Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Well, perhaps not in my class. As I make my way through the storied halls of the grand school and down to the concert room, I’m already picturing the look of disdain on the one person that doesn’t seem all that enthralled with me.
Dahlia.
And when I enter the concert room and see her on the stage, sitting at one of the pipe organs, her fingers and feet poised to play, I feel that animosity again. It surrounds her like this dark cloud that I don’t know how to read.
“I assume you know well enough to not let your feet touch those pedals,” I say loudly to her as I shut the door behind me and walk through the rows of chairs toward the stage.
She freezes, her red hair falling over her shoulder in such a way that it reminds me of a sunset hitting a waterfall. It does something to my gut, that feeling again of knowing her, coupled with a surge of adrenaline that seems to go straight to my dick.
Christ on a bike. You’d think I got it all out of my system.
“I know well enough,” she says, twisting on the bench to face me. She’s already wearing her own organ shoes, her slim Adidas sneakers resting beside the bench.
A throat is cleared and I realize that the three other students in our class are staring at me expectantly. I’ve completely ignored them so far, and unlike Dahlia, they’re all sitting in the front row of the chairs like most students should be.
I gesture to the students and give Dahlia a steady look. “Well? Perhaps it would be best if you sat with your classmates instead of jumping right into things. As you can see, there are four students and only two organs.”
She gives me a small smile but doesn’t look reprimanded at all. She slowly takes off her organ shoes and puts her sneakers on, then walks off the stage, taking a seat beside the others.
I give my head a small shake and then paste a smile on my face when addressing the others. “Welcome to your first practical class.”
I run over the curriculum with them. Unlike the history class, which students of all instruments attend, everything in this class is focused on having the best training on the pipe organ. Everyone here can play, but today it’s a matter of finding out how well, and that in turn will affect things down the line, such as the winter recital and other small concerts they’ll be involved in.
Then we proceed to the demonstrations. On the concert hall stage, beneath the molded ceilings and alfresco paintings, are two organs, one on each side of the stage. There are two grand pianos situated closer to the middle, as well as cello, a percussion set, and a few other instruments.
One by one the students take their place at the organ that Dahlia was originally sitting at, playing a piece of music.
The first student, Leo, an Italian boy who can’t be any older than twenty, played a very lively and vibrant rendition of “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” The next student, a bespeckled girl from Bristol in her thirties called Margaret, who I switched to English with since her Italian was so atrocious, played a noisy version of a Jehan Alain piece. A quiet and brooding-looking German boy named Johann played a surprisingly jolly piece of something he said he wrote himself.
And then finally, Dahlia slips her organist shoes back on and takes her seat on the bench.
She glances at me over her shoulder, waiting for my cue, and I’m momentarily distracted by the smoothness of her pale skin, a couple of freckles that appear under the thin strap of her burgundy camisole.
I clear my throat, bringing my eyes to meet her. “Go on then, Dahlia.”
She nods, closing her eyes as her fingers pause in the air above the keys.
Then she starts to play.
Toccata and Fugue in D minor.
You have got to be kidding me.
It’s arguably the most famous piece of organ music in the world, and most people don’t know that it was Bach who wrote it. All they know is that this is Dracula’s music. This is the music for vampires and haunted houses, and whatever version of me that Hollywood wants to throw at the world.
And here is Dahlia, playing it and playing it extremely well.
It’s like she knows, I think to myself. But of course she doesn’t. She can’t. Humans will never believe in vampires unless the vampire explicitly shows themselves. After that, there is no turning back, but until then, the human mind won’t allow it. They truly believe we are as made up as Santa Claus.
She’s continuing to play the song too, which makes me realize she’ll play the whole long damn thing unless I stop her. It’s hard to, though, as I watch the skill in her fingers and feet, how effortless it is. She’s almost as good as I am. Yet another thing for me to puzzle over.