All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [204]
There were hoots and yells for an encore.
Ms. DuPreé leaned close to Eliot so he could hear her over the noise, and said, “That is how it is done. She gave them everything, lost nothing, and got something more precious than gold.”
Eliot shot her a quizzical look back.
“Her moment in the spotlight, completely loved by them all,” Ms. DuPreé said as if this answered everything.
Eliot examined the audience and saw they did love Sarah at that moment.
He was also certain that clapping and love could easily turn to disgust and boos if they didn’t like someone’s performance.
Sarah bowed once more, and then exited the stage. The curtain fell behind her. She sauntered to him and Ms. DuPreé, all sparkles and grinning. She smelled of perspiration and Brandywine perfume.
“Knock ’em dead,” she told Eliot. “You’re better than all of us put together, you just don’t know it.” She said that like it was part compliment, part annoyance—and then she smiled at Ms. DuPreé and whirled back to the dressing rooms.
Ms. DuPreé gave him a gentle push forward.
Eliot moved, although his legs now seemed to be glued to the floor. It took all his strength to walk to the curtain, and then push through . . . where he froze.
The three thousand people who had been applauding before looked expectantly at him. There was a polite smattering of claps.
Which stopped as Eliot continued to stand there.
Like a complete dork.
What was he doing? Sure he could play. If you needed the dead conjured, gravity warped, or a legion of Napoléon-era soldiers to blow something up—then he was your guy.
But play for people? Be entertaining? Move them? No way.
He wasn’t like Sarah. She had a gift with people (even if she was really cruel when you got her alone). That was real talent.
And before her, David Kaleb had wowed the crowd with his silver horn flashing like a mirror under the lights; the audience had gotten to their feet and danced even!
Sarah and David had had fun with it. Music used to be something Eliot had fun with, too. Now, though, it was a constant struggle to do better, to control the wild magic in him and Lady Dawn.
And why in the world had Ms. DuPreé made him go last?
The people in the audience whispered as he stood there. Some got up and left.
Eliot watched them and narrowed his eyes.
No one walked out on him—not before they’d heard him, at least.
He marched out front and center on the stage.
There was more polite, encouraging applause.
But there ended his bravery. . . .
And Eliot was stuck again—in front of all those people—them waiting for him to impress them—and him unable to move. So he did the only thing he could. Stall.
He fiddled with the knobs on the lower edge of his new Lady Dawn guitar. He then checked the cable plugged into her socket—a cord that ran backstage but actually connected to nothing. It was just for looks.
By adjusting the dials, flicking a switch or two, his new guitar could sound like an ordinary unpowered instrument one moment, then blast out amplified noise with reverberating electronic feedback the next . . . all without having anything plugged in anywhere. Flip another switch, twist a dial, and the guitar echoed with the deepest bass notes.
He played it almost as well as he did the violin. It was like switching between writing in cursive script to block letters. It was something he could do without thinking about it.
His fingers drifted to the steel strings and twitched over them.
Faint sound pulsed. Pure and simple.
He’d start there.
He played the “Mortal’s Coil” nursery rhyme—straight up, one note after another, just like the first time he’d heard Louis play in that Del Sombra alley.
He kept his eyes on the strings, focused, and shifted notes up and down the scale. He made the sweetest sound, and there was a slight echo . . . as if there were another guitar accompanying him.
Eliot looked up.
The audience nodded and moved to the rhythm. They weren’t exactly captivated as they had been with Sarah or David, but that