“Aila!” George grabs my arm. “Where’d you go earlier? You just disa—? Oh, never mind. Poor choice of words.”
“Hey, George,” I say. “This is my brother, Miles.”
“Miles?” George says. “Not Kilometers?” He grins at his own joke.
Miles sighs heavily and shoots me a look. “Never heard that one before,” he says dully.
“Well, anyway, nice gloves,” George says. “And—?oh—?uh, hide me, will you?”
He ducks down between us.
“George . . . what are you doing?” I ask, glancing around. Will has vanished into the crowd again.
George cocks his head and squints up at me. “Did you read the paper I gave you at the race—?about the Mackelroys?”
I glance at Miles. He doesn’t know that I snuck out to see the Tempest races. And I don’t want him to.
“Yes,” I say, drawing out the word and shooting George a look.
George straightens and peers around again. “Remember how it said that Charlton Templeton married someone else, instead of my ancestor Lorna? One of his heirs is a girl our age, from Corrander. Her name is Margeaux Templeton.” He runs his hands through his hair. “My mother wants me to make amends with her. Show a united front so people won’t think our families are behind the Curse.”
“I see. Making amends seems to be going very well,” I say, grinning obnoxiously. I steal a handful of his kettle corn.
“Well, Margeaux makes it a little hard,” he says, swatting my hand away. “She always looks as though she’s planning ways to bump me off.”
I casually scan the crowd. There is a girl glaring in our direction. She’s wearing a jeweled headband perched atop curly mouse-brown hair. She might have been pretty if not for the perpetual scowl. It’s hard to tell.
“Ah,” I say. “I think I found her.”
“See? She’s downright scary.”
“I bet you could buy her affection with this kettle corn.” I plunge my hand in for another fistful. Send pieces flying when I put it in my mouth. “It is that good.”
“Be nice,” George says. “I think it’s a rule that you have to be on my side.”
“So how does your mother want you to make amends?”
“I’m pretty sure she wants me to propose.”
I choke on a popcorn kernel.
“Or . . . at least ask Margeaux to the Christmas Ball,” he con-tinues.
“Sounds like a more reasonable place to start,” I say, recovering. With Miles in tow, we find a place to sit in the grass, which is silvered and cool in the moonlight, tickling my bare leg. From this vantage point we have a good view of Beas’s row.
“Oh, well, um, about that . . .” George says. His freckles darken. He lowers his voice so Miles won’t hear. “I was kind of thinking it would be more fun, if maybe . . . we went to the ball together.”
“Oh!” I say, and, in a moment of panic, stuff another handful of popcorn into my mouth. I spot Dr. and Mrs. Cliffton a few rows away. She is leaning against him. The breeze rustles her hair. I do not look for Will. “Okay,” is all I can think to say.
“Great,” George says, settling back into the grass.
The conductor, Mr. Riley, taps his baton on the music stand and lifts his hands in the air. The orchestra members draw their instruments to a ready position, like strands of a web tied to the tip of his baton, and the crowd around us quiets. Mr. Riley’s arm flashes down, and at his signal the strings section comes alive with notes.
The music is so rich and full that it seeps into the depths of my chest, blurring the line between pleasure and hurt. Maybe it is both. Maybe it is shimmering them together into something new. I close my eyes and listen, thinking of what Dr. Cliffton said about combinations coming together to make magic.
I turn my face to Beas as she begins to play. Her eyes are closed, and the music is flowing through her and out of her so that she seems to be made of it. The seconds are dripping from clocks that everyone is trying not to watch. Beas’s violin crescendoes into the height of her solo, her chin pointing up as her bow slices down.
And then her notes stop, as sudden as a record scratching. As if we are hearing her through the radio and the plug has been ripped from the wall.
