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“She demanded of me what she demanded of herself. But the problem was that I was… seven? Eight?”
“I thought you started at four?”
“It took a few years before she realized she could turn me into a prodigy.”
“Where did you get the piano from? Did you have one in your home?”
She hacks out a laugh that sounds jaded to the ears. “No, Kaden. We didn’t have a piano in our one bedroom apartment in Harrisburg. But there was one at the club my mom used to work at. She’d bring me with her.”
“What type of club? A nightclub?”
“That’s right. It was a jazz nightclub. Kind of like the Velvet Piano.”
“Not the best environment for a little girl.”
“I found ways to keep myself busy. The piano was one of those ways. When I was a couple years older, she took me to a man who was world famous. He was the most brilliant player. He began to teach me. The only private instructor I’ve ever had.”
“How did your mother know him?”
“The club… maybe. He was very rich. An admirer of hers and she of him.”
The manner in which she speaks of her childhood feels detached. Her tone miserable. I detect no warmth or affection for her mother.
Any research I’ve done on her past shows Lyra’s estranged from her family. Though I haven’t been able to dig up many details. Almost as if her mother dropped off the face of the earth.
She doesn’t know I know. Which means I’ll have to do some more nonchalant probing.
“Where is she now?”
“My mother?” She shrugs.
“You might need her address if you’re sending her a Mother’s Day card.”
“Good thing the last time I gave her one of those I was ten. What about your family, Dr. Raskova? You come from money.”
“That’s about as interesting as my family ties get.”
“I’m not letting you off so easily. Tell me more. Brothers? Sisters?”
“Only child. You?”
“One sister.”
“Where is she?”
Lyra shrugs again. “Around. So I did some internet sleuthing on the Raskova name.”
…that’s news to me. When was this? I practically monitor you 24/7.
“Your dad is a billionaire. He’s from Russia.”
“Those of Russian descent tend to be.”
“I couldn’t find much info on him. Just a barren autobiography page on some Russian site. The search results didn’t even turn up any photos.”
“Were you trying to see if my good looks run in the family?”
“Kaden,” she says, stretching her legs out like mine. “I’m curious about you. You never talk about yourself.”
