Page 142 of Crescendo

Mypiece was about to be played onthatstage.

“Dad,” I whispered, my voice shaky and my legs feeling like they couldn’t go any further.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, pulling me tight into his side. “I’ve got you.”

“What if they all hate it?”

“They won’t. Your teachers know what they’re doing and they chose your piece for a reason.”

I glanced around. There were so many people here. I hadn’t realised I’d feel so nervous. I needed Lydia. “What if she doesn’t make it?”

He brushed my cheek. “She’s not going to let you down. She wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

There was something in his voice that I couldn’t quite place, something almost smug? If I were less nervous maybe I’d have been able to figure it out.

We found our seats and that was better. I could just be a face in the crowd.

I looked up at the ceiling. It was beautiful. Callum loved this place. Suddenly, my nerves felt very silly indeed. He’d have loved this. I wished he could have seen it. I looked at my dad and the look on his face told me he knew what I was thinking. As he nodded, tears filled my eyes. I was a mess. But that was okay.

I pulled my phone out and texted Lydia.The show’s about to start, how much later are you going to be?

I chewed my lip, staring at my phone. The place was almost full. I could feel Clara’s eyes on me, watching me. Ifshe’d won, I’d probably be watching her right now too. This was the moment when everything changed, right? The moment my name and my piece made it out into the world. That part of me thatneededto compose took flight tonight—and I had to get used to the nerves. They probably got better with repetition. I hoped.

Lydia’s reply came in.I promise I’ll be there for your piece, Ella. I keep my promises.

I believed she did. She was currently dashing across London just to be here for me. I trusted her.

I didn’t trust London traffic.

The lights dropped. The orchestra was on stage. The conductor—the famous Cynthia Altman, no less—and the director walked out. Lydia still wasn’t there.

“Will they let her in if she’s late?” I whispered urgently to Dad and Papa.

“She’s Lydia Howard Fox,” Papa laughed. “I’m pretty sure they’ll let her do whatever the hell she wants.”

Dad held my hand tightly. “She’s probably already in the auditorium.”

I itched to check my phone again but doing so would be horrendously rude.

Still…

I’m almost there.

How almost wasalmost? Inside the building?

I slipped my phone under my leg.

The director’s speech felt very far away but I concentrated on tuning into what she was saying.

“As part of the introduction to tonight’s show, please enjoyAcross the River,from London-based composer Ella Hendrickson…” the director announced.

I blew out a breath. People were clapping.Sheknew my name. Cynthia Altman knew my name, was conducting my piece. This was a dream I hadn’t known it was okay to have.

I couldn’t wait for the day I got to cheer Eliza on here. Suddenly, her dream made all the sense in the world. And I knew she’d get it soon.

Lydia, Lydia, Lydia… Are you here?My brain chanted, torn between trying to comprehend and absorb the moment, find Lydia, and not die from the embarrassment of people clapping for me.

Maybe, one day, I’d be worthy of their applause. I wanted that, even through the embarrassment.

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