He was shockingly handsome and young—late thirties—and tall, with disheveled chestnut hair. I imagined a piano virtuoso in a suit, but Wolfe wore a unisex sort of outfit: a black pants-skirt combo, and a black silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Black tattoos inked his forearms, his fingernails were painted black, and black leather bracelets were strapped to his wrists. Silver spikes pierced his ears. Blue eyes regarded us like icy daggers but were bloodshot to hell.
Ezra Wolfe looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and was eitherhungover or possibly still drunk.
“So here we are,” he said with a British accent, rougher than Orion’s but slightly gravelly and melodic. “Advanced Piano. I call you up, you play, we discuss. If I work one-on-one with someone, the rest of you fuck off to the practice rooms next door. Got it? Any questions? No? Good. Let’s begin.”
The students exchanged glances and a few nervous snickers.
Piano was something I’d always been good at. Benevolent teachers and YouTube videos kept me sharp through the years, but it wasn’t anything I wanted to pursue seriously. I just liked to play. But the students in this class obviously wanted to make a career of it. They took their turn at the piano and poured their heart and soul into the keys. But no matter who sat at that bench in front of Ezra Wolfe, his reaction was the same: bland, disinterested irritation. He listened, unimpressed, without making a comment, except to bark, “Next!” when he’d heard enough.
Until Orion.
“Your piece?” Professor Wolfe asked.
“Rachmaninoff, Prelude in D Major,” Orion said.
The professor arched a brow at Rachmaninoff, and I thought it was either really brave or really stupid to choose something so difficult. Maybe Orion, being the son of a Big Five family, had been given lessons as part of his pedigree—like foxhunting or yachting. Not a serious musician. Certainly notRachmaninoffserious.
Wolfe waved his hand. “Go,” he said, clearly not expecting anything that he hadn’t already heard from the rest of us.
And then Orion began to play, and any preconceived notions went up in flames.
Even to my unprofessional ear, Orion was different. In a different league. In a differentstratospherethan the rest of us.
Firstly, he had no sheet music. He sat down, put his hands on the keys, and something astonishing poured out. Rachmaninoff was known for being insanely hard, but this piece was softer, moreemotional. This was the composer like none of us had ever heard before. Certainly not like Ezra Wolfe had ever heard before, because instead of bland disinterest, he stood straight, his head whipping to stare at Orion.
Orion, for his part, just played. He didn’t put on any fancy manners or flourishes, he just closed his eyes, and it seemed like he and the piano were one entity, channeling the composer’s spirit from 120 years ago and bringing it into the room.
“Stop, stop, stop,” Professor Wolfe said after a few moments. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
Orion shrugged, his fingers lingering on the keys as if he were becoming reacquainted. “I don’t know. That’s just how I play.”
Wolfe nodded, and then there was a silence where no one knew what to do next.
“Where is your sheet music?” the professor asked finally.
Orion’s shoulders hunched; I could see it from where I was sitting.
“I don’t have it.”
“You played from memory?”
“I play by ear, mostly,” Orion said.
I stared.Rachmaninoff by ear? Holy shit.
Wolfe wasn’t impressed. “Do you not know how to read music?”
The class stiffened as a group, tension running through us like an electric current. I felt my own cheeks redden on Orion’s behalf.
“I can read the notes,” Orion said. “But…it’s complicated.”
“What do you mean, it’s complicated?”
“Can we speak about this privately?” Orion asked in a low voice, but the auditorium was designed for sound to carry. We all heard every word.
Wolfe frowned as if the question made no sense. “Nothing spoken here is private,” he said to the class. “You, Orion, play with technical perfection but no feeling.”
I gasped. Audibly.
