Chapter 14
14
I 'm not able to do much for the rest of the day except lose myself in study. I didn't answer the door when Clara knocked half an hour after the lunch spectacle.
What would I say to her? I didn't have any answers to questions she might ask. Why Kendall chased me down. What he'd said.
You don't even know who you are . What the hell does that mean?
And the whole belonging to him thing? First of off, fuck him, just on principle. But why would he say that?
The contract sits on my desk like a rattlesnake, ready to strike me at any moment. I shove the earbuds deeper in my ears and turn up my white noise app to block out the entire world. Studying is my escape. My refuge. The one known quantity in this whole crazy mess.
At least, that’s what I do until four, when my alarm blares so loudly I fall off my chair and land on the floor. The smattering of power bar wrappers that have served as my nutrition today do little to break my fall. I turn off the alarm, noting that I've missed ten texts today, half of them from Dominic asking if I'm okay. Bless him.
Setting my timer for fifteen minutes, I peel off my athleisure-wear—read: pajamas—fully cognizant "All Saints" ready might not be achievable in this timeframe. I'm at a level zero, and I need to be a Ten per my contract. Hopefully reporting for my first meeting with my chosen volunteer organization won’t involve fashion police. My guess is the choirmaster will expect more from me in the way of competence filing papers than choosing the correct shoes to compliment a dress.
Frizzy hair greets me when I look in the minuscule bathroom mirror, and it's hopeless. There will be no sleek waves today. “Time to channel PBS Masterpiece Theatre,” I tell myself. Running my brush under the water, I slick everything back into a severe bun, douse it in hair gel, and stab it repeatedly with bobby pins.
I look tired, but less chaotic. Edging toward severe ballerina, but not hungover freshman. Sheer bronzer, lip tint and cheek tint give me a false cheer, which raises me to at least a Five. In my closet, I go for basic black. Black pencil skirt, black tank top, black scarf tied around my shoulders.
The mirror tells me it's giving "sexy House Frau attending a memorial service", but it will have to do. I shrug and decide to lean into it, attaching a lace fascinator that resembles a modern widow’s veil. The tragic mysterious look boosts me from an Eight to a Nine, which is the best I can do on short notice. Worried I might run into Clara or Kendall, I peek outside before exiting my room. Thankfully, it's just the typical sleepy Sunday foot traffic.
My kitten heels click on the cobbles as I skirt the building and exit my quad. All around me, students and couples fill the grass. Reading, knitting, tossing a frisbee. Relaxed, happy, and blissfully unaffected by the drama I carry heavy within my body on a daily basis right now. Wild jealousy consumes me as I witness carefree individuals. People who got into Oxford without being a part of All Saints. People who can afford Oxford without signing a contract bartering their right to date.
In short order, the massive spires of All Souls Cathedral blot out my view of the sky. Oxford is known as the City of Spires—thin white fingers reach for the sky, clawing up out of the manicured grounds.
Inside, the deep, deep quiet of the stone church presses in on my senses, soothing me. I take in a lungful of the musty air. I can't describe why I love the taste and smell as much as I do, considering I've led a life avoiding churches as much as possible. This space feels...reverent, filled with the sounds of a choir of angels. Like an older version of God resides here, not the knockoff American one.
Soft scales emanate from the primary space and I hurry through the doors. I hope I’m not too late to help the choirmaster. When I'd seen All Souls choir assistant as an option on the list of approved volunteer activities, my mind wouldn’t accept any other alternative. Like a woman possessed, I’d not even finished reading my options before clicking on it in my app. I assume I’ll be organizing sheet music, or running errands, or ironing choir robes, and I love it.
There’s an indescribable pull to this. My body resonates as the singers make their way up and down the scales and I make my way up the center aisle. The choir sits near the front of the church, on a dais behind the lectern, under a soaring dome covered in stone carvings. Three rows of ornately carved benches face each other, both sides face the center where the conductor stands. I slide into one of the wooden benches and sit, content to wait for rehearsal to finish up.
I glance over the group of singers one by one and then there he is. The dark-haired angel whom I'd heard singing the first time. His tousled locks hide his eyes, but I feel sure he clocked my entrance. Like he’s just looked away from me. It’s a little heady, feeling like I’m noticeable enough to snag the attention of someone so talented and gorgeous. I start, realizing I’ve not only seen him singing before, but…he’s the server from the King’s Corner meeting. The one that winked at me. My heart zings, a moment of triumph in putting together the pieces before it crashes to the floor. Does this mean he’s tied to All Saints too? Is that why he notices me?
In America, Helena is a quiet nerd. Noticed by nary a human male in anything other than a tutoring capacity. Kendall made it clear to our entire school that he thought I was an ice princess. So much so, I never even got asked to a prom. Not even by a fellow nerd. It was like everyone was terrified to challenge what Kendall deemed. Here in Oxford, I feel...seen. I’m interesting. An actual blip on the radar of men and it's wild . If I had known dressing like a tragic widow would net me this kind of attention, I'd have started doing it in 8th grade.
Silence reigns, and my attention snaps up. The conductor has turned to look at me, and everyone has stopped singing. The conductor looks pissed that I'm interrupting practice. “Are you Miss Eades?”
I swallow, nerves flooding my body. “I—yes?” Under the scrutiny of the choir members, I lose my confidence in the tragic widow look, and yank the fascinator out of my hair, shoving it behind me on the pew.
“Rehearsal started twenty minutes ago.” The conductor pulls out an honest to God pocket watch and flips it open.
I stand, unsure what else I should do, reflexively running a hand down my pencil skirt. “I am so sorry. My app said five. I thought I needed to be here after rehearsal for my volunteer hours. I’ll do better next time.”
“You’re our new legacy member, right? I got a note about you this morning.” She looks like the note came in the form of a Lemonhead. “You'll join the altos.” She points a wiry brown hand toward the row of benches to her right and I make my way up the center aisle. “You missed our first two rehearsals, so I expect you to familiarize yourself with our selections on your own time. Given your background, I assume this won't be a problem?”
My eyes widen. Legacy member? I’m not exactly sure where our communication has gone awry, but she’s not expecting me to sort sheet music, she’s expecting me to sing. “My…background.” I only just avoid making it a question, but my statement lacks conviction.
The conductor nods. "Will you need a rehearsal accompanist this week? Otherwise, you can just do it on your own and practice in sectionals. MacKenna will let you know the schedule. You can pick up your sheet music at my office tomorrow.”
My confused gaze lands on a tall girl with brown hair. She gives me a little wave and points to an empty space beside her.
“Oh, um.” I'm not even sure what to do to avoid this catastrophe. I haven’t sung in a few years, and definitely not at this level.
“I do not have all night. Are you accepting the position or was your application a mistake? Faculty personally backed your consideration, assuring me that you are planning to transfer from University to All Souls next year?”
Well shit . Faculty means Kendall’s father. I just know it. I do not know how Mister Saint James mistook my expression of interest in an administrative role to mean I wanted to sing, or that I could sing. Could this be my next test? Or another one of Kendall’s shitty power plays to get me thrown out? All Saints must not discover their mistake or think I failed to meet expectations. I guess until then, I’m…I’m a singer. A bubble of nerves and elation fills my belly.
“Sectionals will be fine, thank you.”
It placates the conductor. She gives me a tight smile as I climb the stairs and slide into the narrow gap between the wooden rail and the tiny bench. Built for comfort, this setup is not. I basically sit in every girl’s lap as I make my way across the row to the empty seat.
“We rarely allow non-audition additions into our ranks, unlike the colleges with volunteer choirs. I expect you to keep up and attend all performances. Vespers are five evenings a week. We take shifts. Holy days have three services, and any special invitations will be communicated via e-mail.”
I nod, and next to me, MacKenna pushes the music stand toward the center of us. My mind whirls with how to balance studying with my new apparently prolific choral duties, and playing catch up with people who have been singing far more frequently and recently than I have. Not to mention the All Saints meetings. I’m already accruing a sleep debt as-is. This will make it so much worse.
When the conductor pats her graying black bun and raises her hands, I lose the luxury of internally freaking out. I follow suit as everyone around me squares their shoulders and resumes singing up and down the scale.
Truth be told, I’m enchanted by the sound waves rolling off our small company, up from our choral pews, and directly to the dome of the church. My voice is tentative at first, but muscle memory is a powerful thing and soon I'm singing out with confidence. That strange and wonderful energy building in my core that comes only from singing in a choir—a good one. It’s magic. Something greater than the sum of the individual parts. The conductor, Doctor Yusef, has us break into harmonized warmups next, and it's like my soul has been lit on fire once I get over my initial terror. A surge of what I can only describe as joy fills me as I match pitch with MacKenna and fill out our part of the whole. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
The tenors’ high bright note rings across the dome, raising goosebumps on my arms and drawing my eye. Up till now, I've avoided looking at...him. The mystery waiter, vocalist of the Gods. He's focused on Doctor Yusef, a wild, intent look on his face. I’m sad when warmup is over, and we fall silent, but I’m not sad for long. At Dr. Yusef’s direction, the mystery man begins the mournful solo I'd heard him practicing days ago. We've moved into practicing an actual piece of music and I’ve become an outsider again.
“He's really good, I know,” MacKenna intones beside me, mistaking my terror for being impressed. “He’s in the select choir too, here for this term as our soloist. Not sure why he agreed, I’m sure it’s tons more work for him. Not that I mind.”
Good is an understatement. He makes me feel like I've never heard music before. "Yeah," I manage to respond on a breath.
As if sensing our discussion, he meets my gaze. I’m dizzy for the fraction of a moment between our gazes colliding and MacKenna’s elbowing me in the side. She points to the music and I scramble to join in, listening to her masterful tones. Luckily, this song is slow, and the harmony isn't complicated. My sight reading is dreadfully rusty but I fake my way through rehearsal okay. I'm lucky. Complex music would have exposed me as an imposter instantly. Luckily for me, and the world, this song focuses almost entirely on the male soloist.
The hour flies by. We're instructed to practice and be ready with this piece for Sunday at Evensong. And then everyone is packing up and shuffling music and conversing. I blink rapidly, clearing the remnants of notes and Latin from my visual memory.
“So I'll see you Wednesday for sectionals?” McKenna holds out a folder to me.
I take it automatically. “Yeah, um, Wednesday.”
“Actually, here I'll give you my number. I'm the section leader for the Altos. You let me know if you need to get together before then. We'll be going over Lux Aurumque.”
“Okay, perfect,” I agree, as if I have any idea what that means.
She waves and joins the other girls from the Alto section as they descend the dais stairs, excluding me from the already-formed clique. Instead of following them, I dawdle, putting my folder into my shoulder bag slowly. The men’s section across from me is full of guys horsing around, shoving each other over and climbing on the pews. I've crashed some sub-society here at All Souls. Oxford at large is one thing, and then you have your college—the daily microcosm in which I operate. Then, there are further divisions even before you get to secret societies.
Dr. Yuseff and the dark-haired boy converse over a piece of music, so I continue to lurk. I want a name to put with that face, but I don’t want to look like I’m eavesdropping. So, I pretend to look at the things up on the choir dais. The carved wooden figures in the posts of the wooden benches. The paintings up on the half wall in the back.
I get well and truly sucked into my fictional distraction as I discover a set of stairs off the back of the dais that leads to a little hallway. It's still open up to the dome, but with higher walls and no pews. I follow it along until it opens into a small round chamber at the very top of the church. This chamber has pictures of choirs and events here in the cathedral. Glass boxes attached to plinths contain some items. A few plaques on the wall mark historic happenings.
This building is old . Older than old. One glass box contains a scepter used to dedicate this church in fourteen hundred and twenty-six . I gravitate toward the wall of photographs, most of them black and white pictures with engraved nameplates. Donors, and distinguished students who served at All Souls College.
A name catches my eye, and I lean in.
Eades.
I blink, my finger flying to the picture above it, scanning the rows of people standing in the very choir pews I've just vacated.
It can't be.
It’s my grandfather.