RoseBlood(12)

The top three flights are sealed off, but that still leaves hundreds of rooms for the school’s use. Some are now the private suites that serve as dorms. Others are the lecture and rehearsal halls where I’ll be spending the majority of my days for classes.

The chauffer props our bags and suitcases against a marble wall. Aunt Charlotte gives him a tip and he leaves. The double doors slam shut and an echo carries from one end of the foyer to the other, channeling through my ribs and pushing the aria into my throat.

“What do you think, Rune? Isn’t it incredible?” Mom’s voice is reverent, as if we’re standing inside of a church or mausoleum. That last one could be right, considering I might die if I don’t purge the song soon. Mom and my aunt discuss the trip here. Chewing on the ends of my hair again, I hum under my breath . . . quiet enough that they won’t hear. But the urge to sing aloud escalates until my mouth waters.

On the far right, shimmery mirrors line the entire wall. Thankfully, the only reflections looking back are the three of us. If not for the opera taking place upstairs, I would guess the academy was abandoned.

Hope flutters in my chest. Everyone must be at the audition. If I lose control, the other performance will camouflage my voice.

“Are all of the instructors and students upstairs?” I manage to ask.

“Oui. Let us put away the baggage and unpack before the tryouts are fini. Would you like to see your accommodations?”

Standing by the wall of mirrors, I ignore the question. Close enough that my nose almost touches the glass, I study my reflection.

It’s happening . . . bright, gleaming flecks of green, my pupils dilating with each passing second. The color in my cheeks deepens, too, as if I’ve been slapped. I always wondered if Grandma was like Dad and could see all of the changes in me—the physical manifestation of music bubbling up inside. That would explain why she thought I was evil. It’s eerie, even to me. Almost as weird as the gardener’s glowing amber eyes.

The sensation of being watched skitters through my body, then there’s movement on the other side of the glass . . . a silhouette.

I blink and it’s gone.

Shuddering, I cup my palms over my cheeks to hide the color creeping over them. It’s just the music making me crazy.

“Rune,” my mom calls out from across the foyer. I watch my aunt’s reflection as she digs through the things the chauffer left. “Didn’t you hear your Aunt Charlotte? Take some of these bags. I don’t want to be up all night helping you unpack. My flight leaves early in the morning.”

Mom’s spending the night to help me get settled. But I don’t see how anything about this place could be settling. I don’t belong here. Being constantly around this music is going to kill any sanity I have left.

I jitter, itching all over to sing.

“Rune,” Mom’s voice again, this time with an edge to it. She knows. “Is it—”

“I just need a bathroom,” I interrupt, trying to ignore the musical inflection woven into the final word, or how I end it on the same operatic note as the voice upstairs.

“Bien s?r,” my aunt answers while struggling with the large pink bag that holds my uniforms. “There’s a salle de bains underneath the center stairwell. On the other side of the theater, just there.”

It doesn’t matter that she said under the stairwell; my feet don’t listen. The instruments have taken over—a bridge to the soloist’s climax. I don’t stand a chance against music that powerful.

In spite of Mom and Aunt Charlotte’s efforts to call me back, I’m at the top of the second flight of stairs and on the third floor before I even remember taking the first step. I drag my jacket off and drop it behind me.

The music crescendos and the soloist’s voice booms over it, not just in my ears, but in my own throat. My song escalates to match the other singer’s volume. I’m drawn to a room at the end of the curved balcony as if some entity has attached a ghostly cord to the notes in my throat, tugging each one out like rainbow-colored fish on a line—yet never releasing—pulling my spirit ever closer to the music that possesses me.

The door, slightly ajar, beckons. I shove it open at the climax, sustaining the melody—round and smooth through my stretching larynx. Tall windows line the circular room, alternating with mirrors. A burst of sunset filters through the clouds outside, bouncing apricot light from one reflection to the next. An audience of students and teachers is seated in wooden folding chairs in front of a small stage, nothing more than shadows in the sudden blur of brilliance.

The soloist goes silent. Even the instrumentalists stop. My legs stiffen and my spine is rigid. Every nerve in my body throbs. I’m pinned in place by lyrical thorns, just like the little girl in my poster at home, grasping for those wings so far out of reach, embracing the pain to find the release.

I’m all that’s left to carry the tune now, and I do . . . to the very end when the final note, high and full, bursts unrestrained from my throat. The chord reverberates over the silence like a ghostly wail—beautiful and tragic.

Red swirls in my periphery, and my legs give out. A guy leaps from his chair in the front row to catch me. Mortification creeps like poison through my blood as the trance falls away.

I slam my lashes shut, doing the only thing I can to save face. Slumped against my rescuer, I pretend to faint.