close your eyes and count your breathing. It’s just you in the room. Perfectionism is a creativity killer because it’s inhuman. Therefore, it can’t express the right emotions because our emotions are messy and imperfect. Use your fear in your music.
I opened my case, and a vision of horror appeared in front of me. My violin was broken. All the cords were cut. I froze, memories of the destroyed Cigno Nero resurfacing. My fingertips graced the broken parts, and I thought of the only person capable of doing something so horrendous. A person who knew this act would humiliate and devastate me. It was payback.
Levi.
That was why he’d been acting so smug earlier. He had sabotaged me. I was stuck in a nightmare.
“What’s taking you so long?” the teacher asked.
I won’t allow him to destroy this for me.
I shut the case. “I can’t use my violin.”
“So you came to class without a proper working violin?”
“Can I borrow one?” I said, my heart about to jump out of my chest. “Just this one time.”
“Fine, you may do so.” He waved, already bored.
I took one from the music room, but this one didn’t feel like mine—the sensations were different; my fingers weren’t in the positions I was used to. Just a tiny difference in manufacturing could change everything.
Taking my stance, I settled the violin on my shoulder and closed my eyes tightly.
“Eyes open,” the teacher reminded me.
I started the first notes, but my fingers faltered into a bad intonation. I lost the tempo, not breathing enough with the music, which made some students laugh again. I’m terrible . I tried again but struggled to focus on the music score, my mind sending signals that I would never make this work. I wasn’t a clean musician, playing the perfect intonation. I was messy and—
“Alright. I’ll speak with you after class.”
I nodded and sat down again, wishing I was invisible. The following hour of the class felt like an endless curse. I didn’t know where to put myself, and I avoided all the glares, begging for the bell to ring.
“Next week,” the professor said, “you’ll all introduce yourself through music, much like Miss Mercier failed to do today.”
The bell put an end to my misery, and summoning my courage, I approached him behind his desk. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes,” he replied, lowering his glasses. “I have concerns about your place in my class.”
“I promise I can do better. I’ll work harder than anyone.”
“Sometimes work isn’t enough. Maybe you’ve reached your full potential, don’t you think?” He hummed, and every muscle in my body tensed, bracing for his ultimate judgment. “You may go. That’s it. For now.”
I offered a tentative smile that he didn’t share and left the classroom.
They said kindness will heal even the darkest souls , but maybe I wasn’t interested in healing Levi’s soul anymore. As a child, I used to admire him and wanted to be like him. He seemed so fearless, owning the silence I was so afraid of, but now I would win over his respect in the only language he could understand: payback.
I raced toward the gardens, calling Grandma, who immediately picked up.
“My beautiful flower, how was your first day?”
“Dreadful.”
“Well, welcome to real life, dear. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows,” she chanted, always joyful.
“Yeah, I know. Promise you won’t tell Dad a thing, but I need you.”
“I hide many things from your dad, like the plants I’m growing on your bedroom windowsill.”
I shut my eyes. She’d never change. “Grandma, I need your family recipe for the horrible cake you baked for Grandpa’s last birthday.”
Not that I’d remember—I was three years old. But to stop my tantrums, Grandma, as the delicate woman she was, had decided to scare me with her tale about how that cake had fast-tracked Grandpa’s trip to the afterlife.
“Oh, the Horror Cake?” She laughed. “That idiot dared to smile at that skank Gertrude. Well, it never happened again, even if she still gloated about it, but he picked me, not her, and—”
“Yes, that one.”
Grandma was one possessive woman, and Grandpa was probably the only man on earth who’d ever been able to love her with all her eccentricities. I had always envied their love. He’d loved and accepted the darkest parts of her, and she’d remained faithful to him even after his death.
“But I want it to be even more awful than that, Grandma,” I commanded. “Like puking worthy, but not too awful to the point of poisoning someone. And don’t let the smell alert the victim this time.”
I needed to be precise since Grandma didn’t have boundaries.
“Did you make enemies, dear?”
“I did, Grandma.”
“I’m proud of you!” she screamed. “Nemeses make us grow. I’ll send the recipe right back to you, my flower.”
I hung up. I had a payback gift I wanted to send to Levi with all the kindness in my heart.