I am nearly late. I lost track of time while I was at the doctors. I quickly grab my violin from my room, and run down the stairs to my practice room. The room was at the far end of the hall, right opposite the door to the concert hall and next to the bathrooms. Mortimer uses this room as his office now, after he stopped going to the third floor where his original room was.
I weave in and out of boys and girls who are giggling and talking loudly as they went to see their own masters for practice. The morning hours held most of the room practices. The rest of the time apprentices and masters alike roam freely around the castle and practice whenever or wherever they liked. Except for the third floor.
When I enter the room, elbow still aching but violin at the ready, my master is once again not there. I berate myself for rushing. I could have stayed longer with the doctor, had the compress on for longer. I put my mute violin on the table and sit down, waiting for him to come. Maybe I should rosin the bow.
A long while later my master walks in. He has more papers clutched onto him than he did previously, his writing obviously going well. I wonder why he even bothered to come and teach me sometimes when he was having days like this. I like that he makes the time for me though, so I say nothing about it.
“The scores, the scores are finished.” He says excitedly. He looks happy but the bags under his eyes tells me he has not been getting enough sleep. “I’m going to send them over…” then he starts coughing.
I rush over to him and thump him on the back worried.
“Yes, yes,” he mutters brushing me off. “Just a cold,” he says then sneezes violently. “I need to send this over to the conductor and get everyone practicing. We only have a few days. I should have finished this ages ago, ages ago. I should have known he would commission something at the last minute.” He coughs again then looks at me. He hands me a sheet of paper, “violin solo, piece number 7” it says.
My heart skips a beat.
“You, practice this. It doesn’t have a name yet. Regardless it is completed,” he says and marches out the door, nearly dropping the rest of his papers in his hurry.
Could it be? Really? Is he really going to let me perform? Regardless, if I practice well enough, maybe he will let me perform. I mean why else practice a brand new song before a concert? A solo. For me?
I look at the music notes, reading each one slowly, letting the tune play in my head. Then I place it on the stand, pick up my violin and start to play.
It’s an hour later, and I hardly notice. Mortimer walks into the room and looks at me. “No, no, no, no! That will not do. You need to have more emotion to sing a song or else it would just be words and not music.” He grabs the violin from me and plays.
Even though we are practicing on the same mute, his song shines. The music is sweet. Bright. It is nothing like how I played.
“Now, again,” he says and hands it over to me. If he really is this keen on teaching me, maybe, he does want me to play on stage? Would this be my first piece? “Again!” He barks, when in my excitement I let a note screech. “Feeling Heston, feeling. Why are you not singing? Louder, sweeter, once more. From the top. With passion!”
Just then Mikail rushes into the room, looking a bit dishevelled. “Father? What’s is this? What is going on.” His father shushes him. “This isn’t what we talked about,” Mikail says sounding slightly perturbed.
“Mikail, hush, I’m doing what I have to do.”
“No.” He says. He walks closer to us. “No,” he repeats. Then he pauses. He turns to where I stand, looks at me and laughs. “Ah Heston… Look at him father, he can barely play,” he spits out.
“Mikail,” his father warns. I’ve never seen his father raise his voice to him before. There is another pause until Mortimer motions me to carry on playing. “No,” Mikail says, “You’ll do it all wrong!” He yells and smashes his hand on the table. I flinch and stop. My elbow throbs. Oh. I forgot I was in pain. I was too excited.
“MIKAIL!” His father yells. His father sighs. “Mikail,” his father pleads. Then he starts coughing again.
Mikail looks at his father stunned, then his eyes narrow and he laughs. It is an eerie laugh. One with no emotion. He sits down in a chair saying nothing and watches me. “Once again, from the top,” his father says to me. I start again. “Louder,” his father says to me.
“What use is playing louder, it’s a mute! What is the word loud to someone that is deaf,” Mikail scoffs.
“Mikail” His father glares at his son. “Fine. Fine. Fine…” Mikail replies. “Fine!” He scrapes the chair on the floor as he stands up to leave. “You’re going to ruin it, I just know it. Just… let my father play,” he loudly whispers in my ear and walks out the room.
Was he getting edgy because I was to play a solo? He has been a bully, but he has never been this hostile before. I remember when we used to be friends, when I was first brought in. One day, his father asked to see the both of us. He told us that he was getting on in years. He wanted to focus on his composing. Someone had to take his place in the orchestra.
I thought it would be me.
Why else did he take me from my family? I thought he brought me here to be his apprentice. And I was. Officially, I was. I still am. But I was not his successor. Why would he choose me over his son? I had never seen Mikail play. For the years we’ve been friends, I had never seen him practice. But then yet again, until then, neither had I.
After appointing his son as his successor, he handed me his mute violin.
Mikail was at first elated, then furious. I did not understand what was going on in his head. At that point I hardly cared; I was trying to figure out what was going on in mine.
“No,” he said looking at his father. “That’s not for him,” he said. “You can’t… you can’t give that to him. Mother made that. Just for you to use. You have to keep it.”
“I’m getting old,” his father responded. “I cannot keep it up for much longer. I cannot let things be the way they are any longer. He has to learn.”
Mikail stormed out of the room furious, after declaring that we would no longer be friends. That same day, I learnt my first scale.
At first, though I practiced every day, I was not allowed to keep the violin. Mortimer kept it with him and handed it to me at the start of every practice session. Then a year passed and another and I was allowed to keep the violin. He told me the scales I needed to play. When you first wake up and before you fall asleep. “Remember. I’ll know if you don’t.”
I practice Mortimer’s new song for a whole day, with hardly a rest. Mortimer watches over me, but seems to be distracted. He asks me to play certain parts again and again, until it is to his satisfaction. Then again, once more. I feel the strings dig deeper into my fingers, and my right elbow pounds more with the pain. But I could not stop playing. What if this was my chance to finally stand on stage? I would sacrifice this elbow for this chance if this was all I would get. I think. Would I? Would I have to? Pain was making it hard to think, but I did not need to think. I need to play.
“AGAIN!” He barks.
After a while my stomach grumbles. I pause embarrassed. Mortimer seems taken aback for a moment, as if he forgot where he was. Then he fished around in the pockets of his robe, and pulled out his silver pocket watch. It ticks meticulously and melodiously as he flipped the case open. “Oh, dinner”, he says and without a word to me, walks out of the room in a trance.
I collapse onto the nearest chair. I stand up and place my violin back in its case carefully, and return to the chair to collapse again. I look out the window. The sky has blackened. Night has descended.
I look at my violin resting on its violet velvet lining in its case. I should put it away in my room before I go to dinner.
There are many mute violins in the castle, used for practice. Each trainee is gifted one upon coming to the castle. I came to the castle when I was eight not fifteen like the rest. I was not granted a mute for myself until later. My master’s. Crafted by his wife, though she was not a musician herself. “She could make anything as long as it involved wood,” he once said. I was not truly ‘given’ the violin. It was mine in name. Mine to look after. Not mine to keep. Never mine to keep.
I pull up my sleeve to inspect the arm underneath. Yes, definitely worse. I roll it back down unable to look at it. I know I should go see the doctor, but I am so hungry. I wish I had a watch. The doctor would probably go to bed soon. But then dinner would be over soon too. It was one or the other. Dinner or the doctor. Then my stomach grumbles. Dinner it is. The visit to the doctor would have to wait until tomorrow.
Outside the door I narrowly avoid bumping into a large lady. “I’m s-sorry,” I stammer. She brushes down her purple sequined dress, as if I dirtied it. Though I didn’t touch her. Her hair hangs high in an intricate design that makes me think of a waterfall. She is caked in makeup and her nails are varnished red. I don’t think she needs the makeup though, she has always been pretty enough as she is. She is Tricia Mortz. With her partner Boden Triton, they sing a lot of the songs that Mortimer creates. She glares at me.
“You!” She huffs.
“Yes?” I mumble. We stare at each other each unsure how to respond. She looks furious. Luckily we are not the only ones in the hall.
“What? Oh.” Peeking his head around Tricia, is the Orchestra’s conductor Barthlew Madson. His large white moustache and beard hangs low on his face covering most of his mouth. When he spoke it sounded slightly muted. “Well, Mortimer’s little… apprentice. What are you still doing here at this hour? Shouldn’t you be at dinner?”
“I just finished practicing, with my master,” I say, stumbling through my sentence. What are you doing here… at this hour?
“You are Mortimer’s apprentice?” Her voice rises. She looks down at me. I flinch at her gaze. “I… yes, yes I am Ma’am.” Suddenly she is much less agitated.
“So, you would happen to know where your master is?” She asks, her voice sweet.
“We just finished practicing. I was keeping away my violin when he went for dinner.”
“What?” The both of them say, almost in unison.
“Probably up in his bedchamber,” I add.
“We were just at his chamber!” She says, suddenly angry again.
“Now, now, don’t fuss Tricia,” Barthlew sighs.
“He isn’t here, he isn’t there. It does not matter the slightest. We will find him. His son hardly attends practices and when he does come he hardly makes an effort. Now Mortimer hides away from me, avoiding conflict. We have a brand new piece and he refuses to discuss things. Don’t worry, we’ll search for him and make him see reason.”
“It’s been four concerts now and he hasn’t…” she trails off, looking at me. Oh. It’s been four concerts and all of them have been instrumental. And the last one. The last one had parts for singing in it, but Mortimer and the king chose to have it as an instrumental. I wonder if this new one has any singing. Looking at their faces, I doubt it.
I notice her staring down at my violin case. “That… that violin. I recognise… the case.”
“It used to belong to my master,” I quickly respond. I can feel my stomach threatening to grumble again. “I beg pardon, if you will excuse me, I really need to get to dinner before the kitchens is shut for the night.”
I bid my farewells and quickly escape. Dinner is nearly over. The kitchen staff is already cleaning up. I grab a plate and wolf down everything that I can.
That night I could barely sleep for the pain.
The next day was a repeat of the last day.
The next day the same.
And then it was the day of the concert.
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