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Every evening, in her little room in Oletus Manor, Violetta knits. She’s come a long way since her early days—where, rain or shine, she would repair torn fabric with shaky stitches on the cold dirt floor. The bed is too soft to hold her steady, so she sits on the carpet. When she removes her mask and the glow of her lamp hits her face just right, she can watch each stitch of her current project come together with pride. She feels like a star again, creating something beloved beneath a spotlight, even if her creations end up in the bottom of her drawer and only the autumn leaves beyond her cracked-open window are there to see it. She hopes, more than anything, that they’d adore her—a wonder of nature turned mechanical marvel, a new and improved Violetta on a whole new stage. So, with her eyes towards the future, she creates.
And sometimes, with one needle held in metal fingers and the other cradled gently in her teeth, she hears music.
Most nights, it’s a quiet, delicate thing, not so much filling the room as accenting it. This time is no different. It’s a slow waltz, a gentle sound that floats around her. It accompanies her as she works. Her head dips down to meet the other needle, tugging the yarn through with the rhythm of the song. She tightens each stitch, and each one finds its place, like they’re following along with her dance. It makes her wonder if she could do that, too—dance, really dance, the sort that would make people clamor to see her again.
It’s a dream of hers, sometimes. With that and the way the music tends to stop and start so suddenly, like it was never there at all, Violetta could have almost believed that she was only imagining it. Still, she hears the direction of it—and there’s no reason, none that she can think of, to picture a single instrument from beneath the ground.
That’s why tonight, she decides to follow it.
The music grows quieter, and then silent as she makes her way down the hallway. It’s empty on a night like this, the doors closed, with lamps off and candles snuffed out. Violetta knows what she’s looking for, though, as she so often does.
She makes her way into the foyer. Trying to orient herself, she pulls her hood down from her dark curls, pokes her head up, and follows her ears through the empty room. That leads her to the piano—but there’s no instrument save for the same old piano, and certainly no ghost playing it. Walking down even more dark stairs, the sound comes to a crescendo in her ears, and the somber atmosphere feels overwhelming. What an awful place for a stage.
Her curious red eyes peek through the cracked-open door, finding their way to the center of the room. That’s where the answer to all of her questions is revealed, entirely unceremoniously: Mr. Burke Lapadura, sitting alone on a dilapidated chair. He’s lit by a dim light, one that doesn’t even face him, and a violin rests beneath his sharp chin.
Immediately, Violetta feels like she’s intruded on something private. Maybe Burke didn’t know that anyone could hear him at all, that he didn’t mean to perform. She would hate to embarrass him, or upset him… she knows so little about the man that it’s hard to imagine how he’d react to an intrusion. Maybe the best thing she could do would be to shut the door, climb back up the stairs and back into her bed, add a few more rows of stitches to her next piece, and fall asleep dreaming of a spotlight.
But, perhaps against her better judgment, she doesn’t look away. Her eyes are fixed on the metal hand clutched around the violin bow. She can’t close the door, not when it would feel so much like closing it on herself.
So she watches.
The minutes pass by, and Violetta notes that the music that Mr. Lapadura plays is less perfect once she’s right next to it. She’s no musician herself—she never thought that was the sort of thing her broken body could do, not in a million years—so she can’t say exactly why, but it’s like half of the notes are a little too high. Sometimes, a note sounds strange on its own, in a way that makes her perk her head up. It’s never sour, though, never bad—just odd. More than anything else, it interests her.
It’s an unusual sensation, to find so much joy in something so imperfect. Maybe she just isn’t used to it yet.
The last three notes slide into each other beautifully, the pitch climbing slowly each time Burke draws his bow across the strings. As much as the instrument itself may be out of tune, from the smooth and delicate motion of the bow, it’s apparent that Mr. Lapadura must have had years of practice. If it wouldn’t have given herself away, and if it wouldn’t have felt so out of place, Violetta would have clapped for him. Instead, she watches to see if he plays another song—and, instead, he curses and sets his bow down. He reaches into the pocket of his apron, takes a swig of his drink, and sets the bottle on one of the tables near him. Beneath it, in that same pocket, there rests a tuning fork.
He grabs it, lifts it up to the top of his head, and taps it against the armrest of that old chair. The sound it produces is louder and clearer than Violetta expects, especially next to that old violin. It startles her enough that she bumps the door with her elbow, just slightly, and the thing creaks softly in its hinges.
She hopes he doesn’t notice. He does.
“Who’s there?”
Violetta nearly jumps out of her skin, quickly tucking herself back behind the doorframe. Did Mr. Lapadura notice her? Had he just been pretending he didn’t know, all of that time, only to mock her when she emerges? No, Violetta, don’t be silly. Being caught now was awful enough. She peeks in again—he’s standing up, now, still holding onto his bow as he looks right at the door. She takes a cautious step into the doorway. Too nervous to look more closely at her surroundings or to look the old man directly in the eyes, she keeps her eyes on the bow instead.
“I’m sorry! I’m… I’m very sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt you.” She bows her head. ”I could hear you playing, and… and I just thought it was so lovely. I—I wanted to say something, but, um…”
Mr. Lapadura is terrifying, and it’s never been particularly difficult to frighten Violetta into silence. She stares up at him, wide-eyed. His expression doesn’t change.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I—I know, I’m so sorry, I, um—I—well—I just, um, I only—”
She’s far too afraid for a moment like this. Her head shuts down on her. That’s why she says something else she shouldn’t have.
“—wh-what were you playing?”
For a moment, he softens. At least, she thinks so. He grumbles to himself, throwing his free hand up. Violetta isn’t sure if she was meant to hear him or not.
“Damn kids… too curious for your own good.”
…she probably wasn’t.
She stares at the floor, waiting to be thrown out—but that isn’t what happens. After far too long, he sighs. She doesn’t quite expect it, but he answers.
“Evening Prayer.”
“What?” She’s startled enough that she doesn’t quite hear him, but she looks back up, hoping to catch it again. He crosses his arms.
“It’s from Hänsel und Gretel. An opera.”
Violetta stares blankly for a moment. She doesn’t recognize it, a thought that makes her feel embarrassed. She can’t imagine herself in any part of an opera, even just as an audience member—she’s a subject to be gawked at, something spoken of in hushed tones. She would find empty space beside her, even in the packed standing areas that she could barely afford.
“You’ll—you’ll have to forgive me,” she admits, shame burning up on her face. She’s glad to be wearing her mask. “I love theatre. I’m just, I—I haven’t seen much.”
He doesn’t seem bothered. Not more bothered than he usually seems, anyway. “It’s a newer work. It hasn’t been in English very long.”
“I-I see. Well, I’m, um, glad you enjoy it… I’d love to, um…” She goes quiet, and Mr. Lapadura raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Lapadura—I’m sorry if this is too formal, but, may I… listen to you play? I really admire your, um—”
She would have said more, were she not promptly cut off. “No.”
Oh.
She’d sort of expected it, but the way he says it is still harsh enough that her heart breaks a little. Something about Mr. Lapadura made her want his approval. It’s possible that it was because of his artistry. She had always admired his architecture, the little tricks of the building—and now his music, too. More likely, though, it was because something about him reminds her of her father. Maybe he’s just tall, imposing with long limbs, or maybe it’s the bottle he keeps in his pocket. Maybe it’s that robot of his: a cross between a man, a penguin, and a machine, just like her. Maybe it’s just the part of her that desperately wants for something, not so much a second chance as a world where things are different.
That isn’t the world she lives in, though, and it’s not the person she is.
“Oh. Um, that’s—that’s okay.” It probably doesn’t sound like it is, but she’s too upset to care about how it sounds. She turns around. She always turns slowly—sudden motions make it hard to balance, and the last thing she wants to do right now is fall—but she hopes Mr. Lapadura can’t see how dejected she seems. She would hate to be pitied.
She’s already begun to walk off when she hears a sigh from behind her.
“Wait.”
He speaks with such finality, both like he knows exactly what he’s going to say next and like he doesn’t need to say anything at all, that Violetta does as he asks.
“You can stay.” Before Violetta gets too excited, he continues. “Not tonight. Tomorrow night. And no earlier than midnight.”
He’s clearly pretty displeased about the concession he’s making, and Violetta almost considers turning him down on principle. Denying a second chance, though… that’s not the person she is, either.
“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Lapadura—thank you so much.”
“Hmph. Don’t mention it.”
That may just be a way to act modest, but Violetta is pretty sure he actually means it, so she doesn’t.
Instead, she really does leave. Once she’s made it up the sets of stairs, down the dimly-lit hallway, and back in her own room, she lets herself sink back down to the floor. She has no shortage of projects to do, after all. Tomorrow night, though, she’ll have more than her yarn to keep her company. It couldn’t come quickly enough.
Tomorrow evening, she spends longer than she’d like to admit keeping an eye on her clock. Her knitting needle is in her teeth, and she’s facing away from it as she works—but as the hours grow later, she takes several moments at a time just to glance at it. She can’t go right at midnight, can she? No, that would be too strange, too desperate. So she waits a little longer, a little longer…
But there’s no point in waiting forever. She can already hear the music as she walks down the dark stairs once again, her hand wrapped around the railing. She supposes he never said he’d wait for her. Like last time, she pushes open the door cautiously, hoping that she isn’t interrupting anything.
Even with only the very cursory glance she’d given the full room last time, the lab looks very different. Every structure of note had been covered by a cloth, or a couple that had been hastily clipped together. It doesn’t bother her, even though she thinks it probably should. Every place has secrets, though—and Violetta doesn’t need to know anything right away. She isn’t even sure if she can enter yet, not when he’s in the middle of a song, and he’s certainly not meeting her eyes.
That leaves her to stand in the doorway, listening to him as he plays. Thankfully, that’s a pleasant task. This piece is livelier, and feels much less sentimental than the last one. Most of the notes are short and stop hard, and his bow moves at a pace that she imagines must be difficult for his prosthetic hand. It’s as incredible to watch as the first one was to hear.
The song ends in a recognizable flourish, and he finally acknowledges her. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
He’d certainly made arrangements like she was going to, Violetta thinks to herself. Instead of pointing out that particular observation, she lets her curiosity get the best of her, instead.
“Can I, er—may I ask why?”
He answers as matter-of-factly as always. “Well, I thought I terrified you.”
He did. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“O-Oh. Um-”
“Sit down. The fabric is clean. And keep your mouth shut.”
It stings for a moment, but Violetta knows enough about him to know that letting her into such a private room is far more than courtesy or guilt. Anyone can say hollow words, after all, but actions mean more. That’s why she sits without complaint, pulling her mask down—and it’s a relief to get all of her weight off of her hips. She’s strong, but those flights of stairs are no easy feat.
He puts the instrument to his chin once more, his head relaxing into place. The structure of the violin is more visible from up close. The plates are almost blackened in some spots, and some of its edges were unnaturally sharp, as if they had been unevenly shaven down. Whatever had caused that must be what was making the instrument sound so strange.
More than that, though, Violetta notices how content he looks. Certainly more than she had ever seen him. Once again, she gets a distinct sense that she must be intruding. If she is, though, he doesn’t show it. Her quiet nature must be doing her some good. He begins his next song without comment, and Violetta watches closely.
His fingers move like lightning on the violin’s neck. The movements of his prosthetic are so smooth for this piece that she can’t help but watch his right shoulder, instead, to admire the precision of how he controls it. That sort of thing must take so much focus that she imagines he wouldn’t even notice her if she spoke, although his sharp ears are accurate and her temperament careful enough that she would never even consider testing that theory. When he’s done, Violetta almost tells him how wonderful it was, what a delight his music is to listen to—but instead, he sounds dissatisfied, muttering another complaint.
“It’s out of tune again. Damn thing.”
He’s reaching for the tuning fork again. Violetta takes the brief moment of quiet to speak, hoping her question isn’t too foolish.
“Does it… do that often?”
“Constantly, constantly! This damn basement, and that accident… it’s horrible for an instrument like this. And the old thing wasn’t the best violin to begin with.” He’s grumbling again, still looking a bit irritated at the thing. He strikes it against the armrest again, holds it up close to his ear, and begins to pluck one of the strings.
He must have caught Violetta watching, transfixed—she often forgets just how expressive she is when she isn’t wearing her mask—because he comments on it. “You ever used one of these?”
“No. No, never. How does it work?” she asks, before realizing it’s a silly question. “I mean—I hear you matching the, um-”
He shushes her for a moment. She listens, too, to the pitch of the tuning fork and the notes he’s plucking—and when it matches perfectly, he rests his finger on the string, and the resonance immediately stops.
“You use your ear, that’s all. People come up with all sorts of fancy ways now, but… hmph. I can’t keep up with all of that.”
“It’s impressive,” she says.
He starts to pluck the next string. “It’s good that you youngsters still care about art these days. Don’t you act? Something like that.”
“Oh. Well, I’d—I’d like to,” she admits. “But… look at me. There’s so many beautiful actresses in the business. Who would want to see a leading lady who looks like this? I, um, I sew more, now. That’s what people really want to see.”
Mr. Lapadura doesn’t acknowledge her question, like he’s denying the premise of it. “Professionals rehearse long before an audience sees them. An actress is an actress.”
He plucks the first string, and then the second, turning the little peg at the top of the neck. After a few tries moving it back and forth, again and again, he seems satisfied with the result. Violetta can only assume so, anyway, as he moves on to the next.
“That’s a good way to think about it.” She smiles, and turns her attention back to the strings. The way he tunes is careful, methodical, and even feels somewhat intricate… it must be boring to him by now, but she finds it fascinating. “I hope this isn’t odd to say, but—wow. I wish I could do something like that…”
He raises an eyebrow from behind his glasses, looking up at her. “Is that what this is about? You’re looking for a coach?”
Right. That certainly could have been taken that way.
“Oh, um…” She freezes, trying to think of what to say. She isn’t, not really… but something about the idea interests her. If he really is offering, anyway. “If—if that’s okay…?”
“Hm. I’m not a teacher, and I haven’t had a teacher in years. I may not teach you much,” he warns—but it seems like he always intended on relenting. “But if you want to learn, fine.”
Violetta perks up. It’s about the last thing she would have expected. “Really? You’d—you’d do that, for me?”
“There aren’t many teachers for people like us. So I’ll show you what I know. That’s all.”
“That’s okay. Really, that’s… oh, it’s more than enough. Thank you, Mr. Lapadura.”
“Spare me the formality. I’m old enough without being reminded of it,” he scoffed. “I’ll show you how to hold it, but that’s all I can do right now.”
“Oh, no—that’s more than enough. Thank you.”
“After I finish tuning it.”
“Of course. I, um—I don’t mind, not a bit.”
The last string doesn’t take long, though. Soon enough, Violetta is holding the violin in her hands, although Burke still hasn’t taken his hands off of it.
“Put the chin rest above your shoulder. Don’t turn to face it—you shouldn’t need to look at the neck.” She follows every instruction, holding the instrument delicately. The damage it’s already sustained is even clearer up close, and she would hate for her clumsy limbs to make it worse.
She takes well to each new piece of guidance. She straightens her neck and her spine—and though she can’t relax her shoulders and control her arms at the same time, Burke helps her reposition the instrument in her arms so she won’t strain her back. It’s more care than most people show her—it’s a little surprising, really, and that realization doesn’t do much for the tension she’s carrying. Maybe she’s just a lost cause when it comes to relaxing.
By the time she hands the instrument back, though, she feels… better, in a way. Not more comfortable, not yet, but better.
“If you’re coming back, warn me, first,” Burke says. “I’m not spending an hour cleaning this place up unless I’m sure, and you aren’t just barging in if I don’t.”
She doesn’t mind, not one bit. “Tomorrow night?”
He frowns. “How about Tuesday?”
“That sounds—” and she’s certain she’s smiling like a fool; she still can’t quite believe it, “—well, it’s wonderful. I’ll be here!”
In theory, it’s best for her to practice every day, but Violetta feels lucky to have his tutelage at all. Burke makes it very clear as the days pass by that if every night were taken up teaching a girl more than thirty years his junior, he would go entirely mad—and he wasn’t far from that already—but she hopes that he doesn’t mind the company every once in a while. She learns how to read each note, then how to play it, and then she’s right back to reading again. It’s tiring to learn, and must be excruciating to teach. Sometimes, though, she succeeds. Those are the moments where she looks up to Burke with the same eyes that had once looked at Max.
The laboratory may be as dark as the night sky above it and twice as dreary, but Violetta quickly learns to love it. Her audience is small, but Burke is, indeed, an audience. And he’s a good one, too, even when he sits still, and he doesn’t clap or cheer. Violetta plays her first scale, slow and clumsy, her nervous eyes meet his—and he nods. A strange sense of something like pride flows over her. She’s earned his approval.
During their next meeting, she plays it again, and again. She can’t deny it’s what she expected by now.
“Hm. You should try it a different way,” he says. The idea of playing something different gets her excited for a moment. She’s acted for long enough, too, to know that too much repetition in the same way only lets one memorize the pattern—not to understand it. “I’d have you play staccato, if you can. How precise is your wrist?”
“Not very,” she admits. “My fingers can do more, if that helps…”
“It should. Try using just the middle of the bow—bounce it off of the strings if you have to. It should sound crisp.”
That’s a description she can work with. It’s frustrating at first, trying to manipulate something that’s still so unfamiliar to do exactly what she wants it to—but when she brings the bow towards her, fingers carefully posed, the notes are as detached as she could imagine them being.
“Like—like that?”
Burke nods. “Good. Now—”
“—do it again?” Violetta offers.
“Exactly. It’ll get easier.”
The first success was somewhat in isolation—the bow really is harder to control than it looks, and the notes sometimes come out more in a mix than in pure staccato. She’s trying, though, even if only half of each scale sounds the way she wants.
It feels strange, just sitting there in total silence, only broken by the sound of the violin. The urge to ask some sort of question, or to share too much, or just to say anything, tugs at her each time she repeats the process.
Eventually, she folds. “Excuse me.”
“Hm? What is it?”
She suddenly feels nervous again. “Sorry. May I, um—I hate to pry, but-”
“You’re asking if you can.”
“No, not at all! Um, well, I hope not,” she says. “I, well, I was just curious. If you ever thought you’d end up doing more with… all of this. Not teaching, even, but…”
He huffs, and it’s the closest to a laugh that Violetta has ever gotten out of him, and answers more quickly than she expected. “No thanks. This is the type of place that’s best for me.”
It makes sense when she thinks about it. She had no idea he even played until the past month or so—and it’s not like his love of architecture wasn’t much more obvious. Still, something doesn’t add up.
“But… underground? In a place like this?”
“Yes. It’s just my lot in life,” he says. “Not everything has to be for someone else. You showed up by happenstance, that’s all.” She can’t tell if it’s disdain or repentance, but something in his voice becomes apparent when he continues. “You’re still young. You’ve got better things to do than being a pawn, even if it’s just for some audience.”
He looks down. She wonders why.
“You should sleep. It’s too late for me to be running around.” He pats her shoulder, just for a moment, and quickly retracts it. “I’m sure you’ve had enough of scales, too.”
But she doesn’t care about that. It’s the first time he’s ever touched her. A part of her is brought back to her childhood; holding onto her father, tucked warmly into his arms. Holding onto him used to be her safe space from the jeering words of the crowds that came to the Amazing Cabin.
Those happy days may be long bygone, but the feeling of it still makes tonight seem a little less lonely. Especially when she knows for a fact that Burke doesn’t need to profit off of her.
“Right. Um, I’m—”, and then she remembers she’s not meant to apologize. “Er—I’ll be back. Thursday.”
And, that Thursday, she returns indeed. She’s not sure what to expect when she gets there after her last string of foolish questions, but it’s certainly not a full page of sheet music. It’s scrawled in fountain pen on tattered music paper, and it’s more complicated than anything she’d played before. Not that that’s saying much.
She scans it visually. A, B, G-A, B-C, D… it goes on for measure after measure, line after line. She counts thirty-seven, and then she asks.
“What… is this?”
The answer to the question is obvious. It’s music, of course.
“It’s an étude. It’s Bach.”
“A, um—sorry, could you repeat that?”
“They’re made to teach. This one is short,” he says. She’s not sure that she believes him, but there’s nothing to contradict that, so she goes with it.
“How do I even… start, on something like this?” Violetta asks. Burke hands her the violin, and once her fingers are tight enough around the neck, he lets go.
“Play the first two measures.” He instructs her plainly, but she hesitates.
“I… um, don’t know if I can do it quickly.” She looks at the instrument in her hands, moves her head to the chinrest. She still doesn’t understand just how he manages to look so calm when he does this. Something in her chest feels wrong all over again. “I’m—I’m sorry. Maybe we should go back to scales.”
He doesn’t accept her apology. He doesn’t even tell her not to apologize. Instead, he says something that means even more.
“What are you trying to prove?”
She realizes that she doesn’t know the answer. Nobody was watching but him—and, for all of his stubbornness, and despite his general judgmental air, it never really felt like he was judging her. After this long, it barely even feels like he minds her company.
She knows her fantasies well. The audience in her dreams would be transfixed when she spoke in verse, laugh when she told a joke, cry when the tragedy she wove unfolded… but even when her dreams fade away, she’s still performing for another illusion. If those imaginary onlookers she always considered before she did anything would never love her no matter what… then what is she trying to prove to them?
“I don’t know. I think…” She tries to think of something she can say that makes sense to her aching heart. “I think I’d just like to know that I can do it.”
“I see,” he says, seeming unconvinced—but either way, he sits down, and then gestures to the music. “That’s as good a reason as any. Then there’s only one way to find out.”
It stings, but he’s right. Violetta takes a deep breath. She holds the bow tightly in curled fingers, lifts it to the A string, and plays.
. . .
One day, Violetta returns to her room after a short evening of practice. It’s there that she finds herself humming the tune of the étude, as she places the finishing touches on a scarf. The notes come naturally to her now, from her fingertips almost as easily as from her lips. On the next day, she returns downstairs at midnight, a bag slung across her shoulder.
An étude is only a teaching piece, and she knows it. It’s only a minute long, and would never be fit for a performance on its own, but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to make money, now, doesn’t need to attract an audience—so she plays it anyway, and lets herself be captivated by the moment in a hidden room underground. That thought makes something stir in her. There’s nothing new to abandon her for. She doesn’t need to feel inferior.
No, that’s not all. She doesn’t want to feel inferior anymore, either.
Burke’s violin is old and out of tune, and she plays it slowly. She knows her arms may never be able to play grand, complicated compositions. Right now, she doesn’t mind. She hopes there comes a day where she never minds again.
The notes she plays tend a bit too sharp, but they feel just as welcoming in her ears. The light hits the violin and her arm on the bow just right, and it’s like they’re glowing. She can feel Burke’s approving gaze, but she isn’t watching for it anymore. She knows now, as she so often does, what she’s really looking for. The music she plays in the old laboratory is like home—and, all along, that’s been a dream she never thought she’d reach.
Soon, the song is over. She sets the bow down, looks over at Burke trying to suppress a smile—and there’s that sense of pride again, creeping from her chest to her head, bringing a grin to her face. It’s not so unfamiliar now.