Page 108 of Petrify

It’s nine o'clock on the dot when Mariane taps a butter knife against her wine glass, the soft tinkling cutting through the crowd until the whole room is hushed, hundreds of eyes turning in our direction. Next to me, Henri shrinks. He grabs my hand.

Mariane gives a long-winded introduction to the evening, thanking everyone for coming, each word dripping with honey. She’s dressed in a stately sequined black dress, her blonde hair in perfect waves, her golden jewelry matching the decorations glinting across the ballroom. Svelte like a serpent and just as dangerous.

None of these people know her eldest son is still alive.

Henri’s small fingers tighten on mine as she speaks. Businessmen, B-list celebrities, politicians, socialites, they all stare at us, laughing politely at Mariane’s feigned humor.

I hold my head high. I belong here. The Beauchenes wouldn’t have hired me in the first place if that wasn’t true.

“My son and his tutor have prepared a few songs for you,” Mariane says, wrapping up her speech.

This is not the same as an audience in a concert hall; with the symphony, one could expect the audience to have an appreciation for music, no matter which musician was on stage. Here, it’s vital to impress. Every ear is scrutinizing.

Henri may be part of their circles, but I am not. Whatever he does falls back on me. It doesn’t matter how I play later tonight, if Henri makes a mistake, I am the failure.

I’m more aware of this than ever, and yet—I’m steady.

There’s applause as Mariane gestures to Henri. She ushers him to the piano with only a furtive glance at me.

He climbs up on the bench. His big emerald eyes find me one more time.

I told him to pretend I was the only one in the room, the only one listening. No big deal, we do that everyday.

I take a deep breath, nodding for him to do the same, and when he mimics me, his shoulders rising with his inhalation, I know he’ll be fine.

The first chord of the Prelude fills the room. Conversations are whispered, glasses clinking together, background noise breaking through the solemn chords. Mariane stands off to the side, watching him play, and Leo emerges from the crowd, a man following closely at his side. Dozens of people, circling the piano, and Henri pretends none of them are there.

For a few minutes, it’s like we are in the upstairs practice room. He moves between chords seamlessly, his fingers stretching across the keys the best he can. The music spills from him, just as it does for me, just as it does for Bastien; it seems like second nature to him, even at his age, both hands weaving a somber melody, deceptively simple.

When the Prelude is over, the crowd applauds again, before he begins to play the next song, something a little more modern we were working on for fun. He breezes through this one, too.

The last note rings out, and his eyes jump to mine, and he grins, and I’m grinning too.

I’m the first person he runs to. “I did it!”

My heart swells when his arms wrap around me. He’s never been sohappysince I arrived here only a little more than a month ago. There’s a little dimple in his cheek as his eyes sparkle up at me.

He’ll hate you, too, when he finds out.

I’m struck by the thought that I am trading one brother’s happiness for another—Baz’s plan will leave Henri an orphan.

Will he ever smile up at me like this again?

Will I everseehim again, when this is over?

The crowd carries on murmuring, their chatter starting up again after the clapping died away.

Some of Mariane’s acquaintances insist on speaking to Henri, so I watch as she leads him away again, boasting about how proud she is. Leo, of course, has already disappeared again.

I search the crowd. It’s almost automatic, how I scan each face, but none of them are what I’m looking for. He said he’d be here. And I know he’s probably…busy.

But doesn’t he want to hear our song?

“Excuse me.”

A man with salt and pepper hair approaches me. The same man that stood near Leo a few minutes ago. His hair is smoothed back and he wears a suit and thick rimmed glasses.

“You’re the tutor.”