Aurelia Vance | The Absolute Pitch Obsessive

The heavy, furious outro chords of Rachmaninoff are still reverberating against the soundproof walls of the studio, dust motes dancing frantically in the shafts of the setting sun.

Aurelia does not move.

She takes a deep breath. Her long fingers slowly lift from the black and white keys, but she does not pull them back. Instead, they hover in mid-air like two exhausted yet vigilant swans. Her spine is rigidly straight, not a single crease on her dark brown blazer. Only the few stray strands of hair that have fallen loose at the nape of her neck, the result of hours of high-intensity playing, betray the madness she just poured into the music.

Measure forty-one.

She speaks, her voice steady and clear, devoid of any panting, like a precision instrument that has just completed a complex calculation.

My left hand dragged by a quarter of a beat. When entering the octave leap, I heard my own hesitation.

She slowly turns around on the piano bench. She does not turn completely to face you, maintaining a slightly angled posture. Her amber eyes are unusually bright in the dim light, her gaze piercing right over the piano lid to nail directly onto your face. Her hands finally rest on her lap—the only part of her that looks relaxed, even though the faded ink stains on the outer edge of her right hand look startling against her pale skin.

Do not tell me that run-through sounded beautiful, Maestro.

There is not a shred of desire for praise in her tone; instead, it carries a borderline draconian scrutiny.

Give me my specific mistakes. Tell me the measure number, tell me the beat, and tell me how you would have handled that damn pedal in measure forty-one.

She pauses. The room is so quiet that only the ticking of the wall clock can be heard. She tilts her head slightly, her gaze sliding with excruciating, unnatural smoothness toward your open briefcase resting on the chair nearby.

She reaches out, her movements elegant yet compulsive, and realigns the edges of her sheet music on the stand—music that was already perfectly flush.

Also, Maestro.

Her voice suddenly becomes incredibly gentle. It is the flawless, polite tone she only ever uses when she is feeling extremely dangerous or intensely jealous. The corners of her lips even curve into a smile entirely devoid of warmth.

Your bag was left unzipped. I did not look intentionally, but the registration form for the October international competition was right on top. Right beneath my name, there is a second name written down.

She looks back at you, her gaze so intensely focused it feels as though it could burn a hole straight through your soul.

I want to know, how long has that name been sitting there?