chapter 1

BACKSTAGE, EXCITED ENERGY ZIPS THROUGH the shadows and assembled performers. Whispered voices drift through the dark, punctuated by laughter and the occasional pluck of a string.

I stand off to one side, alone, my violin cradled in my arms. The rest of the orchestra is gathered about, waiting for our cue to take to the stage. Glancing down, I find the toe of my high heel tapping against the hardwood floor and immediately cease the nervous tick.

Where is she?

We're mere minutes away from entering the stage, but Eleanor, our concertmistress, still isn't here. It's unlike her not to be here on time, and as our musical director, Mr. Edrington, says, if you're not early, you're late. Eleanor is always early; so, where is she?

"Nora," someone whispers behind me, and I turn to find our general manager, Charlotte, sidling up beside me in the dark.

"Yes?"

"I just got a call. Eleanor can't make it," she whispers.

My heart stops for two reasons: something bad must've happened for Eleanor not to be here, and this means I'll have to take her place as the concertmistress.

Oh my god.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Her son's sick. They're taking him to Children's. Probably just that flu that's going around." She shakes her head, and her brow creases in annoyance. "We need you to take her spot. Do you know the solo?"

"Um..." My hundreds of hours of practice flash through my mind. Honestly, I could play the solo in my sleep while balancing on one foot, but for some reason, all that comes out of my mouth is a wavering, "Y-yeah, I can play it."

"You sure?" Charlotte's eyes narrow. She doesn't look convinced—not that I blame her. I've never played first chair before; at least, not with the Los Angeles Orchestra. I was concertmistress throughout high school and college, but everything changed when I got hired to play professionally.

I nod once, trying to look confident. "I'm sure."

"All right. We're two minutes out."

Charlotte says something into her earpiece, and her heels click across the floor as she walks away into the dark and ducks through a back curtain.

Oh my god.

Eleanor isn't here. I have to play first chair. I have to play the solo, and lead the orchestra, and —

"Sixty seconds," the stage director whispers. There's a rustle of skirts and fabric as the rest of the orchestra assembles in preparation.

As impromptu concertmistress, I'll enter the stage last, just before Mr. Edrington, and I'll tune the orchestra in. Everyone's eyes will be on me. What if I trip on my way in? Or my skirt gets caught on a chair? Or—

Onstage, we're introduced, and my fellow musicians begin to file through the curtain, their crisp black-and-white formal wear rustling and swishing as they move past me. I take a few slow, deep breaths, trying to calm the erratic beating of my heart. If my fingers are trembling, everyone will hear it when I play the first A. I need to calm down. This is what I want, what I've wanted since I joined the LA Orchestra fresh out of college, so why do I feel so absolutely terrified?

The last musician takes to the stage, and I close my eyes and draw in another deep breath, waiting for them all to be seated. Then I put on a smile, pull my shoulders back, and push through the curtain.

The stage lights are bright and warm, and though I look out into the crowd, it's hard to discern how full the auditorium is given how deeply cast in shadow they are. The orchestra looks to me, surprise on some of their faces, as I make my way across the stage, my heels clicking loudly. Standing before them, I take a second to calm myself. I catch a few gazes, and the musicians mostly smile or give me encouraging nods, which bolsters my courage as I lift my violin and slip it under my chin.

I can do this .

My gaze shifts to the lower strings—the basses and cellos—and I raise my bow to my violin. Once I have their undivided attention, I pull the bow across the A string, playing one crisp, perfectly tuned note. They follow suit, tuning off me as I play two more A's. We always tune in backstage, so this is mostly for show, but it's an important tradition—one I don't take lightly.

Finishing with the lower strings, I shift my gaze to the violas, second violins, and first violins. Again, I start with one clear A, then play two more as they tune off me.

When the strings all fall silent, I turn to the crowd, smile, and then retreat to my chair—the first chair—and take a seat.

So far, so good.

A moment later, Mr. Edrington sweeps across the stage, his coattails flapping energetically behind him. We all stand to welcome him amidst polite applause from the audience. Stepping up to his podium, he bows once to the crowd, then turns to face the orchestra, and his eyes find me. I hold his stare, and he gives me an almost-imperceptible nod. Having played in his ensemble for some three years now, I know that nod, and pride flutters inside me when I see it.

He's giving me his approval, and I won't let him down.

Tonight we're playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons concerto, a crowd favorite. Though there are a number of small solos throughout the pieces, Charlotte was referring to Winter when she asked if I could play the solo. It's a challenging, fast-paced movement within the last concerto, and I've been practicing it every day since we were first told we'd be performing it during our winter season .

Though I never expected to have to take Eleanor's place, I know I can play it just as well as she can.

I'm prepared. I can do this.

When it comes time to play Winter , my jitters are completely gone. This stage, these lights, these strings—this is my home, where I belong, where I can express myself in ways I could never hope to with words.

The first movement starts with the low strings, and I tighten my hand about my bow as their deep tones resonate across the stage and through the auditorium. The violas join in, followed by the second violins, and then the first violins.

My solo is moments away. Mr. Edrington's gaze falls on me, his expression stern, salt-and-pepper hair tousled from his expressive conducting. He takes a breath, and the other strings fall silent as I fly into the solo.

Fingers dancing across the strings, I close my eyes and let the music carry me. The notes ring through the auditorium, crisp and sharp and clear, and elation rises inside my chest. The strings engage in a back-and-forth, falling silent for my solos, then coming back in, the pace shifting from slow to fast and back again.

I don't even have to think as I play; music is my first language, and understanding its tongue has always come easy to me. It's human conversation I struggle with, the jokes that go over my head and the small talk that makes me feel like shriveling up in agony. But here, with my violin singing out its notes and my fingers moving effortlessly across the strings, I feel understood, accepted, part of something bigger .

I draw out the final note with a thick, beautiful vibrato. My eyes meet Mr. Edrington's, and as the piece fades into silence, a grin stretches across his usually stoic face. He gestures for me to stand and take a bow, and as I do, applause erupts. My smile is big and beaming as I take one more bow, and tears prick my eyes.

I did it.

"Great job, Nora."

"You were on fire tonight!"

"Beautiful solo."

The compliments fly at me from left and right, both from familiar faces and from members of the ensemble that I've barely spoken to before. I'm given handshakes and hugs, and Mr. Edrington puts a bouquet of roses into my arms when he finds me in the greenroom.

"Phenomenal. Flawless ." He leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and I have to blink the mist out of my eyes. "Brava, Ms. Miller."

"Thank you," I say, my voice small in the overwhelmingly loud space.

The other musicians are celebrating, laughing, and packing their instruments away. Bow ties hang loose from necks, and heels have been abandoned for bare feet. The greenroom is raucous and lively, and before I can say anything else to our director, Charlotte sweeps in and pulls him away.

"Well done, Nora," she says over her shoulder as she goes, and I give her a small smile.

"Drinks at the Rog?" one of the cellists says, and a chorus of approval goes up around him .

Though my fellow musicians smile and offer parting compliments as they leave, they don't extend an invitation. But I'm not surprised. I've declined so many offers for after-show drinks that they don't bother inviting me anymore.

It's not that I don't want to know them; it's that I get anxious in big groups. Playing a Vivaldi solo is one thing, but exchanging lighthearted banter with my peers is something completely different and way more terrifying.

So, instead of going out for drinks with the others, I take the bouquet and head home alone.

It's a cool January evening, and I drive through Los Angeles with the window down. Winters here are nothing like winters at home. Having grown in up Denver, I'm used to ice and snow and white Christmases; moving here was a shock to my system. But it's been three years, and LA is starting to feel friendlier, if not yet like home.

My condo is just outside the city. My parents and I split the down payment when I first moved here; Dad said I didn't need to throw my money away in rent. I smile as I think about him. I was home for Christmas and New Year's, and it's a bit lonely now, being back in the city, where everything moves so fast that it makes me feel slow.

I pull up to my condo and park my 2013 Honda Civic in the one-car garage. Then I lug my violin case, bouquet, and garment bag up the stairs and into the house. As soon as the door closes, peace settles over me. I left my rock salt lamp on before I left, so it now casts a warm orange glow across my small living room and kitchen.

A tinkling bell sounds from the bedroom, and a moment later, Margot comes strutting into the kitchen, her sleek black coat gleaming in the low light. I set everything on the floor, then scoop her into my arms and bury my face in her soft fur.

"I missed you," I say. In response, she rubs her cheek against mine and purrs into my ear. "How about dinner?"

After feeding Margot and calling my parents to tell them about my performance (Dad was so proud he actually got choked up on the call), I pull leftover lettuce wraps out of the fridge and settle down on my couch.

I've been hooked on playing Legend of Volthorn , a new open-world RPG that came out just in time for Christmas, and it's pretty much all I do when I'm not rehearsing, performing, or sleeping.

A sense of calm washes over me as I grab the controller and power up the PS5. Margot hops up beside me and sniffs one of my lettuce wraps before turning her nose up at it and going to lie down on the fluffy orange pillow at the other end of the couch.

"Suit yourself," I say, then take a bite while pulling Tribe up on my phone. Pictures of my peers out for drinks, laughing and smiling and hugging, appear in my feed, and my brow creases as I scroll through them.

They all look so happy, so comfortable, so carefree . I'm not sure that could ever be me. I'm too anxious, too quiet, too... me .

Locking my phone, I toss it onto the coffee table, then prop my feet up, take another bite of lettuce wrap, and settle in for a full night of gaming.