The Butterfly and the Violin by Kristy Cambron Page B

asked, holding the edge of the fur out.
    “Yes. That, the dress—all of it.”
    “Is there something wrong with it?”
    “No—” He almost smiled, but instead tilted his head to the side as if in thought about something. “Where did you find satin?”
    She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “My mother.”
    After what had happened moments before she’d left for the concert, she hated to even think of her. But the rest needed no explanation, she guessed. Everyone knew Marina Von Bron and her taste for over-the-top finery. Adele had never felt so ridiculous as she did wearing satin and pearls in the midst of a war zone.
    “Doesn’t she have you wear black for a performance?” He took several steps forward again, but this time seemed distracted and stopped just short of the tips of his shoes touching hers.
    He looked down at her.
    She hadn’t remembered him being that tall. Had he always looked down on her like that?
    “It’s a victory celebration to honor the Führer, as you know. And I have a solo,” she said, nervous all of a sudden. Why was this night so different from all the others? “Is it too much?” She had to ask. Lavish satin, pearl earrings—she’d grown up around her mother’s taste for them but had never found a liking of them for herself. No doubt she looked like a child playing dress-up.
    “No. Not too much. Not too much at all.” He looked down at her still, curiously quiet. “So, are you able to play? Your hands?”
    She’d been twisting them without even noticing. The pain medicine the doctor had given her must have been doing the trick, for she scarcely felt a twinge. “Dieter gave me some pain medication to get through the performance.” She held up a gloved hand, which he took and cradled in his own.
    “You hide your hands in gloves because of me.” He brought it to his lips and pressed a brush of a kiss against her palm. “I am so sorry. You can’t know how sorry I am.”
    She looked away, finding that his gaze was too intense.
    “Did you hear me, Butterfly?” Butterfly . He’d given her the nickname the first time they’d ever played onstage together. “Everything will be all right.”
    Vladimir always said that to her.
    He was older, had played with the orchestra many times. She was barely seventeen that first night, and inexperienced, and scared out of her mind. He’d been late for the performance, but just in time to keep her from passing out before she took the stage. He’d been running in the back entrance and had bumped into her as she came outside to the very garden in which they stood now. It had been spring then, and warm, their view of the world warm and innocent with it. She couldn’t help but think how everything had turned cold now.
    “Do you remember how nervous you were? That first performance?”
    She nodded. So they were thinking of the same memory.
    “Of course I do. You told me that I would have to play like I did in rehearsals—to feel the music, to let it float from my soul in honor to God. And we saw a butterfly. It was doing the same thing, floating around, dancing from perch to perch right here in our garden. It landed on our bench.” Her fingertips grazed the back of the bench as she spoke, recalling the memory like it was yesterday. “You said that I had to go in there and not be afraid to play, to share the gift that God gave me.”
    “I did say that.” He smiled. “And what did you do?”
    “I went inside and played.”
    “And showed all of Austria what a beautiful genius you are,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I was impressed by the youngest member of our troupe. She showed them that a little butterfly of a girl could upstage a group of arrogant men. And that, Adele, is when Vienna found her sweetheart.”
    “I don’t remember it like that.” She turned her eyes and, in distraction, looked down at her strappy heels, their gold color sparkling in the moonlight.
    “Adele, I won’t let you be put in harm’s way.