Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,46

morning. I’m sure he’s willing to drive us back home, but the thought of Liam leaving without me makes my eyes burn.

Something slows my steps in front of the library, an unnatural awareness.

That’s where I find him, amid the dusty shelves and walnut study tables. He stands by the large globe that serves as the library’s centerpiece. It has three ornate iron feet to carry its weight, and two circumferences of wood that hold it in place. The surface of the water is smooth, and I know from memory, cool to the touch—made of stone, ironically. The land rises in uneven terrain, made from dark metal. He studies the staggering mass of North America, hands behind his back.

I come to him from behind. As far as I can tell, I haven’t made a sound, but he can sense my presence.

“Congratulations,” he says without turning.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling cautious. There’s a strange energy in the room, a kind of electric current, as if a thousand bolts of lightning spread out in infinite fractals, Liam at the center of the storm.

He reaches toward the globe. The blunt of his finger brushes Tanglewood, which is only a few hours from where we’re standing. And the place where the tour will begin. “In a few months you’ll be here. Practicing with Harry March. Performing in front of thousands of people.”

My throat clenches around anxiety—and around grief. I’ll start my life in Tanglewood, but before that I’ll have to say goodbye to the one I have now. No matter where I go in the world, Liam will be here running North Security.

“Will you miss me?” I venture to ask.

He moves his finger up to New York City, where we’ll play Carnegie Hall, one of the most prestigious venues for classical music. Rumor is that a pedestrian on Fifty-seventh Street, Manhattan, stopped the violinist and composer Heifetz and inquired, Could you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?

Yes, said Heifetz. Practice!

The story has become part of the lore around Carnegie Hall—and around classical music itself. All that practice must have paid off, because I’m heading there. It will be the culmination of a dream.

And the end of a childhood marked by loneliness and tenuous hope.

Hope that came from Liam North.

“Miss you?” he says, almost tasting the words, as if they’re foreign to him. Maybe for a man like him they are foreign, the whole idea of needing someone else. Of longing for them. He’s so strong. So self-contained. Is that something I’ll find as I get older? Or is it unique to him, forever out of my reach?

His hand falls away, and I replace it with mine, touching New York City and then Boston and then Chicago. Vancouver and then Seattle. Los Angeles. That will be the last stop on the US tour.

I lift my finger so it hovers over the globe, the metal landscape apart from me.

Liam spins the globe lightly, until I’m holding my finger over Tokyo. The first stop on the Asia tour. Then there will be the European tour. And South America.

A major record label put together the tour. They’re going to record the first concert, the one in Tanglewood, and release it as an album titled Concerto. Its release will be staggered across the globe to coincide with our tour.

“I won’t miss you,” he says, his tone soft and final.

My breath catches. Don’t cry, I order myself. I swallow down the lump in my throat. Is there something wrong with me? Am I inherently unlovable? “I’ll miss you,” I say, not caring if it makes me weak.

“I can’t miss you,” he says, placing his hand over mine, moving our fingers back to the hill country of Texas, where Kingston nestles among the land and the lakes. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

“I’ll come back,” I promise, breathless. “After the tour. I’ll visit—”

“Do you want to kill me, Samantha?”

I break off, uncertain whether he wants me to leave or stay here forever. Not knowing whether he hates me or loves me. “I want to please you.”

“Then go away from here. Leave and don’t come back.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The most expensive opera costume of all time was worn by Adelina Patti at Covent Garden in 1895. It was worth £15 million.

SAMANTHA

A row of shops along South Congress carry only the unique and eclectic and antique. There’s a flower shop with a sofa and chair and coffee table molded from the ground and then grown over with super soft grass. An old record shop with cats