Page 63

- Chapter Twenty -

Amina

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Isang until my lungsbegan to ache. It was a good pain, a glorious pain. I could have kept going until the sun set and rose again, but one glance at the clock, and I knew it was time to take a break.How did two hours pass by?

Wondering if Bach was getting bored, I looked at him through the glass. His eyes were wide blackholes, ready to suck me in. I’d tried to ignore him as I worked because he was powerfully distracting. That meant I hadn’t realized until now how enraptured he was in my performance. I caught it—that look of awe—before he turned his mask on, waving me out of the booth.

Slipping the headphones off, I hung them on the mic stand. One of the windows in the main studio was cracked, letting the air conditioning out and citrus scent in. “How was I?” I asked, reaching for the water bottle he offered me.

Bach narrowed his eyes with a smirk. “You saw my face. You know you’re good, no need to be modest.”

Looking down at the water bottle, I smiled shyly. His compliment didn’t go unnoticed. “Thanks. It felt great to just get that out of me.”

“Is that how it feels for you? Like the music is balled up inside, and it has to come out?”

I choked on my water. Bach patted me lightly on the back until I waved him off. “Sorry, I’m fine. That just surprised me.” Drying my mouth with my forearm, I sat down across from him in one of the wheeled chairs. “Music is a release for me. It’s always been this... this energy that grows, and sometimes, I think if I don’t sing, I’ll split apart at my corners and I’ll never be able to put myself back together.”

He was absorbing everything I said. “Amazing,” he whispered.

“What about you?” I asked gently.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you feel the same way? Like the music will break you apart if you don’t use it first?”

Bach’s nostrils flared, his frown hardening. “No.”

I leaned closer, my hands pressing on the chair between my thighs. “Then what’s it like for you? Sorry, I’m being nosy, I’m just crazy curious to know how it is for another musician.”

He drained his water. “There’s nothing to know about it. I have no musical skill.”

My feet came down hard, causing the chair to roll back a foot. “But your father is Laurence Devine! He must have taught you all sorts of things!”

“He did.” Bach lifted his chin so I could see his sour smile. “Dad tried a hundred times to teach me to play an instrument, or to sing, but I never had any talent. Putting all that energy into me was a waste of time, even if he never admitted it.”