Page 66 of Crescendo

When she finished her song, I couldn’t hold myself back—I pushed open the door, my throat tight, and Ella jumped up from the bench, whirling on me with her eyes wide, a guilty look, standing in front of the piano like it was a shameful thing she was hiding.

“Lydia—oh, god—I didn’t know you were—”

“Ella, what the fuck was that?”

She shrank into herself, shoulders taut. “God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were here. I can—”

“Sit,” I said, putting my hand up. “Sit back down.”

“What?”

“Back at the piano. Please. I’ll give you anything you want for it, but please do it again.”

She stared at me, wide-eyed, blinking slowly, before she blurted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I was going to scream. If I didn’t get to hear Ella dothatagain—whateverthatwas—then what the hell did I come to London for?

“Can I… accompany you?” I said shakily. “On the violin. On anything. Hell, I’ll play the fucking piccolo if you want one.Please.”

She laughed, breathlessly, once, still looking at me like I’d lost my mind. LikeIwas the fucking weird one here. As ifshehadn’t just playedthat.Finally, after the longest time, she said, “How well do you even play the violin?”

“Oh, pretty all right. I studied it and performed at Berkeley, along with the piano, conducting, and composing. Iknow a lot of techniques. I’m about to go forget all of them, take a shot of scotch, and go absolutely feral on a small stringed instrument. I’m begging you to accompany me.”

“I’m not good enough to—”

“Please,Ella.”

“I don’t—”

“Please.”

She wavered, hesitating, green eye glinting brighter and brown eye deep and dark.

Chapter 16

Ella

She reappeared holding two glasses—longer pours than a single shot.

My lip was bleeding. I hadn’t realised I’d been chewing it that hard as she’d desperately run to the kitchen with the scotch.

I didn’t even like scotch. But it would burn. And it would take the edge off the panic of knowing she’d heard—and the frantic, anguished way she’d begged to accompany me. There was no world in which Lydia Howard Fox should be accompanyingme.

If I’d realised how long I’d been sitting there, streaming every emotion I had in my body into the piano, I’d have stopped. I’d have made myself decent, presentable, tidy before she’d gotten home.

She held out a glass, her eyes still pleading and glistening.

I took it. “I don’t even know what I was playing,” I whispered.

“That’s okay,” she replied quickly, holding her own glass up in the air. “Whatever it was… just… tap into the same thing again? Whatever comes out when you do that is exactly what I want to hear.”

I recoiled and quickly locked my body down, hoping she hadn’t seen it.

Something in her expression wavered, just for a second.

“Okay,” I said, looking away. She’d already heard it. I’d already let enough people down today—let her down for the last three days. It was enough.

I downed the scotch. It was disgusting, but that was okay.

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