had been with great effort that she had managed finally to pull up the sophisticated, unemotional wall she had built around herself. She couldn't let it drop again.
She had taken great care with her appearance. Her gown was stunning, though demure, the collar high, the sleeves long, with proper white gloves covering her hands. It had been ages since she had cared what people thought about her. But tonight she cared. Deeply. Tonight she wanted to make her father proud.
Making her way through the Italian-marbled foyer, she took in the house. Crystal chandeliers glistened. Candles burned in hand-carved bronze candelabra, imported from France. The treasure of a king, Patrice had explained. Nothing but the finest for her father.
Sophie had often thought her father should have been a king. What he lacked in bloodlines he made up for in an extravagant display of wealth. He had made so much money in shipping, her mother had told her as a child, that even the most blue-blooded, puritan-minded Bostonians couldn't turn their noses up at the man.
Sophie continued on, but her attempts to cross the room proved to be no easy task, given that everyone wanted to say hello, inquire after her journey home, or comment on the article in
The Century
magazine.
And the men. Every man there, eligible or not, clamored after her. Men who as boys hadn't given her the time of day. They all wanted a dance, or a minute of her time.
The night was proving to be a wonderful success. She was home, and from all appearances, Boston adored her.
Halfway across the foyer she saw the man her stepmother had pointed out earlier. Niles Prescott, with his gray hair combed back and the lines of his face making him look dashing rather than old, was the longtime conductor for Boston's Music Hall. He had been a close friend of her mother's. Too close, she knew some had whispered. He was also the man who had given the debut concert he had promised her to someone else.
Sophie blinked hard when she remembered the crushing announcement of who would perform the solo at the Grand Debut. The Music Hall's auditorium had been filled with students and their parents. Niles Prescott stood at the podium. Sophie had waited impatiently to hear her name called, to rise from her seat, to walk to the stage with the audience thundering their applause. It was the moment she had lived her whole life for.
Sophie felt heat sting her cheeks when she remembered how she
had
stood, the name announced taking seconds too long to register. Then the sight of her greatest competitor walking to the podium. The triumphant smile. The embarrassment, the devastation.
Later, the conductor had said very little to her. But it was enough.
I didn't think you could play Bach
.
A lie.
Sophie knew it had nothing to do with Bach. She thought of her mother and the man. The promises he had made, promises he no longer had to keep once her mother was gone.
But even knowing that, for the first time in her life, Sophie had begun to doubt herself.
Was
it a lie? she had suddenly begun to wonder, insidious thoughts that became indistinguishable from the truth.
Always before she had simply played, Bach being her most cherished composer. After she lost the long-counted-on debut, she started second-guessing what she did and how she did it.
She had fled to Germany's Leipzig Music Conservatory, where she enrolled in the four-year program. She analyzed and studied, practiced and played, until she had taken every class and learned everything any of the professors could teach her. Then finally she gave a debut recital, but in Amsterdam, not Boston. And it had been a disaster.
She had been nervous and self-conscious. The audience's reception had been cold, and she had cringed at the reviews the next morning describing an uninspiring performance by yet another child prodigy. But all of that changed when she created her new show. Flash and dazzle. Jewels and gowns.
It might not be Bach, but for the first time everyone had
She had taken great care with her appearance. Her gown was stunning, though demure, the collar high, the sleeves long, with proper white gloves covering her hands. It had been ages since she had cared what people thought about her. But tonight she cared. Deeply. Tonight she wanted to make her father proud.
Making her way through the Italian-marbled foyer, she took in the house. Crystal chandeliers glistened. Candles burned in hand-carved bronze candelabra, imported from France. The treasure of a king, Patrice had explained. Nothing but the finest for her father.
Sophie had often thought her father should have been a king. What he lacked in bloodlines he made up for in an extravagant display of wealth. He had made so much money in shipping, her mother had told her as a child, that even the most blue-blooded, puritan-minded Bostonians couldn't turn their noses up at the man.
Sophie continued on, but her attempts to cross the room proved to be no easy task, given that everyone wanted to say hello, inquire after her journey home, or comment on the article in
The Century
magazine.
And the men. Every man there, eligible or not, clamored after her. Men who as boys hadn't given her the time of day. They all wanted a dance, or a minute of her time.
The night was proving to be a wonderful success. She was home, and from all appearances, Boston adored her.
Halfway across the foyer she saw the man her stepmother had pointed out earlier. Niles Prescott, with his gray hair combed back and the lines of his face making him look dashing rather than old, was the longtime conductor for Boston's Music Hall. He had been a close friend of her mother's. Too close, she knew some had whispered. He was also the man who had given the debut concert he had promised her to someone else.
Sophie blinked hard when she remembered the crushing announcement of who would perform the solo at the Grand Debut. The Music Hall's auditorium had been filled with students and their parents. Niles Prescott stood at the podium. Sophie had waited impatiently to hear her name called, to rise from her seat, to walk to the stage with the audience thundering their applause. It was the moment she had lived her whole life for.
Sophie felt heat sting her cheeks when she remembered how she
had
stood, the name announced taking seconds too long to register. Then the sight of her greatest competitor walking to the podium. The triumphant smile. The embarrassment, the devastation.
Later, the conductor had said very little to her. But it was enough.
I didn't think you could play Bach
.
A lie.
Sophie knew it had nothing to do with Bach. She thought of her mother and the man. The promises he had made, promises he no longer had to keep once her mother was gone.
But even knowing that, for the first time in her life, Sophie had begun to doubt herself.
Was
it a lie? she had suddenly begun to wonder, insidious thoughts that became indistinguishable from the truth.
Always before she had simply played, Bach being her most cherished composer. After she lost the long-counted-on debut, she started second-guessing what she did and how she did it.
She had fled to Germany's Leipzig Music Conservatory, where she enrolled in the four-year program. She analyzed and studied, practiced and played, until she had taken every class and learned everything any of the professors could teach her. Then finally she gave a debut recital, but in Amsterdam, not Boston. And it had been a disaster.
She had been nervous and self-conscious. The audience's reception had been cold, and she had cringed at the reviews the next morning describing an uninspiring performance by yet another child prodigy. But all of that changed when she created her new show. Flash and dazzle. Jewels and gowns.
It might not be Bach, but for the first time everyone had
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