Rayne grumbles but follows me down the crowded sidewalk, bumping shoulders with people as they hurry past. I’ve always liked this part of Market Street—even though the contents of the buildings have changed, the outsides look the same as they have for the past hundred years.
After a quick stop in the food hall of the City Center, we push through the crowds back outside, licking the remains of the cream puffs off our fingers. “Now what?” Rayne asks, looking up and down the busy street.
As we stand surrounded by tall buildings, I start to feel a tug inside. Not as strong as the visions that I’ve been having, but a feeling that I’m close to something important. The feeling like I have to go and find something. I’ve had these feelings before, but have always shrugged them off. Maybe all along I’ve been getting clues to who I’ve been—and maybe who I’m going to be. “Feel like walking?” I ask Rayne, both excited and horrified by what we might find. At least if I pass out again, she’ll be there to help.
“Depends,” she says, watching me carefully. “Where to?”
“Not sure yet.” As an experiment, I try to shut down all of my logical thought and let my emotions guide me. I stop on the corner before turning left and heading up Mason Street. Apparently my emotions are guiding me toward Nob Hill.
Rayne rushes to catch up. “Not sure yet, but you’re in a hurry to get there?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I have to go find something,” I say, consciously slowing my pace. “Only I don’t know what it is.”
“Okay, now you’re starting to weird me out,” she says.
“Welcome to the club.” I don’t say anything more, just try to focus on the feelings I’m having and the pull that I sense as I walk. I know that if I think about it too much, I’ll wreck it. The only sound is our breathing as we make our way to the top of the steep hill. As we get to the top, I see it, almost as if it has a big neon sign on it. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I’m sure I’ve found it.
“The Fairmont Hotel?” Rayne asks, looking at the international flags flapping above the awning of the huge old hotel. “My mom’s friend stayed here once.”
“No,” I say, looking across the street to the left. “That one.”
“What is it?” We join the crowd of people in the crosswalk as the little neon man counts down how much time we have to get across.
“No idea,” I reply. I feel calm and excited at the same time. This is definitely the place. Excitement gives way to familiarity as I stare at the steps that lead up to the big columns supporting the front of the large brown mansion.
“Fancy,” Rayne says, looking around. “You planning a wedding here or something?”
I shoot her a look. “Listen, if something weird happens, don’t freak out, okay? I’m fine … I’ll explain it later.” Before I can change my mind, I put my foot on the bottom step and slowly make my way to the top. Images of men in top hats and ladies in sweeping gowns flash through my head. And music—cello music. I remember carriages pulling up to these very steps, and well-dressed people greeting each other as they approach the mansion.
I stand at the top of the steps, nervously watching the fine ladies embrace each other as if they haven’t met in years. The men stand slightly behind the women, nodding to each other and tipping their hats, the smoke from their obscenely fat cigars circling above their heads in the late afternoon light.
Staring at the finery, I look down at my own borrowed clothing—the unfamiliar dress is itchy on my legs, and the new heels hurt my feet already. I told Signore Luisotti that these aren’t clothes for playing cello, but he insisted that it is important to look the part if we are going to impress the best of the best in San Francisco. We’ve gone over the details a hundred times.
I watch from the side as Signore Barone greets the partygoers as if this is his house, the ice cubes clinking in his drink as he gestures wildly. It seems as though his role in the troupe has expanded from just chaperone to business partner, setting up concerts and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous of whatever city we land in. Smiles flash on the guests’ faces, and once again I wish I could understand what is being said. Every now and then someone glances at me and I try to smile back, but I know that it might lead to a conversation, and I’m embarrassed that I only know enough English to order water and ask for the bathroom.
I wander down the main hall, back to where it is quieter. Signore Luisotti wants us to mingle with the guests, but while playing the cello is a pleasure, talking to strangers is not. One of the heavy wooden doors is open a crack, and I slow as I hear familiar voices on the other side.
“… soon,” says Signore Luisotti. “Look at the girl, she is practically a woman. Already tonight one of the hosts asked me how old she is. How much longer can we dress Alessandra in full petticoats and long bows in order to have her pass as fifteen? She is every inch of nineteen, and it is starting to show.”
“With all due respect, Antonio,” says Signora Luisotti in even tones. “What are we supposed to do? Just turn the girl out of the troupe?”
I hear ice clink in a glass. “And why not? We can hardly call it the Young Masters Orchestra when one of the Young Masters must get her breasts bound before every concert in order to keep up appearances.”
I feel someone behind me and turn to see Alessandra standing in the hallway. One look at her face tells me that she’s heard them too. She turns to walk away, her shoulders rounded and her head down. I rush to catch up.
“They didn’t mean any of that!” I say. I place a hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t turn to face me. “You are the best musician in the entire troupe. They would never be able to tour without you.”
Alessandra finally turns to face me, the remains of tears shining in her eyes. “You’re kind. But we both know the truth.” She runs a finger over the bow in her hair, an accessory that I’ve never thought about before, but does make her seem absurdly young. “I can’t continue here much longer. All of us have a limited lifespan as a Young Master, and mine is almost up.”
“Nonsense!” I cry, pushing the Luisottis’s words out of my head. “Besides, Paolo would never stay without you.” I see her eyes lift at the mention of his name. “And neither would I. If you leave, you take half the troupe with you. Signore would be left with a few viola players and a second-rate bassist.”
Alessandra smiles at that. She puts her hand on my cheek. “So nice of you to say,” she says, sadness still lingering in her eyes. “And so untrue. I’ve had my turn, and it’s almost time for me to move on. It’s the natural order of things.”
I fall forward and embrace her, the clean smell of soap washing over me as I bury my head into her shoulder and she tightens her arms around me. I haven’t been held like this since I said goodbye to my mother at the train station so long ago, and the sensation of her touch brings tears to my eyes.
I can feel my cheeks redden as I think over the past few months, the rehearsals, the choice of pieces to play, and the reality of her words begins to ring true. They haven’t brought me into the troupe to play with Alessandra. They’ve brought me here to replace her.
“May I help you?” A slightly angry man appears at the front door to the mansion.
“Oh, I, um, was just wondering what this building is,” I say, trying to pull myself out of the vision as quickly as possible. Strong feelings of dread and guilt have settled into my stomach.