"Volkov," I whispered to the empty laundry room, the name feeling like a hot rod on my tongue.
The name didn't just stay with me. It roamed my mind like one of the morning hymns. For a whole week, I was a possessed girl in the halls of Saint Brigitte. I played until my fingers ached and were numb. The skin on my neck began to feel raw and bruised bearing a mark from the violin's rest.
Sister Marriane, on the other hand, watched as I practiced nonstop. Praying like I'm going for a battle. "You are pushing yourself, Isabelle'" Sister Marriane said, stepping out of the shadows. "You need to put the violin down and take some rest".
"Not yet Sister," I replied, trying to place the violin under my chin. "I need to practice some more so I don't embarrass Madame Genevieve,". I wished for some rest too but I couldn't. Sister Marriane isn't helping much either. Her staring and lurking around, acting more strange than I am has been bothering me. I wish I had the time to feel the suspicion inside me and ask questions but when the sound of her rosary beads clicked, it felt like a countdown.
I was halfway out the door on the morning of the gala when Claire blocked my way and decided it was a good time to give me a 'Big Sister's pep talk. Unlike every other day, I would have stayed there and allowed her to bless me with her bitter words but not this morning. Not when I'm feeling overly nervous and anxious.
Accompanied by two of her minions. She didn't just sneer, she looked tired. Her eyes were sharp and hollow screaming exhaustion from a girl who knew she was staying while I'm leaving.
"Look at her. The little charity pet is getting groomed for the circus," she said but her voice lacked its usual bite. It was flat. Bitter. She shoved me back and the corner of the bed frame bruised my thigh.
"Not now Claire. Let me through."
I tried forcing my way through a tiny gap but I was shoved back harder by the two girls. "You think a new ribbon and a silk dress change anything?" She reached out yanking the hood of my cloak so hard it scraped my scalp. "You are foundling, Isabelle. You are the mistake nobody wanted and had to drop you on a doorstep. In fact, the person was being generous. They could have left you in worse places because you weren't worth the trouble of keeping."
"And those people at the gala? They'll smell lye and cheap soap on you before you even lift your damn violin!"
"Madame Genevieve is waiting," I managed to say, my voice cracking as I tried to speak. Ouch Claire, you really had to hit the nail on the head. She went for the one thing that breaks my fragile wall of resistance.
"Let her wait! Do you think those people will smell anything but a gutter rat?" She continued sounding frustrated like the words aren't doing the trick she's aiming for.
The girls behind her were giving each other a worried look. Like she had crossed a line and they don't want to be a part of it.
"Claire, I think you've said enough, this wasn't part of the plan," Sarah said, grabbing Claire's shoulder. "Yeah, I mean that should be enough to bring her confidence down for a while, you don't have to go all the way and remember Sister Marianne warned us to stop bullying her," the other girl said.
"I don't give a damn about Sister Marianne and her bloody warnings!" She screamed. "You can leave if you want. I'll finish what I started with or without you." Smacking Sarah's hand off her shoulder.
"They'll smell the lye on your skin before you even play a note. They'll mock you and your ugly-looking red hair and stupid violin and when they are done laughing, you'll be right back here with the rest of us!" She said, her chest rising and falling like she just woke up from a bad dream.
I didn't bother saying anything to her. Not in that state. She can drive a knife down my throat if I take a wrong breath. I gripped my violin case.
"Goodbye, Claire," I finally said. "I'll be back here with the rest of you."
I walked away and took the other door because that one seemed like 'Mission Impossible'.
The ride to Beaumont estate was nerve-wracking. I tried taking deep breaths but it wasn't working. Claire's words were playing in my head.
"You are the mistake nobody wanted"
The Beaumont estate didn't just smell "power" as I had imagined it. It smelled of expensive floor wax and cold rain. It felt like stepping onto another planet where the gravity was twice as heavy.
Dmitri's Pov
The ballroom was too hot, too loud, too bright and smelled of too much champagne. I stood by a pillar, my tuxedo collar itching against my neck. I felt so uncomfortable being in a space like this.
"You look like you came for a funeral," Adrien said, leaning next to me. He looked perfectly at home. This is his parents' party.
"I'm here as a representative of my father," I muttered, adjusting my tie to stop the itching on my neck. "He expects a report on the shareholders by morning. I don't have time for a party."
My father hadn't come, of course. He was at the hospital, elbow-deep in a surgery or maybe that's an excuse to skip the party and not having to face The Beaumonts. He sent me instead as his eyes and ears. "Watch the shareholders, Dmitri. Don't embarrass me, Dmitri. Make sure you watch them and don't spend your time there partying with the Beaumont boy." My father warned me this afternoon before leaving for work.
Adrien nodded towards the stage. "Well, at least watch the Charity case performance. She's the talk of the night."
I was ready to ignore the "Charity talent" the Beaumonts had scouted. Not until, she walked out.
It wasn't just the red hair, though it looked like a literal fire in that beige, dull room. It was the way she stood. She looked like she was expecting someone to hit her but she held the violin like a weapon.
My stomach dropped. I'd seen that face. I saw it in an old photograph from my father's desk. The photo was so old that the edges were curling. A woman with that exact hair and eyes. It was her. Or it shouldn't have been.
"Who is that?" I asked, my hands tightening on the glass until it groaned under my grip.
"Isabelle Duval," Adrien said. "Just some girl my mother brought from the Orphanage. She said she plays beautifully or something."
"That face," I muttered. "I've seen it. Not just from my father's desk but from one of the hidden portraits in school."
"It's just some girl with red hair. Don't make it a conspiracy." Adrien laughed.
Duval. A lie. She didn't play like an orphan or some girl with red hair. She played like someone who was bleeding out through music. It wasn't "beautiful", it was uncomfortable. It made the air in the room feel thin.
Isabelle's Pov
I didn't play to make history. I played so I wouldn't have to look at the faces in the crowd. I played so the people wouldn't mock me just like Claire said. When I finished, the stares and silence I got were worse than the applause. It felt like I'd just stripped naked in front of a thousand strangers.
Madame Beaumont hurried me off the stage, her eyes shiny with a weird kind of pride that made me feel like a prize-winning horse. She got concerned by a man with sharp eyes.
"Good Evening Young lady," he said. "What a wonderful performance you did back there."
"Oh, Thank… Thank you sir," I stuttered trying to hide my cheeks which were starting to flare up from the stares I got on the stage.
"My name is Director Alexandre Rousseau," he said, extending his hand out for a shake. "I'm the school director of St. Aurelia."
No way the director of the school I've only seen and read about in newspapers is standing in front of me. This feels too good to be true. I took his hand and returned the shake. I hope he won't notice my sweaty palms.
"You have a talent that does not belong in an orphanage, child," Director Alexandre said. "It belongs in the halls of history."
"I just played what I know, sir, " I said, trying to step back.
He turned to Madame Beaumont. "We need to speak, Genevieve. Now." They started whispering in that urgent and frantic way adults do when they think children aren't listening. They hurried away, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I backed into a corner, trying to disappear. But then a shadow fell over me.
I looked up and I forgot how to breathe. Air left my lungs in an instant. He was tall, sharp-edged, and wearing a tuxedo like it was a suit of armor. But it was his eyes that got me. Those blue winter ocean eyes. They weren't just cold. Terrified and terrifying at the same time.
"Isabelle Duval," his voice was a low, rough vibration.
"Yes?" I hated how small my voice sounded.
He stepped into my space, filling it with the smell of rain and expensive cologne. He looked at me as if he was trying to see past my skin.
"That was a nice performance," he whispered, leaning down so his breath brushed my ear. "You are standing in a bright light and you don't know who's watching. My father doesn't believe in ghosts, he buried them."
"I don't know what you are talking about," I snapped, my fear finally turning into a sharp, jagged spike of anger. "I'm just here to play".
He gave a short humorless laugh.
"Sure you are. But here's a tip: Go back to the orphanage, to the shadows you crawled out from. Because if you remain in the light, there are people who won't just break you. They'll erase you."
He turned and vanished into the crowd before I could find a comeback. I stood there, my hands shaking so hard I had to grip the violin case until it hurt.
Dmitri Volkov hadn't just looked at me like I was a girl. He'd looked at me like I was a ticking bomb. And for the first time, I realized that as bad as Claire was, she had never once offered to erase me.