49. The Pianist
The Pianist
I didn’t pack any formal attire, so Julia lends me a dress that is a sleek indigo and reaches the floor around my heels. The rest is simple—the necklace Jason gave me is gone, so there’s nothing but the mesh collar of the dress around my neck and the small hoops at my ears match in silver.
As I ready myself in front of the vanity mirror, I remind myself that tonight is not technically for me, even if Baz says so. This could be a pivotal moment for Henri, too, even if this event is somewhat informal. If Baz is right, there will be people in high places attending.
I pin my hair back at my nape, twisting the length until it curls into a somewhat neat bun, holding it in place with a dozen pins. I am swiping on mascara when there’s a knock at my door.
Julia enters before I can respond and gasps when she sees me. “Mallary, you’re gorgeous.”
“Not too gorgeous, I hope.” Something tells me that the less attention I get outside of the performance the better.
I wonder what Baz will think. This will be the first time he’ll see me in something other than my night clothes or a sweater.
He’s not watching me now. I can’t feel him, haven’t since last night, but his absence doesn’t feel permanent, especially after the way he insisted he wanted our lives to be so deeply enmeshed.
“Are you kidding?” She rushes closer. “This dress is stunning on you!”
I notice she is wearing her usual uniform of plain, dark clothing. “Are you not going?”
“Oh. No. I am helping Daria and Cook tonight. The catering company is taking over the kitchen. There are always guests with… particular requests, and they’ve told us to accommodate as best we can.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping that we could at least have some champagne together.” My palms smooth down the fabric at my stomach, soft and silky. The dress is form-fitting and slim all the way to the floor. The more I stare at the girl in the mirror, the less I recognize her.
“Maybe next year,” Julia laughs.
And she has no idea. She doesn’t know who I am, what I’ve done, what I will do.
She doesn’t know about the Ghost’s plans. She doesn’t know what’s to come.
“Stop worrying,” she chides, standing next to me. “You’ve been tutoring him for weeks, and he was getting lessons before that, too. He knows what to do. And you’re going to play later tonight, right?”
“They’re not here for me,” I say.
“Maybe not, but you’ll still blow everyone away. Both of you.”
“How many are already here?” Even though the gathering doesn’t officially begin until eight o’clock, I could hear guests arriving and being escorted through the house early this afternoon.
“Maybe a hundred?”
I know it’s not everyone. Baz warned me how these things usually go. Hundreds of people with thinly veiled contempt for each other drinking, and trading secrets, and sometimes even indulging in their vices together.
I understand Baz’s distaste, but I can only hope he’ll behave long enough my playing is heard by the right people.
It’s so close that the impending gratification is syrupy on my tongue. So close I am almost manic with it, knowing that tonight is only the beginning of the rest of my life—if Bastien is to be trusted.
The manor, grand as it is, has a room large enough to host the majority of the guests, a modern ballroom.
The lights have been dimmed to a scintillant golden, the curtains at the windows drawn to expose the powdery white of outside.
The Beauchenes have hired additional staff for the evening, walking around with serving platters and glasses of champagne.
There’s an open bar at the far wall, a buffet of sweets, and in the center of it all sits the piano, shining a glossy black amidst the sea of suit jackets and sequined attire.
Henri stands nearby with his mother, who holds his hand tightly. His little face is tense, a nervousness scrunching his brow as he scans the adults crowding around him, until he spots me and he relaxes.
“Are you ready?” I ask once I’m close enough for him to hear. A steady murmuring fills the room.
He nods.
There’s still half an hour before he’s supposed to play. I know things will go fine. He’s worked hard these last couple of weeks, even asking me for extra practice time, and for how little time we had to prepare, I’m impressed with his dedication.
I keep telling myself that only he and I will know exactly how the Prelude’s been modified, how we’ve had to drop a few notes from the chords. To an untrained ear, it will be perfect. He’s going to impress his parents, all the guests, and they’re all going to know I coached him.
It’s nine o'clock on the dot when Mariane taps a butter knife against her wine glass, the soft tinkling cutting through the crowd until the whole room is hushed, hundreds of eyes turning in our direction. Next to me, Henri shrinks. He grabs my hand.
Mariane gives a long-winded introduction to the evening, thanking everyone for coming, each word dripping with honey.
She’s dressed in a stately sequined black dress, her blonde hair in perfect waves, her golden jewelry matching the decorations glinting across the ballroom.
Svelte like a serpent and just as dangerous.
None of these people know her eldest son is still alive.
Henri’s small fingers tighten on mine as she speaks. Businessmen, B-list celebrities, politicians, socialites, they all stare at us, laughing politely at Mariane’s feigned humor.
I hold my head high. I belong here. The Beauchenes wouldn’t have hired me in the first place if that wasn’t true.
“My son and his tutor have prepared a few songs for you,” Mariane says, wrapping up her speech.
This is not the same as an audience in a concert hall; with the symphony, one could expect the audience to have an appreciation for music, no matter which musician was on stage. Here, it’s vital to impress. Every ear is scrutinizing.
Henri may be part of their circles, but I am not. Whatever he does falls back on me. It doesn’t matter how I play later tonight, if Henri makes a mistake, I am the failure.
I’m more aware of this than ever, and yet—I’m steady.
There’s applause as Mariane gestures to Henri. She ushers him to the piano with only a furtive glance at me.
He climbs up on the bench. His big emerald eyes find me one more time.
I told him to pretend I was the only one in the room, the only one listening. No big deal, we do that everyday.
I take a deep breath, nodding for him to do the same, and when he mimics me, his shoulders rising with his inhalation, I know he’ll be fine.
The first chord of the Prelude fills the room.
Conversations are whispered, glasses clinking together, background noise breaking through the solemn chords.
Mariane stands off to the side, watching him play, and Leo emerges from the crowd, a man following closely at his side.
Dozens of people, circling the piano, and Henri pretends none of them are there.
For a few minutes, it’s like we are in the upstairs practice room.
He moves between chords seamlessly, his fingers stretching across the keys the best he can.
The music spills from him, just as it does for me, just as it does for Bastien; it seems like second nature to him, even at his age, both hands weaving a somber melody, deceptively simple.
When the Prelude is over, the crowd applauds again, before he begins to play the next song, something a little more modern we were working on for fun. He breezes through this one, too.
The last note rings out, and his eyes jump to mine, and he grins, and I’m grinning too.
I’m the first person he runs to. “I did it!”
My heart swells when his arms wrap around me. He’s never been so happy since I arrived here only a little more than a month ago. There’s a little dimple in his cheek as his eyes sparkle up at me.
He’ll hate you, too, when he finds out.
I’m struck by the thought that I am trading one brother’s happiness for another—Baz’s plan will leave Henri an orphan.
Will he ever smile up at me like this again?
Will I ever see him again, when this is over?
The crowd carries on murmuring, their chatter starting up again after the clapping died away.
Some of Mariane’s acquaintances insist on speaking to Henri, so I watch as she leads him away again, boasting about how proud she is. Leo, of course, has already disappeared again.
I search the crowd. It’s almost automatic, how I scan each face, but none of them are what I’m looking for. He said he’d be here. And I know he’s probably… busy.
But doesn’t he want to hear our song?
“Excuse me.”
A man with salt and pepper hair approaches me. The same man that stood near Leo a few minutes ago. His hair is smoothed back and he wears a suit and thick rimmed glasses.
“You’re the tutor.”
“I am. Mallary Doyle.”
“I just spoke with Leo. You’ve done a good job with Henri,” he says. “But if I'm honest, I’m more interested in what you can do.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card.
Only his name and a phone number listed on the plain white card. He holds it between two fingers.
“Thank you,” I say, not even knowing what it is he’s offering. “I’ll be playing soon. Just a few songs.”
“Leo tells me you’re an understudy.”
“Yes.”
“In my opinion, you’re wasted where you’re at. Call me in a few days. We'll set something up.”
It’s all so vague but I have the feeling I should already know who this man is. Or, he expects me to know who he is. “Thank you,” I repeat.
He nods before walking off, without so much as a goodbye, speaking to another man who follows closely behind. I’m left next to the piano, stunned.
I flip the card between my fingers.
Bran Rivers.
Oh.
With the Philharmonic.
This could all lead to nothing, but for a mere second I let myself daydream about everything I’ve ever wanted.
Days spent rehearsing the greatest pieces, surrounded by other musicians who are just as serious about the music, evenings performing, maybe even traveling to other cities.
And eventually, people will know my name.
I don’t feel like it’s too much to ask.