Rayne flops down beside me and strokes my hair. From anyone else, I’d resent the gesture, would hate feeling like a pathetic baby. But from her, it’s okay. “Not true,” she says. “He texted you on Monday.”
I roll over and look up at her. “Okay. Five days. Like that’s any better.”
“Maybe they had to go somewhere in an emergency,” she says.
“Maybe his dad is getting knighted by the queen and they had to fly all the way to England to see it.”
“Phones work in England,” I say into the pillow. “Face it, he’s not into me.”
“How can someone kiss you for the first time looking over the whole city and not really like you?”
“I don’t know.” I can hear my voice straining at the thought and take a deep breath to try to calm down. I’ve played the whole night over in my head a hundred times. What had I said wrong? Had I done anything stupid? Stupider than usual? “He says all this stuff, kisses me up on the hill, and then it’s like he just dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Did you call him?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to look needy.”
Rayne stares at me. “Mmm-hmm. You’re looking like a pillar of strength right now.”
I sit up and brush the stray hair off my face. “I just have to deal with it. Griffon doesn’t really like me. I’m okay single. God knows I’ve had enough practice.”
“Oh, Cole, I can tell even you don’t believe that. There has to be an explanation. I saw you two together.”
“Come on,” I say, pushing off the bed and sounding a lot more casual than I feel. All of this wondering has built up nervous energy that I have to do something about. “Are we going out or what? I didn’t come over here to talk about Griffon all day. Mom gave me money to buy some clothes, and I’m not planning on wasting it.” I also don’t want to sit around all day staring at my cell wondering if Griffon is ever going to call.
“Fine,” Rayne says. “Downtown or the Mission?”
“Downtown,” I say, suddenly in the mood for big crowds and chain stores.
Rayne slings her big suede hobo bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Even though summer is still over a month away, the cable car turnaround at Powell Street is nearly invisible through the crowds as we get off the bus.
Rayne looks back at me. “You really want to do this?” She’s more of a Haight Street shopper than a Union Square one.
“Absolutely,” I say, my fake cheerful mood starting to push the heavy weight off my chest. “Let’s go this way down Market Street. I’ve been dying for a cream puff from the guy at City Center. Be nice to me and I’ll buy you one, too.”
Rayne grumbles but follows me down the crowded sidewalk, bumping shoulders with people as they hurry past. I’ve always liked this part of Market Street—even though the contents of the buildings have changed, the outsides look the same as they have for the past hundred years.
After a quick stop in the food hall of the City Center, we push through the crowds back outside, licking the remains of the cream puffs off our fingers. “Now what?” Rayne asks, looking up and down the busy street.
As we stand surrounded by tall buildings, I start to feel a tug inside. Not as strong as the visions that I’ve been having, but a feeling that I’m close to something important. The feeling like I have to go and find something. I’ve had these feelings before, but have always shrugged them off. Maybe all along I’ve been getting
clues to who I’ve been—and maybe who I’m going to be. “Feel like walking?” I ask Rayne, both excited and horrified by what we might find. At least if I pass out again, she’ll be there to help.
“Depends,” she says, watching me carefully. “Where to?”
“Not sure yet.” As an experiment, I try to shut down all of my logical thought and let my emotions guide me. I stop on the corner before turning left and heading up Mason Street. Apparently my emotions are guiding me toward Nob Hill.
Rayne rushes to catch up. “Not sure yet, but you’re in a hurry to get there?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I have to go find something,” I say, consciously slowing my pace. “Only I don’t know what it is.”
“Okay, now you’re starting to weird me out,” she says.
“Welcome to the club.” I don’t say anything more, just try to focus on the feelings I’m having and the pull that I sense as I walk. I know that if I think about it too much, I’ll wreck it. The only sound is our breathing as we make our way to the top of the steep hill. As we get to the top, I see it, almost as if it has a big neon sign on it. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I’m sure I’ve found it.
“The Fairmont Hotel?” Rayne asks, looking at the international flags flapping above the awning of the huge old hotel. “My mom’s friend stayed here once.”
“No,” I say, looking across the street to the left. “That one.”
“What is it?” We join the crowd of people in the crosswalk as the little neon man counts down how much time we have to get across.
“No idea,” I reply. I feel calm and excited at the same time.
This is definitely the place. Excitement gives way to familiarity as I stare at the steps that lead up to the big columns supporting the front of the large brown mansion.
“Fancy,” Rayne says, looking around. “You planning a wedding here or something?”
I shoot her a look. “Listen, if something weird happens, don’t freak out, okay? I’m fine … I’ll explain it later.” Before I can change my mind, I put my foot on the bottom step and slowly make my way to the top. Images of men in top hats and ladies in sweeping gowns flash through my head. And music—cello music. I remember carriages pulling up to these very steps, and well-dressed people greeting each other as they approach the mansion.
I stand at the top of the steps, nervously watching the fine ladies embrace each other as if they haven’t met in years. The men stand slightly behind the women, nodding to each other and tipping their hats, the smoke from their obscenely fat cigars circling above their heads in the late afternoon light
.
Staring at the finery, I look down at my own borrowed clothing—the unfamiliar dress is itchy on my legs, and the new heels hurt my feet already. I told Signore Luisotti that these aren’t clothes for playing cello, but he insisted that it is important to look the part if we are going to impress the best of the best in San Francisco. We’ve gone over the details a hundred times
.
I watch from the side as Signore Barone greets the partygoers as if this is his house, the ice cubes clinking in his drink as he gestures wildly. It seems as though his role in the troupe has expanded from just chaperone to business partner, setting up concerts and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous of whatever
city we land in. Smiles flash on the guests’ faces, and once again I wish I could understand what is being said. Every now and then someone glances at me and I try to smile back, but I know that it might lead to a conversation, and I’m embarrassed that I only know enough English to order water and ask for the bathroom
.
I wander down the main hall, back to where it is quieter. Signore Luisotti wants us to mingle with the guests, but while playing the cello is a pleasure, talking to strangers is not. One of the heavy wooden doors is open a crack, and I slow as I hear familiar voices on the other side
.
“… soon,” says Signore Luisotti. “Look at the girl, she is practically a woman. Already tonight one of the hosts asked me how old she is. How much longer can we dress Alessandra in full petticoats and long bows in order to have her pass as fifteen? She is every inch of nineteen, and it is starting to show.”
“With all due respect, Antonio,” says Signora Luisotti in even tones. “What are we supposed to do? Just turn the girl out of the troupe?”
I hear ice clink in a glass. “And why not? We can hardly call it the Young Masters Orchestra when one of the Young Masters must get her breasts bound before every concert in order to keep up appearances.”
I feel someone behind me and turn to see Alessandra standing in the hallway. One look at her face tells me that she’s heard them too. She turns to walk away, her shoulders rounded and her head down. I rush to catch up
.
“They didn’t mean any of that!” I say. I place a hand on her
shoulder, but she doesn’t turn to face me. “You are the best musician in the entire troupe. They would never be able to tour without you.”
Alessandra finally turns to face me, the remains of tears shining in her eyes. “You’re kind. But we both know the truth.” She runs a finger over the bow in her hair, an accessory that I’ve never thought about before, but does make her seem absurdly young. “I can’t continue here much longer. All of us have a limited lifespan as a Young Master, and mine is almost up.”
“Nonsense!” I cry, pushing the Luisottis’s words out of my head. “Besides, Paolo would never stay without you.” I see her eyes lift at the mention of his name. “And neither would I. If you leave, you take half the troupe with you. Signore would be left with a few viola players and a second-rate bassist.”
Alessandra smiles at that. She puts her hand on my cheek. “So nice of you to say,” she says, sadness still lingering in her eyes. “And so untrue. I’ve had my turn, and it’s almost time for me to move on. It’s the natural order of things.”
I fall forward and embrace her, the clean smell of soap washing over me as I bury my head into her shoulder and she tightens her arms around me. I haven’t been held like this since I said goodbye to my mother at the train station so long ago, and the sensation of her touch brings tears to my eyes
.
I can feel my cheeks redden as I think over the past few months, the rehearsals, the choice of pieces to play, and the reality of her words begins to ring true. They haven’t brought me into the troupe to play with Alessandra. They’ve brought me here to replace her
.
“May I help you?” A slightly angry man appears at the front door to the mansion.
“Oh, I, um, was just wondering what this building is,” I say, trying to pull myself out of the vision as quickly as possible. Strong feelings of dread and guilt have settled into my stomach.
“This is the Pacific Coast Club,” he says, his tone not inviting any more questions. He pulls himself up to his full height. “Members only.”
The Pacific Coast Club
. Doesn’t seem familiar. I know I’m taking my chances by asking, but at this point I don’t have a lot to lose. “Was it ever anything else? Was it called something different?”
“Before the great quake, it was one of the grandest private residences in all of San Francisco. The Sutter Mansion.”
I feel a sense of familiarity and know that’s it. In the memory I had of the ferry dock, Signore Luisotti mentioned a Signore Sutter. “Thanks.”
He pulls his head in the door and closes it with enough force that the sound is solid and final. The carriages and finely dressed people on the steps are gone, replaced by speeding cars and a homeless guy pushing a loaded shopping cart slowly down the sidewalk. I turn and start down the steps, putting my hand on the rough stone railing for balance.
The wind is blowing hard this high above the city. All around us, the sky glows orange from the setting sun, but my eyes are riveted to a tiny figure sprawled on the ground several stories below. Her arms and legs are bent at unnatural angles, and even from here I can see the dark pool spreading out underneath her across the hard stone walkway
.
The rushing in my ears seems to block the sound of my own voice. I know I am screaming, but it feels as if nothing is coming out. I lean over the side as far as I dare, hoping against hope that
she will move or twitch—that she will just get up and tell us that this is all a terrible mistake. The wind seems to steal the sound as I scream her name over and over
.
“Alessandra!”
I feel Rayne shaking my shoulder as I pull myself back into reality. I’m sitting on the steps about halfway to the sidewalk. My eyes are wet with tears, and my throat feels raw as I remember the last thing I saw in that memory. Alessandra died that day, right here at the mansion. Did I have something to do with it?
“Cole! What’s wrong?” Rayne’s face is full of confusion and concern.
“I’m fine,” I say, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt off my jeans. I wonder what this must look like to her, and I hope to God I wasn’t actually screaming out loud. “Just slipped.” I push past her and walk down the rest of the steps to the relative safety of the sidewalk.
Rayne walks beside me in silence until we reach the corner, but all I can focus on is the image of Alessandra lying dead on the pavement. The air between us feels thick with everything she wants to say, and knowing Rayne, she’s not going to keep quiet for long.
“What the hell was that all about?” she finally asks. “And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because I’m not stupid. Mom says that I have a gift for reading people, and what I just read over there was definitely something.”
I walk just ahead of her so she can’t see my face. My mind is whirling with thoughts of Alessandra. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” I say, not sure I’m actually going to tell her any of it.
There’s no way I would give anyone else even a glimpse of the insanity I’ve been sucked into, but this is Rayne, after all—the girl who believes in spirit stones and destiny.
“Promise,” she says, her mood suddenly solemn.
“I think I’m remembering things,” I say. “Things from…” I stop here, not able to say the next part.
“Things like what?” she prompts. “Come on, Cole, spill.”
“This is going to sound nuts,” I say. I exhale. “Things from other lifetimes.”
Rayne whistles. “You mean like spirits? Were you guided there by some kind of spirit? Is that why you look like you saw a ghost when you were talking to that guy?”
“Not like spirits,” I say. “More like my own past lives.” The words hang between us as I look up to meet her eyes.
She stares at me for a moment before leaning in to give me a huge hug. “Whoo hoo!” she says. “I cannot believe the words I just heard come out of your mouth!” She takes a step back. “This has something to do with Griffon, doesn’t it? I remember you saying he’s into reincarnation.” She pokes me in the arm. “But you said you thought he was crazy.”