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.
“This is the Pacific Coast Club,” he says, his tone not inviting any more questions. He pulls himself up to his full height. “Members only.”
The Pacific Coast Club. Doesn’t seem familiar. I know I’m taking my chances by asking, but at this point I don’t have a lot to lose. “Was it ever anything else? Was it called something different?”
“Before the great quake, it was one of the grandest private residences in all of San Francisco. The Sutter Mansion.”
I feel a sense of familiarity and know that’s it. In the memory I had of the ferry dock, Signore Luisotti mentioned a Signore Sutter. “Thanks.”
He pulls his head in the door and closes it with enough force that the sound is solid and final. The carriages and finely dressed people on the steps are gone, replaced by speeding cars and a homeless guy pushing a loaded shopping cart slowly down the sidewalk. I turn and start down the steps, putting my hand on the rough stone railing for balance.
The wind is blowing hard this high above the city. All around us, the sky glows orange from the setting sun, but my eyes are riveted to a tiny figure sprawled on the ground several stories below. Her arms and legs are bent at unnatural angles, and even from here I can see the dark pool spreading out underneath her across the hard stone walkway.
The rushing in my ears seems to block the sound of my own voice. I know I am screaming, but it feels as if nothing is coming out. I lean over the side as far as I dare, hoping against hope that she will move or twitch—that she will just get up and tell us that this is all a terrible mistake. The wind seems to steal the sound as I scream her name over and over.
“Alessandra!”
I feel Rayne shaking my shoulder as I pull myself back into reality. I’m sitting on the steps about halfway to the sidewalk. My eyes are wet with tears, and my throat feels raw as I remember the last thing I saw in that memory. Alessandra died that day, right here at the mansion. Did I have something to do with it?
“Cole! What’s wrong?” Rayne’s face is full of confusion and concern.
“I’m fine,” I say, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt off my jeans. I wonder what this must look like to her, and I hope to God I wasn’t actually screaming out loud. “Just slipped.” I push past her and walk down the rest of the steps to the relative safety of the sidewalk.
Rayne walks beside me in silence until we reach the corner, but all I can focus on is the image of Alessandra lying dead on the pavement. The air between us feels thick with everything she wants to say, and knowing Rayne, she’s not going to keep quiet for long.
“What the hell was that all about?” she finally asks. “And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because I’m not stupid. Mom says that I have a gift for reading people, and what I just read over there was definitely something.”
I walk just ahead of her so she can’t see my face. My mind is whirling with thoughts of Alessandra. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” I say, not sure I’m actually going to tell her any of it. There’s no way I would give anyone else even a glimpse of the insanity I’ve been sucked into, but this is Rayne, after all—the girl who believes in spirit stones and destiny.
“Promise,” she says, her mood suddenly solemn.
“I think I’m remembering things,” I say. “Things from…” I stop here, not able to say the next part.
“Things like what?” she prompts. “Come on, Cole, spill.”
“This is going to sound nuts,” I say. I exhale. “Things from other lifetimes.”
Rayne whistles. “You mean like spirits? Were you guided there by some kind of spirit? Is that why you look like you saw a ghost when you were talking to that guy?”
“Not like spirits,” I say. “More like my own past lives.” The words hang between us as I look up to meet her eyes.
She stares at me for a moment before leaning in to give me a huge hug. “Whoo hoo!” she says. “I cannot believe the words I just heard come out of your mouth!” She takes a step back. “This has something to do with Griffon, doesn’t it? I remember you saying he’s into reincarnation.” She pokes me in the arm. “But you said you thought he was crazy.”
“I know what I said. And it does sound crazy. But even crazier things have been happening lately, and I … I
