“Put simply, I felt a limit I could never cross. They say artists aren’t made, they’re born. I thought that saying was coined with that guy in mind. There was a time when I believed I was one of the chosen ones, too.”

There was a time when I believed I was one of the chosen ones.

The subject was different, but the belief was the same. I found myself looking at him with a strange urgency. How had Astaire endured a betrayed belief and still stayed by that world’s side?

“But I understand you’re still making music, Mr. Werner.”

“Where else would a lifetime of learning go? If I go even a single day without playing piano, my hands itch so badly I can’t stand it. So I chose to accept my limits well enough and keep going.”

As he said it, he held up his hands. White, large hands. Unmistakably the hands of a musician.

I found myself suddenly curious about what my own hands looked like. I glanced down at the hands holding my teacup and noticed calluses scattered here and there, and fingers that had grown long. The marks of grueling practice.

“Now then. Your turn, Miss Astrid.”

His gaze landed on my hands, then moved back up to my face. I couldn’t bring myself to meet that gaze and dropped my eyes.

“There’s someone who comes to mind whenever I think of piano. I’ve resolved to forget that person, so I can’t play piano anymore.”

“Would that person be Sio Lieselotte?”

I didn’t bother answering, but I knew my silence would answer for me. At that quiet reply, Astaire let out a faint laugh. There was an unexpected relief mixed into it.

“I was surprised to find Miss Astrid more extreme than I anticipated, but at any rate, it isn’t that you’ve come to dislike piano itself. In that case, I think there might be another way to approach this.”

Astaire stroked his chin and fell into thought. He tilted his head and mulled it over for a long moment before rising from his seat. Thinking he was about to leave, I started to rise as well, and Astaire broke into a wide smile.

“In other words, if piano no longer makes you think of that person, there’s no problem at all, is there?”

Astaire walked past me as I stood there frowning at his incomprehensible words, and made his way to the piano. With each step he took toward it, my expression grew stiffer.

“Would you play something for me?”

Astaire lifted the piano lid.

When the white keys came into view, my brow furrowed, but Astaire paid no mind and pressed a few keys, checking the tuning. Notes drifted through the air in no particular order, following his hand.

“I believe I told you I’m done with piano.”

“If you play for me, I’ll quietly see myself out.”

It was a clever proposition. I held my tongue for a moment, then let out a small sigh.

“If you promise never to come here again, I’ll play.”

“Gladly, provided Miss Astrid’s mind doesn’t change.”

For me, desperate to get out of the salon, it was a deal I couldn’t refuse. I trudged over to the piano with barely concealed displeasure and sat down. The moment my hesitant hands touched the keys, Astaire lifted his fingers from them.

“If you would, please play the piece that reminds you of that person the most.”

The piece that reminded me of Sio the most was, without question, the nocturne. The first time I saw Sio, he was playing a nocturne, and so within me, the nocturne had become Sio entirely.

I bit down hard on my lip and forced my unmoving hands to move. A fast piece would have been impossible, but this was a slow piece to begin with, so I thought I could conceal the hesitation in my touch.

“The nocturne. That’s his signature piece.”

Astaire murmured quietly after hearing the halting opening.

Sio, as the exceptional musician he was, performed a wide range of pieces, but if asked to name his signature, people would name the nocturne without a second thought. A sorrow from deep within. A desperate longing to overcome that sorrow. A hope seized by that longing. People read those things in his playing.

Could I find those same things in this nocturne, then? I was sorrowful that my belief had been betrayed, and I desperately wanted to break free from that betrayal. I moved my hands, hoping that desperation would lead me toward hope.

But no matter how many keys I pressed, all that came back was the intensity Sio had left in me that day. The emotions he had shown through a handful of notes lingered inside me and circled around. Hair falling loose, graceful hands, eyes cast low. Throughout the playing, everything inside me was Sio. 

I felt tears coming.

At that moment, Astaire took hold of my chin and turned my face toward him. My eyes flew open in surprise, and Astaire’s face was right there before me. Before I could fully grasp the situation, his face drew closer. I pulled back in alarm, but he closed the distance just as fast as I retreated.

“Mr. Werner. What do you think you’re…”

The frantic words hadn’t even finished leaving my mouth before his lips sealed it shut. He pressed in through my parted lips. I tried to turn my head at the unfamiliar sensation entering my mouth, but the hand that had been at my chin moved to the back of my head and held me in place with ease.

When his sudden weight pressed forward and my body tilted back, his firm arm came up to support my back. The distance between us had closed considerably. Between his warmth against my entire body and the soft movement inside my mouth, I couldn’t collect my thoughts at all. I tried pushing against his chest with my one free hand, but he didn’t budge.

At some point the melody had stopped. The scene from that day, and Sio’s face, were gone. Only the unfamiliar sensations now pressing against me filled my mind. Through the gap between our lips came a wet sound and a faint m*an. At that sound, Astaire slowly drew his face back.

“See? Just now, even sitting at the piano, you didn’t think of him at all, did you?”

I needed to say something, but my voice wouldn’t come. Just as Astaire said, I hadn’t thought of Sio’s face at that moment. It was more accurate to say I had been too flustered to think of him, but either way, it was clear that Sio’s face had not been in my mind in that moment.

Astaire let out a quiet laugh watching me open and close my mouth blankly. His lips were still very close to mine, and the warmth of his breath tickled them, making me shiver. At that, Astaire laughed again.

“It’s endearing that Miss Astrid can’t tell a lie.”

Astaire’s hand released the back of my head. He carefully wiped the moisture from my lips with his thumb, then tidied my disheveled hair with equal care. When the arm supporting my back fell away, my body slumped weakly to one side. I pressed a hand to the armrest to barely keep my balance, and looked up at him with a dazed expression. He was wearing the most radiant smile.

“From now on, when you sit at the piano, it will be today that comes to mind first, not him. So there’s no reason for Miss Astrid to quit piano.”

“Now wait a moment. Mr. Werner.”

I called out to Astaire in bewilderment, but he was already standing well away from me.

“Please call me Astaire next time we meet. I personally prefer it. You seem rather shaken today, so I’ll take my leave. I do hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive the rudeness I committed.”

He said this and offered me a farewell bow.

The way knights used to, long ago: right hand placed over the heart, head bowing deeply.

It was a remarkably gentlemanly and proper bow, nothing like the rough kiss that had preceded it.

* * *

When Astaire came again a week later, he bowed his head with an infuriatingly composed expression. His manner was so matter-of-fact it made the entire past week I had spent agonizing over how to react feel utterly pointless.

The sight of that composed demeanor made me so furious I couldn’t help myself, and I kicked him squarely in the shin without a word. It was a kick he could easily have dodged, but Astaire didn’t dodge it. He simply rubbed the shin my shoe had struck and laughed with good humor.

‘The toe of that shoe was quite pointed. It must have hurt considerably.’

His composure in all things made it clear he was every bit the adult.

“I had rushed off precisely to avoid this.”

“Mr. Werner. Perhaps you could offer some explanation for what happened.”

Astaire limped toward me without losing his smile. His easy manner irritated me, and when I spoke firmly, the response I got back was entirely unexpected.

“It’s Astaire, Miss Danyu.”

“You’re more shameless than I expected.”

“I hear that often.”

Calling someone by their given name without permission, and a lady’s name at that. It was a rudeness that made a mockery of the refinement evident in his every action and manner of speech. He couldn’t possibly be unaware of that, yet Astaire was perfectly unruffled. He was determined to call me by my name, one way or another.

“Fine. Astaire, then. We’ll let the matter of names go. But I do need an explanation as to why you committed such rudeness.”