Transcendence

“Yeah,” Kat says, “like who?”

Griffon starts naming all of the celebrities that he’s seen at the Tower, starting off with a funny story about a famous heiress who insisted on trying to buy one of the pieces in the Crown Jewels collection and almost causing an international incident. Giacomo participates in the lively conversation in his halting English, but through it all Veronique remains unusually quiet, sitting across from me with her hands in her lap. Her eyes seem to focus on the conversation, but I can tell that her thoughts are elsewhere.

After dinner, Mom shoos us all into the living room for dessert. I sit next to Veronique on the wide couch, while Griffon takes his place in the chair by the fireplace. Although he looks relaxed, I can tell that he’s watching us carefully. It’s impossible to know if he’s gotten any information from her, but he looks determined not to leave the two of us on our own.

“Has Veronique played the piano for you?” Giacomo leans over to ask me.

I look at Veronique, surprised. “No. I didn’t know you played.”

She shrugs. “I play a bit,” she says. She looks over at Giacomo like she’s going to kill him for bringing it up.

Giacomo snorts, either ignoring her or not seeing it at all. “More than, how do you say, ‘a bit.’ Go on,” he encourages her.

“Oh, you must,” Mom says, sticking her head in the room to get a coffee count. “Our piano is pretty lonely these days.”

“If you insist,” Veronique says, uncharacteristically shy. She perches on the piano bench and rubs her hands on her pants. As she exhales, she brings her hands down, and I recognize the opening bars of Meditation. My glance darts from her closed eyes to her hands as they flex and bend in a way that’s natural and at the same time otherworldly. She plays the whole piece flawlessly, with more passion and emotion than even Julie did, her adagio section barely more than a fluttering whisper of the keys. As she finishes, she puts her hands back on her knees and looks embarrassed at our applause.

“You play a little,” I repeat, amazed and a little irritated that she hasn’t told me that she’s some sort of piano genius before now. “And I play a little cello.” Here I’ve been teaching her the basics like she didn’t have a clue about music, and all along she could have been the one up on stage at the conservatory. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not embarrassing,” Veronique insists, coming back to sit next to me. “Okay, so I know how to play piano. I can’t play the cello at all. At least I couldn’t until I started taking lessons with you.” She looks down at the black splint. “How’s the arm? Did they say you can play again soon?”

“It’s getting there,” I say. Without thinking I rub my thumb against my tingling fingers, my mind flashing back to holding the cello earlier. “But they say that it might take a long time to get the feeling back in my fingers.” If it ever comes back, I think, not able to say the words out loud. The black splint hides all but a few inches of the scar, and I see her eyes dart involuntarily to it as I speak. Is there a little bit of guilt in that glance?

“The important thing is that Cole came out of it in one piece,” Dad says, standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks to you.” He nods at Veronique. “If you hadn’t been there to help, it could have ended very differently.”

I can see a slight scowl on Griffon’s face as Dad speaks, but I turn my full attention on Veronique. “He’s right,” I say.

“Well, it’s not like I was going to let you bleed to death,” Veronique says with a small smile. “I prepaid for this month’s lessons, and I need to get my money’s worth.” She puts her arm around me and gives my shoulders a quick squeeze. I focus on where she’s touching me and feel faint Akhet vibrations. As casually as I can, I look up at her face, scanning her eyes to try to see Alessandra in them, trying to see the essence of the girl I knew back then, but I get nothing. I suddenly want to tell her everything I know about Alessandra and what happened on the roof that night. That it wasn’t me who pushed her off, that I would never do something like that. That I know we were friends and that I’d never try to take Paolo away from her. I want that connection again, to pick up the pieces of our old friendship that was cut short the last time. I feel like I’m surrounded by memories of Alessandra as the rest of the room grows distant.

The police wagon is waiting at the foot of the grand stone staircase as I’m pulled quickly through the front doors, the elegant guests quiet as they watch me struggle against the policemen’s strong arms. The horses whinny and stamp at the ground, eager to be on their way.

“Wait! Please!” I cry. “This isn’t right!” I feel like I’m in a nightmare and can’t wake up.

There is a shout in Italian as I’m led down the stairs. “Stop!”

I turn, almost collapsing with relief. Someone heard me. Someone will understand. Paolo is rushing down the stairs after us, his gleaming dress shoes barely touching each step.

His eyes are wet with tears as he stops in front of me. “What happened?” he shouts, just inches from my face. “Were you so jealous of her perfection?”

My heart skips a beat. He doesn’t believe me. I’m completely and totally alone. “I didn’t do anything! I’d never hurt Alessandra.”

Tears spill down his cheeks as he shakes his head in disbelief. “She loved you like a sister. Alessandra was the most perfect creature. And you destroyed her.”

The policemen say something I don’t understand and pull me toward the open back doors of the wagon. My legs refuse to carry me another step, so they lift me roughly and deposit me on one of the wooden benches lining the sides.

Paolo grips the edge of the open window and looks up at me with hatred in his eyes. “All I want to know is, why? Why would you do such a thing?”

I turn toward him, desperate for the words that will make him believe me. “I didn’t. You have to believe me.”

The wagon rocks as the policemen mount the front bench and the wheels jerk to life as the horses surge forward. Paolo stands at the bottom of the steps, hands at his sides, staring at me as the wagon races to our unknown destination, his figure getting smaller and smaller until we turn the corner and he’s finally out of sight.

Giacomo leans over toward Veronique. “You should tell them that you trained to be a doctor before you went into research.”

His words bring me back to the present, to the Veronique and Cole of the now instead of the Alessandra and Clarissa from before. I realize I have no idea what we’re talking about. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Giacomo looks shocked as I speak, but a small smile appears on Veronique’s lips.

“I was just saying that Veronique studied to be a doctor. That’s how she knew what to do with all of that blood,” Giacomo repeats.

“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” I say, making a small attempt to pick up the conversation. I can still picture the hurt in Paolo’s eyes.

“I didn’t finish,” she says slowly. “Not the medical part, anyway. I’m in research now.”

“Still,” I say, trying to shake off the memory. “The sight of blood would make most people run screaming out of the room instead of jumping in and doing what you did.” I hesitate but lean toward her. “Listen, there are some things I want to talk to you about. Can you meet me tomorrow?”

“Nicole?” Dad is looking at me in alarm. “When did you learn Italian?”

I stare at him. What a random thing to say. “What are you talking about?”

“Italian,” he says, his eyes concerned. “You’re sitting there speaking flawless Italian with Veronique and Giacomo.”

The room gets quiet as everyone seems to lean toward me. I search my brain for a rational-sounding answer, still not at all sure what happened. “We’re learning it in school,” I say quickly. “Enrichment classes.”

Kat glances over at me. “I thought you were failing Spanish,” she says. “Again.”

“Well,” I laugh, which sounds fake and forced even to me, “Spanish and Italian are really close—”

“And she’s been studying with me,” Griffon breaks in. “I’m planning on taking a year abroad in Italy, so Cole’s been helping me work on my languages.”

“Your accent is perfect,” Veronique says. Her voice is steady, but she’s looking at me intensely. “Almost as if