The Year of Shadows (23 page)

I clutched the ends of my jacket. “So. Let’s do this.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever counseling you think I need.”

“But, Olivia, what about your father?”

I was afraid this would happen. “What
about
him?”

“I think it will be much more effective if your father is here for these sessions. Don’t you?” Counselor Davis reached for a big binder behind his desk. “Why don’t we give him a call while I have you here?”

“No!” I slammed my hand down on the phone. It was just a reflex. Not like the Maestro would pick up the phone anyway. But someone in the Hall offices might.

Counselor Davis watched me calmly. “Why don’t you want to call him?”

Because I just want to get this over with.

Because he would have let the mail pile up until I got suspended.

Because . . .

“Because I want to just talk to you by myself first,” I said. “It’s less embarrassing.”

Counselor Davis smiled. “That makes sense.” He put the binder back. “How do you feel about your father, Olivia?”

I hate him. He made Mom leave, and now he won’t stop crying. Now he’s crazy and sees things that aren’t there. He loves the orchestra more than me. I wish he had left instead of her.
That’s what danced
between my teeth, waiting to be spit out. But I didn’t let it.

Instead, I said, “I love my father very much.”

That seemed to be the right thing to say. We talked for a while, about the Maestro and Nonnie and the orchestra, and my drawings, and Mark Everett. I don’t remember much, though. I just remember lying through my teeth about most of it.

When we’d finished, Counselor Davis gave me a green candy from the dish on his desk and said this was a good first session and that we would meet again soon. He would set up another appointment for me with his assistant.

On my way out, bursting with the need to scream, I squashed my candy against his door, leaving behind a splat of green goop.

T
HAT NIGHT, I
camped out in box number five on the dress circle level while the orchestra rehearsed for the upcoming holiday concerts. Ghosts floated throughout the Hall, some in seats to watch the rehearsal, some talking in groups, others drifting through the walls, disappearing and reappearing.

A group hovered a few rows away from Henry, who was, as usual, doing his homework in the floor seats. They were probably trying to suck up or something. No way was Henry’s homework that interesting.

Me, I had a stack of napkins and my charcoals.

Napkins were the new sketchpad.

“Humiliating,” I muttered to myself. “Real artists don’t draw on napkins.”

Igor plopped down on the floor beside me, batting at the napkins with his paw.
I know what will make you feel better. Petting me. Better yet, asking for permission to pet me.

I threw a napkin at Igor’s face.

He chased it under the seats.
Villain! Scoundrel! Fiend!

I smiled and returned to my sketch. We were scheduled for another sharing the day after Thanksgiving—Gregori Stevsky, ghost number fourteen—and I was determined to enjoy myself until then, even with the orchestra droning on below me. I mean, it takes serious talent to turn holiday music into something that sounded vaguely like a funeral march.

After about thirty minutes of this, the Maestro stopped and clapped his hands. “Stop!
What
are you doing?”

I crept to the railing on my stomach, looking through the posts for Richard Ashley.

“Do you want to lose everything? Do you
want
this place to close?” The Maestro’s voice tripped over itself. It reminded me of the sound of him crying through his bedroom door.

Richard raised his hand, and I perked up. Igor climbed onto my back.
Oh, is that your boyfriend?

“Shush.” I pushed him away. “It’s Richard Ashley.”

“Maestro,” Richard said, “this isn’t working.”

“You are saying something we already know, Mr. Ashley.”

“No, I mean, it’s not just us. Or you. It’s just, it’s
freezing
in here.”

The other musicians nodded. Some of them were shivering. Their breaths puffed tiny clouds.

My
breath was puffing tiny clouds.

I sat up. Igor slid off, grumbling. Henry was paying more attention now too. I hadn’t thought about this. With all the ghosts flying around lately, the temperature had
dropped. I was used to it, but the musicians wouldn’t be.

I waved my hands at the ghosts. “Get out of here!” I whispered. “Go hide somewhere until rehearsal ends!”

Some of them hurried away. Some just looked confused.

“I don’t care if it reaches arctic temperatures, you will
play
,” the Maestro was saying.

“But something’s not right,” said Erin Hatch, one of the oboists. “It doesn’t feel right in here. Can’t you feel that?”

The Maestro was dumbstruck. “Excuse me? Can’t I
feel
what?”

Right before I heard it, pain jolted across my burned hands and arm. I clamped down on a scream, and it’s a good thing I did, because if I’d been screaming, I wouldn’t have been able to hear the creaking sound in the ceiling right above my head.

I looked up.

Five shades gnawed on the ceiling, ramming themselves against the plaster.

Five shades reaching for me, shying away from me.

The ceiling right above me crashed to the floor.

I rolled away just in time, scooping Igor along with me. When I opened my eyes, I saw bits of broken ceiling to my left, dust wafting up from them.

The shades overhead scampered away, but one lingered above me, its face cocked to the side like a bird. It opened its mouth and groaned, this low, rumbling sound that made my ears hurt.

“Olivia!” someone shouted from below. I couldn’t tell who. The shade darted away across the ceiling. I used the box’s railing to pull myself up.

Igor wouldn’t move from my chest, his claws digging into me.
I’m not scared. I’m only pretending, to make you look better.

I watched the shades slink away into the shadows. Five this time. I’d never seen so many in one place. And that last shade . . . I could have sworn it was watching me. Trying to figure me out.

That couldn’t have been good.

The ghosts nearest the shades scattered away in terror, except for three of them. Three of them barreled out of the walls and right toward me.

“Olivia,” Jax cried, burrowing into my chest, right through Igor, who yowled but stayed put. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, we should never have left you!”

Tillie raced around the ceiling, putting up her fists. “Where are they, huh? I’ll punch ’em right in their slimy, shady, no-nose faces!”

Mr. Worthington slumped in a black puddle nearby, staring at me. He tried to smile, and it dripped all over the floor.

“You’re back,” I said, trying to hug Jax even though my arms kept falling through him. New ghosts? Shades? Crashing ceilings? Who cared about any of that? My ghosts were back.

“We had to come back,” Jax said. “We saw the ceiling, the shades . . . Are you okay? Did you get hit?”

“I’m okay,” I told him, even though my voice shook. “Mr. Worthington, go get Tillie. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Olivia! Are you all right?” Several of the musicians tumbled out from the stairwell. So did Henry and the Maestro.

Henry nearly knocked me over with his hug. “Olivia! Oh my God. I saw it happen from downstairs. It was like slow motion, I couldn’t move! Are you okay?” I saw his eyes dart over to the ghosts, who were hovering over the railing. Tillie waved, grinning.

“I think so.” I put one of my arms around him. In that moment,
I
needed an anchor. Something to hold me in place. Someone who knew exactly what that crashing ceiling meant, and what it felt like to have the ghosts back. I had to remind myself not to smile. People who have almost gotten hit by ceilings don’t sit there smiling like goofs.

Richard Ashley pulled us apart to feel my face and head. “Olivia? Are you injured? What day is it?”

Igor started purring.
I can see why he’s your boyfriend. He has a nice smell.

“The day before Thanksgiving,” I said. “And your name is Richard, and you’re
okay
at trumpet. I guess.”

Richard ruffled my hair. “Harsh critic.”

Past him, some of the musicians gathered at the railing, pointing to the ceiling.

“Did you see it?” Liesl Wilhelm, the harpist, said. “It was like a shadow, but it moved like it was . . .
real
.”

I caught Henry’s eye.
Shades
, I mouthed to him. He nodded grimly. The ghosts inched closer to us, and Mr. Worthington put his arm around me.

Nick Chang, one of the trombonists, shook his head. “We must have been imagining it.”

“I don’t imagine things,” said Liesl.

Riva Cull, the pianist, said softly, “I saw them too.”

So. Liesl, Nick, and Riva. They had seen the shades, which meant they had experienced true loss. I wondered how many of the other musicians had seen them too, but just weren’t saying anything. Maybe they didn’t like to talk about their loss. Maybe they didn’t yet know they had lost anything.

“You people aren’t serious, are you?” That was Emery Ross, the associate concertmistress. She pointed at the ceiling. “It fell because this place is old, not because of
shadows
.”

“Look,” said Richard. “We’ve all had a scare, okay? Maybe we should take a break, get some fresh air. Maestro?”

Everyone turned to look at the Maestro. He examined the fallen pieces of ceiling, his face hidden in shadow, and it made me wonder: Had he seen the shades too?

“We can’t tell anyone about this,” the Maestro said at last. “No one. Not friends, not family, and certainly not Mr. Rue. They’ll have an inspection and shut this place down.”

“Maybe it’s time, Maestro,” said Riva carefully. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

I could feel some of the musicians looking at me. I knew what they were thinking. I was thinking it too.
Would the Maestro ask if I was all right? Would he even look at me?

“It’s not
time
for anything but rehearsal,” the Maestro snapped. “We resume in five minutes.”

“But, Maestro—”

“End of discussion.”

Richard cleared his throat. “Sir, we won’t be able to hide a giant hole in the ceiling.”

“I’ll hire workers. I’ll repair it. I’ll pay for it myself.”

Anger boiled up inside me, melting away the happiness of seeing my ghosts back. That made me even angrier. “Yeah? With what money?”

The Maestro’s eyes were cold and black. “With whatever money is required, Olivia.”

Henry stepped closer to me and pressed his fingers into my palm. The contact made my eyes burn, so I ripped my hand away. No one needed to see me cry.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go find Kepler. He’ll clean this up.”

I crawled out of bed around lunchtime on Thanksgiving Day, feeling like . . . well, I would say death, but that seems like the kind of thing I shouldn’t say, considering.

Every time I thought about the next day, when Henry and I would share with another ghost, my insides clenched up. I hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few minutes at a time because every flicker in the dark made me think a shade was nearby, ready to crash the ceiling down on me again.