Concerto

CHAPTER ONE

"When I wished to sing of love, it turned to sorrow. And when I wished to sing of sorrow, it turned to love." - Franz Schubert

Samantha

The theater rises above the city, an old-world counterpoint to a modern melody. Rounded cobblestones curve the thin cardboard of my ballet flats. Water rushes with quiet urgency from a fountain.

"Should we go in?" Josh says, his tone laconic. "Or should we just stare at it more?"

I give him a pointed look. "Impatient, much?"

Okay, so I might be a little nervous. And I might have stood here, taking deep breaths, fortifying myself, for more than five minutes. This is my first major tour, which is enough to make any musician nervous. Even more than that, it's my first performance after turning eighteen.

No one can call me a child prodigy anymore.

I'm no longer a child.

I lift my chin and step up to the heavy front doors. There must be more practical entrances around the sides, but I don't want to go skulking around the building. The email inviting me to practice had been terse. You may arrive at 9 a.m. Mrs. Tabakov will meet you.

Josh knocks on the carved wooden doors, the sound reverberating in a way that makes me feel like we're waking some long-slumbering dragon. A pause, long enough to make me glance at Josh.

"Last chance to turn back."

"No way," I say, even though my heart thumps in warning.

The door opens. I'm expecting Mrs. Tabakov to be a woman with grey hair and a stern mouth, someone who's managed generations of performers and rules backstage with an iron fist. Instead the most beautiful woman I've ever seen stands there in a glittering gold gown and bare feet, golden curls tumbling around her shoulders.

"Call me Candy. And you must be Samantha Brooks," she says with a smile. "So lovely to meet you."

Shyness makes my tongue heavy. "Are you Mrs. Tabakov?"

"That's me. I'm the owner of the Grand."

"Oh wow." She's so young to own such a historic building, but I know better than most how age has nothing to do with your achievements. "It's such an honor to be able to play here."

She looks at Josh in a frank, assessing way. "Is this your lover?"

I cough in surprise, my cheeks turning pink. "No, no, definitely not."

"You had to say no three times?" Josh asks, extending his hand. "Joshua North. Personal security."

"He's like family to me," I say, apologetic.

"That didn't stop you with Liam," he says under his breath, and I have to force myself to not kick him in the shin. Even though.he's not wrong.

Liam North got custody of me when I was twelve. His guardianship ended two weeks ago, when I turned eighteen and left his home. I'm not empty-handed. I have the incredible Stradivarius violin he gave me for my birthday on one hand. And I have his brother, Joshua North, who's going to be my bodyguard after a suspicious accident at home.

It's impossible for me to define my relationship with Liam. Parental? Romantic? It was neither of those things-and both of them. We forged our own bond, as unique as it was temporary.

I have to find my own path now-one that begins here, at the Grand.

A man appears behind Candy, his expression severe. From the silver threading his temples, it's clear he's older than her. The hand he curves around her waist leaves no doubt as to his claim. "Ivan Tabakov," he says, a layer of steel beneath his words as he stares down Josh. "I will arrange a meeting between you and our head of security. In the meantime, I can show you the important features."

"Perfect," Candy says, smiling up at him. "That way I can have some girl time with Samantha. It's not every day I get to meet a world-famous violinist."

Josh raises an eyebrow at me before following Ivan outside.

I'm relieved, though I don't say that as I follow Candy into the theater. Josh has been in turns taunting and autocratic, like an annoying older brother. If we were both years younger, he would probably steal my dolls and I would paint glitter on his Legos. Instead we've resorted to exchanging insults over the room service cart while we try to stay out of sight of paparazzi.

The paparazzi don't care about me. I'm not an interesting figure except in the world of classical music, but the headliner of the tour is a different story. Celebrity tenor Harry March loves the red carpet almost more than he loves music. He's been seen with pop stars and actresses and heiresses.

We step into an open foyer with red carpet and two wide staircases curving to a balcony. The wall between them extends all the way to the ceiling, forty feet high. There's a dark painting of a forest, the branches almost reaching out from the wall.

"That's incredible," I breathe. "Are there-" It felt like there were creatures lurking between the trees. I had the impression of doe-tipped siren eyes, like otherworldly wood nymphs. When I tried to focus on one particular creature, it would disappear into swirls of painted leaves.

"I know. It's painted by Harper St. Claire. Do you know her?"

"Only on Instagram. I didn't realize she had an installation here."

"There's an art gallery with another one of her works, as well as pieces by local artists. I'll show you another time. I'm grateful that the Tanglewood art community has embraced this place, considering it used to be a strip club."

My cheeks turn hot. "I thought that was a rumor."

Candy runs a hand over the balcony, almost caressing, the way you might show affection for a person. "The lady has a sordid past. Are you going to hold it against her?"

She isn't speaking of a lady, she's talking about the Grand. I think of the Stradivarius I hold, the Lady Tennant. It was given that name because of its initial owner, but most violins are considered feminine. Most buildings, too. "Of course not," I say. "She isn't responsible for what people do inside her, is she?"

Only when the words come out of my mouth do I realize the filthy connotation. Or maybe it's the light of humor in Candy's blue eyes that makes the words dirty. It isn't a mocking amusement, though. It's as if we're sharing a joke, the three of us-Candy, me, and the building herself.

"I imagine you're eager to see the stage and begin practice." She leads me behind the box office, where velvet stairs take us up. Rows of seats form a scalloped shadow. Then we crest the gallery, revealing the stage. Breath rushes from my lungs. A wide arc of hardwood-not gleaming and smooth, as from a new stack of wood. This stage is weathered, as if from a thousand feet, a hundred songs. A million hopes and dreams.

At least some of those dreams belonged to strippers.

Like the one beside me. I don't think I'm mistaken about the role she used to play.

Candy coughs delicately. "Some musicians don't want to play the Grand."

There's something erotic in the curls of gilding on the balconies, a sense of unveiling in the heavy falls of red curtains. Something of the strip club remains-its spirit, more than form. "It will be an honor," I tell her. "And besides. We have Harry March as the headliner. He's not exactly a choir boy."

"Thank God for that," she says fervently, and I laugh.

"I'm a little nervous about it actually."

"His reputation." She winks at me. "I bet he'll show you a good time."

"That's what I'm nervous about."

It's her turn to laugh.

I wander down the aisle, trailing my fingers over hard-backed seats and golden wood arms. A downward slope speeds my step until I near the orchestra pit. Only a short black wall separates the front row from the conductor. Empty chairs hold the place for violins and cellos and basses. For clarinets and French horns. Deep beneath the stage there's a grand piano and a harp.

I climb the steps to the stairs, holding my breath. This is where I'll play my first note as an adult musician. This is where I'll launch my music career, free of the fear and the tenuous safety of my childhood. It's bittersweet to know that Liam North won't see me play.

"You have the place to yourself," Candy says from the first row, her voice carrying in the strong acoustics. "Mr. March doesn't arrive for a week, and the other performers a week after that."

From this position I can't see the back row or the balcony. It's a blur of shadowy seats. Someone could be sitting there, and I wouldn't know. A shiver runs down my spine. "We'll be practicing for two months. Don't you have other shows?"

"We're selective about what we present." She smiles, a little self-deprecating. "The truth is we don't need the money. The Grand is my passion."

The tour will take us to some of the largest venues in the world, the concert hall Heifetz favored and the place Paganini once stood. I don't know exactly why the Grand was chosen to debut the tour. It was probably something cold and calculating, like favorable percentage in the contracts. Maybe even a performer's bonus for Harry March. Whatever the reason, I'm glad it happened that way.

"What if you hadn't liked me when I showed up here?"

She gives me an impish smile. "What makes you think I like you?"

I look around. "Would I be standing here if you didn't?"

"Probably not. Ivan is my husband, but he's also my personal security."

I remember his cold eyes. He...