Page 44 of Fated Love with You
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t help it. You’re incredible, Adele.”
“Thank you, Miss Jane.”
“Acht, acht, acht!” Her teacher taps the ruler again. “Curtsy or bow with your thanks, child. You know better.”
Adele forces a smile and curtsies. “Thank you, Miss Jane.”
“Much better.” The teacher motions for me to step inside and extends her hand. “Mrs. Hannah Foglienne, a long-time friend of the estate.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand. “I’m Adele’s nanny.”
“Well, don’t be offended if she runs you off after a few days,” she says. “She tends to have that effect, but I’ve learned all her ways over the years. I even knew to expect her back from London this week. I just know.”
Adele walks toward her case and opens it.
“What are you doing, child?” Mrs. Foglienne asks.
“I thought we were done for the day.”
“You thought wrong.” She points to a chair. “I’m done, but you still owe a performance of the first part ofBruch: 1. Violinkonzert, and you’ll play it for Miss Jane. Play it well, and when I return, I’d like to hear some feedback.”
She hands me the sheets and whispers, “This piece takes at least fifteen minutes to perform. Enjoy.”
Grabbing her mug and scarf, she pats my shoulder before leaving the room.
Adele sighs and picks up her bow. Then she shuts her eyes and begins the concerto with ease.
Like before, the notes are full and beautifully strung, painting a picture that fills the room.
At least, they would be to someone who’d never played them before.
I can hear exactly where she cuts corners—where she chops off a note instead of letting it linger, rushes through rests, or slides into the next phrase. It’s the mark of a prodigy who’s so gifted she never has to try. She knows they’ll excuse a fudged vibrato or a hurried passage.
Just like I did.
“She’s so young…” they said. “It’ll come with time.”
“So, Miss Jane?” she asks after the last note fades. “Did you like it?”
“It was okay.”
“Okay?” She scrunches her face. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it.” I walk over to the instruments near the window, picking up a maple violin and a bow. “You missed a few notes.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.” I test the strings, adjusting them. “I heard them.”
“You’re making that up.” Her cheeks redden. “How would you know?”
“Because you skipped the best stanza.” I play the frantic, energetic passage that transitions into the somber ending.
Her arms cross. She listens.
“And something tells me you know how to play a vibrato, but—” I demonstrate. “You also know no one will ever call you out on it. For now.”
She stares at me for several seconds, then smiles.
