The Ghost Sonata (19 page)

The Five of Swords

 

Julian took Gilda's hands and gazed into her eyes. “Stay with me,” he said. “Stay with me here in England. Don't go back to that gormless country where nobody could ever understand or appreciate you. Stay here.”

I can't believe I'm here
, Gilda thought.
Here I am, sitting in a boat and punting down the River Thames with Julian!

Julian suddenly seized her hands, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her fiercely on the lips, causing the two of them to lose their balance and topple into the icy water. They gasped for air, splashed each other, and then drew close in another eager embrace.

“Don't you know that water's narsty?!” a plump, scruffy-looking boy yelled to them from the shore. “You lot will get rat syphilis in that river!”

Gilda felt a wave of revulsion when she realized that Mrs. Luard's son, Danny, had been watching them the entire time.

The hysterical buzzing of an alarm clock jolted Gilda awake. She slammed her fist down, attempting to turn it off, but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor, where the clock buzzed even louder.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Gilda finally managed to silence the alarm. She shivered under the covers, not wanting to face the cold, damp chill of the morning air. Then she remembered that today was the sight-reading competition—the day when she would actually share the spotlight onstage with Wendy.

The idea of being scrutinized by the audience in the Holywell Music Room—and possibly by Julian—motivated Gilda to spring out of bed and splash water on her face. After all, she would need enough time to select the perfect outfit. She also had to make sure that Wendy didn't oversleep again.

Hearing someone in the hallway, Gilda peeked through the doorway and was relieved to see Wendy exiting the bathroom with wet hair and strawberry shampoo in hand.

Gilda gave Wendy a thumbs-up sign. “You got up in time for your ritual!”

“Shh! I don't want everybody knowing about that.”

“We're gonna blow everybody out of the water today, Wendy.”

“Just get dressed, okay?”

Gilda returned to her room and decided to wear her “tainted royalty” outfit—a Queen Elizabeth-inspired monochromatic dress and jacket that she dressed up with white gloves, a long strand of fake pearls, a felt hat, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. She decided she would also wear her giant fake-diamond cocktail ring over the gloves to add some flair to her page-turning.

Heading toward the communal bathroom, Gilda encountered Ming Fong, who emerged from her room wearing a dress every bit as frilly and Victorian as the one she had worn for her first performance. She wore lacy tights and Mary Jane shoes, and carried her music in a tote bag printed with the business name HAPPY NAILS!

“Gilda!” Ming Fong stage-whispered. “I got one, too!”

“You got one what?”

Ming Fong pulled something from her Happy Nails tote bag and waved it in the air. “See?” She handed Gilda a tarot card—the Five of Swords. The card depicted a blood-red sky with one bright sword pointing toward the heavens and four swords pointing downward, toward ominous clouds below. There was a single word printed on the card: LOSS.

The card was nearly as disturbing as the Nine of Swords that Wendy had received, but Gilda couldn't help regarding Ming Fong warily.
Did Ming Fong plant this on herself to make me less suspicious?
Ming Fong certainly didn't seem upset to receive the card; she seemed almost happy to find it.

“Someone wants me to lose,” Ming Fong declared brightly.

“That could be true,” said Gilda. “But I think the Five of Swords can also mean you're going to lose some illusion about yourself.”

“Someone wants me to work less hard,” Ming Fong insisted. “Give up and lose competition.”

Gilda had to admit this was possible.
Is there someone sneaking around who wants to sabotage both Wendy and Ming Fong? Or is this yet more evidence of a weird haunting—a ghost that tries to communicate using tarot cards?

“Ming Fong, do you have any idea who might have given this to you?” Gilda thought for a moment. “Do you think it could be Gary?”

Ming Fong wrinkled her nose and shook her head as if this idea didn't appeal to her at all. “No, no. Cards left by somebody very
jealous
,” she said brightly. “Maybe Wendy?”

“Look, Ming Fong, Wendy didn't do this. For one thing, she isn't jealous of you, and for another thing, she doesn't waste her time trying to play mind games with other musicians in the competition.”

Ming Fong peered at Gilda slyly. “Maybe
you
? You know all about cards.”

Gilda was surprised at Ming Fong's ability to turn the tables on her. She had to admit Ming Fong had a good point: her own interest in tarot card readings would make her a very likely suspect. “Good try, but it wasn't me.”

“Not me either.”

Gilda sighed. “Then would you mind if I took a quick look in your room? I just want to see if whoever left this for you also left any clues behind.” Secretly, Gilda wanted to check for evidence that Ming Fong herself was the culprit.

“I must practice now.”

“It'll just take a minute.”

“You need a shower.”

“That can wait, too.” Before Ming Fong could protest further, Gilda breezed into a tiny room that looked almost identical to her own: the main difference was that Ming Fong's bed was neatly made, and no clothes, books, shoes, or teacups were strewn about. Gilda peered into a red bucket that contained Ming Fong's toothbrush, toothpaste, and shampoo—a functional bucket completely devoid of frivolous toiletries like hair-brushes, lip gloss, or perfume. Ming Fong's suitcase was propped open next to her bed, and inside Gilda saw another neatly folded frilly dress, probably the one she hoped to wear in the next round of the competition.

“I like your dresses,” Gilda lied. “Where do you do your shopping?”

Ming Fong shrugged. “My mom goes shopping.”

I bet her mom forces her to wear those dresses
, Gilda thought.

Gilda surveyed the room, boldly peeking into drawers and under Ming Fong's bed as Ming Fong tapped her foot and shifted her tote bag from one arm to the other, clearly wishing that Gilda would leave.

Just as Gilda was about to give up, she slyly peeked inside the drawer of Ming Fong's writing table and noticed something interesting—a small, framed photograph of a handsome Asian boy with short, spiky hair. The boy looked much older than Ming Fong—possibly in his late teens or early twenties. Next to the photograph was a red silk flower that matched the flower Ming Fong wore in her hair.

“Who's in the picture?” Gilda tried to sound nonchalant, but she was burning with curiosity. Something seemed very special and significant about both the picture and the flower. Did Ming Fong have a secret boyfriend, or was this just someone for whom she harbored a crush?

Ming Fong's face reddened. “Lang Lang, of course.” A note of contempt entered her voice, as if failing to recognize Lang Lang was a sign of complete idiocy. “Best and most youngest pianist in the world.”

Now Gilda vaguely remembered hearing Wendy mention something about the concert pianist Lang Lang:
“My father's dream is that I'll become the next Lang Lang,”
or something like that.

“Why do you have his picture?”

“For good luck.”

“Does it work?”

Ming Fong nodded. “Always works.” Ming Fong shifted her Happy Nails tote bag uncomfortably. Gilda squinted at the bag, suddenly wanting to seize it and rummage through the contents. What if Ming Fong was hiding some important evidence in there with her music?

“I must practice,” said Ming Fong. Before Gilda could question her further, she hurried through her bedroom door, then down the hallway. “Bye, Gilda!” she sang. “Good luck!”

Gilda glanced at her watch and realized she had better hurry, too. She had only a few minutes to get ready, and Wendy needed to get to the Holywell Music Room on time.

24

An Icy Message

 

Gilda burst into Wendy's room and found her best friend perched on her bed, staring at something in the window. She didn't even turn to greet Gilda.

“Hey, Wendy—what are you doing?”

“Just look.”

Then Gilda saw what transfixed Wendy—an intricate design of sparkling white frost coated the windowpane.

“Hey, the temperature must have really dropped last night!” Moving closer to the window, Gilda noticed something else—the reason Wendy seemed almost hypnotized. Etched in hoarfrost in a corner of the glass pane was a distinct shape—
the number nine.

“Do you
see
it?”

Gilda scrutinized the crystalline pattern of the 9, which struck her as a uniquely miraculous—or ominous—fluke of nature.

“What are the chances that the frost would form this specific design on my window?”

“Very unlikely, I think.” Gilda sat next to Wendy and stared at the window. The delicate nine certainly didn't appear to be the work of a person tracing a shape with a finger or a stick.
Besides
, Gilda thought,
the frost is outside the window, and this room is at the top floor. Somebody would have to climb up there with a fire-man's ladder to write this in the window on purpose.

“I feel like it's a message someone left on purpose,” said Wendy. “And to be honest, it's really freaking me out.”

Gilda hated to admit it, but she felt scared, too. There was something far too ominous and inexplicable about the number nine in the window. “Wendy,” she said, “remember how I told you I was going to meet that expert on tarot cards and stuff like that?”

“Gilda—I'm the one who covered for you, remember? Mrs. Mendelovich was wondering what you were doing at dinner-time yesterday. Don't tell me this tarot card expert is your new boyfriend.”

“Oh, please. His underwear was over his pants and he was practically wearing his lunch. Not to mention the fact that he was about sixty years old.”

“Sounds like your type.”

“As I was
saying
, this professor told me that the Nine of Swords you received—and the number nine in general—could mean you're supposed to ‘look for something that's hidden.'” Gilda paused. “He also said it's possible you're becoming clairaudient. I mean, he wasn't sure, but he said it could be a possibility.”

“It means you might be able to hear ghosts talking to you—or you might hear things that happened in the past.”

“I know what clairaudient means, Gilda, and I'm
not
clairaudient—much as you'd like to believe that.”

“But the music you keep hearing and everything—”

“I'm a pianist, not a kooky psychic.”

“But are you a kooky monster?”

“That was the dumbest joke you've ever made.”

“Well, suggesting that all psychics are ‘kooky' was one of the dumbest things you've ever said to me.”

“I'm sorry, Gilda, but I have to get my act together, and worrying about being clairaudient is not helping me right now. I have a competition this morning, remember?”

“Fine.
You
were the one sitting here staring at the number nine, telling me you feel like you're receiving some kind of message. If you don't want my help, just say so.”

Wendy stood up, smoothed her skirt, and grabbed her coat and mittens. She
did
want Gilda's help, but she hated being in the position of needing it. She hated feeling afraid of something she couldn't understand, and at the moment, feeling snappish and irritated with Gilda somehow made her feel stronger. “Gilda, you can help me by walking fast in those high-heeled shoes.”

“I can sprint in these shoes if needed.”

“Then maybe we'll get to the Holywell Music Room on time for once.”

“If you can tear yourself away from this room we might.”

“Fine—I'm going.”

“Then go.”

As the girls left the room, they neglected to notice yet another clue: next to Wendy's bookshelf, a yellowed copy of
Alice in Wonderland
lay open on the ground.

25