Apprehensions and Other Delusions Read Online Free Page A

instrument, and who knows what Doctor Warren might do if he’s left to his own devices.”
    “Okay. I’ll let Shotwell know and we’ll set the tests up,” said Faster. “How soon would you like it?”
    “I don’t like it at all,” said Vanessa. “But do as you think best.” She went to empty the water from her teapot, then set the kettle boiling again as she loaded in two measures of Dragonwell leaves. “Just give me a couple days’ warning.”
    “Will do,” Faster promised, pledging with his glass to make his point as emphatically as he could.

    * * *
    Cummings Hall was small enough to be called “intimate” by critics, seating five hundred twenty-four, all with clear sight of the stage. The Dziwny forte-piano had been put on the broad apron, and the tuner was finishing up his work as Vanessa arrived to practice.
    “Looks good,” said the tuner, removing his damping felts and giving the keys a cursory run. “Sounds good, too.”
    “You’ll be staying here, to retune?” Vanessa asked.
    “That’s the deal,” said the tuner. “I’ll be in the house-manager’s office, if you need me. I want to catch the game, if I can, while I have my lunch.” He strolled away, his attention no longer on the instrument.
    Vanessa went over to the forte-piano and sat down, remaining still for a short while, letting the place and its ambience sink into her. She frowned as she thought about Professor Warren, who would arrive in an hour. The last thing she wanted was a publicity-seeking loony poking around the forte-piano, but Shotwell had agreed, so she had to make the best of it. Flexing her hands, she began a few Czerny exercises, her fingers moving automatically with the familiar cadences. Satisfied, she took a little time to collect her thoughts, and then began to play. The Six Fugues on Themes of Handel flowed more easily than she would have supposed. Fugues One and Two came and went, and Three began with a simple theme in G-minor, and Vanessa let the music carry her. The hall whispered, and the forte-piano rang, a thrilling sound that seemed to fill the space.
    By the Fourth fugue, she was wonderfully lost in the music, apprehending Dziwny’s vision so completely that she was no longer aware of Cummings Hall, but felt as if she were at Lowenhoff, all those decades ago, caught up in a passion that had no place to go but into the notes being played. The fugue unwound elegantly, the melody moving from bass to treble, then flitted through the mid-range only to emerge in the treble again in a dazzling display of talent and training. Starting the Fifth fugue, Vanessa was unaware that she was being watched. Her hands played as if the movements were a martial art and she their greatest exponent. The sound came out flawlessly, the repeated musical images piled one atop another into an astonishing edifice of patterned tones. Without pause, she launched into the Sixth fugue, playing brilliantly until she suddenly stopped in the middle of a thematic statement, as if she had lost track of the music.
    Trembling, she moved back on the bench and sat there, dazed and breathing hard. Her face was pale. She began to rub her palms on her skirt, nervously blinking as if she had finally become aware of her surroundings. Abruptly, she stood up and walked a half-dozen steps away from the instrument.
    “Why did you stop?” asked an unknown voice from the middle of the empty hall.
    Surprised, Vanessa looked up. “Who’s there?” she demanded sharply.
    “Christopher Warren. I was told you’d be expecting me,” came the answer.
    “Professor Warren,” she said with a hint of distaste. “I didn’t expect you so early.”
    “It’s after twelve,” he said, leaving his seat and coming forward.
    “I must have lost track of the time,” said Vanessa, only glancing in his direction.
    “The way you were playing, I’m not astounded to hear you say so.” He came up to the apron and held up his hand to her. “It’s very