Russia, says it’s getting far too dangerous with all the rioting.”
Sorg joined her at the piano, making a deliberate effort to mask his gait. “He could have a point.”
The young woman considered. “He also says that the tsar may soon be a prisoner in his own palace while the Reds and the Whites fight it out in the streets. Would you agree?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Does such a thought worry you?”
“It’s certainly troubling. Do you really think I played well?”
“Yes, but you could always do better. Try a little more allegro con spirito . You can’t do Tchaikovsky justice without as much passion as possible.”
A spark glinted in the young woman’s eyes but vanished just as quickly, as if she was amused by the slim young man in front of her who walked with a cocky swagger. “You’re an expert, are you?”
“That’s debatable. May I?” Sorg leaned across and played the same movement with a flourish, his fingers moving deftly over the keys, before he ended the piece with remarkable vigor. He looked down at the young woman and smiled. “Why don’t you try playing it that way?”
His face was close to hers and he could smell her lavender fragrance. She looked impressed. “H—how on earth did you ever learn to play like that ?”
Sorg picked up his wine and sipped. “Lessons from the age of four helped.”
“Can you give me any other advice?”
He smiled. “Always make sure that the lid over the keyboard is open before you start to play.”
She giggled. “Now you’re being funny.”
“My father used to say that.”
“Was he a musician?”
He nodded. “Most of my family, too. Poor ones, though. They worked the music halls of Moscow and St. Petersburg.”
“That must have been interesting. But four seems awfully young.”
“I think we try to make up for our shortcomings in different ways. Maybe I wanted to impress.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m just prattling. I was invited to join an orchestra after music college. I managed to stay a year until it taught me a valuable lesson.”
“What was that?”
Sorg smiled. “That living the rest of my life as a member of an orchestra would bore me to tears. So business replaced the piano, I’m afraid. It’s a lot more interesting.”
The young woman stood and put a hand gently on his arm. He felt a stab of electricity at her touch.
“What a shame, it was obviously music’s loss. Could you teach me how to play like that?”
As their eyes met, Sorg felt a flash of attraction. It was absurd. Hewas at least ten years her senior but felt captivated. With her auburn hair, blue eyes, and vivacious personality, he thought she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen.
“Why not? But you’d have to put in the effort.”
“Don’t worry about that. My sisters say that I’m the wild one in the family and do everything with a passion. By the way, your Russian is excellent, but is that a slight accent I detect?”
“I’m an American citizen. My mother and I left Russia when I was a child.”
“My papa says the Americans are going to be the most powerful nation in the world someday. What’s your name?”
“Philip Sorg.”
“I insist on hearing you play again, Mr. Sorg. In fact, seeing as my tutor’s lost his nerve and thinks Russia is doomed, I want you to teach me how to play as well as you did, assuming you’d consider giving lessons.”
“I’d consider it an honor.”
She noticed the silver ring on his finger. “Are you a married man, Mr. Sorg?”
“No, a bachelor.”
A door opened and a young woman stepped into the room. Sorg saw a striking family resemblance—the same lush hair and porcelain features. The woman said, “There you are, you imp! Mama says you’re to return at once to the ball. People are asking for you.”
“Tell her I’ll be there soon.”
The older girl offered Sorg an exasperated grin. “Whoever you are, sir, will you promise me that you’ll make sure my sister returns to the
Sorg joined her at the piano, making a deliberate effort to mask his gait. “He could have a point.”
The young woman considered. “He also says that the tsar may soon be a prisoner in his own palace while the Reds and the Whites fight it out in the streets. Would you agree?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Does such a thought worry you?”
“It’s certainly troubling. Do you really think I played well?”
“Yes, but you could always do better. Try a little more allegro con spirito . You can’t do Tchaikovsky justice without as much passion as possible.”
A spark glinted in the young woman’s eyes but vanished just as quickly, as if she was amused by the slim young man in front of her who walked with a cocky swagger. “You’re an expert, are you?”
“That’s debatable. May I?” Sorg leaned across and played the same movement with a flourish, his fingers moving deftly over the keys, before he ended the piece with remarkable vigor. He looked down at the young woman and smiled. “Why don’t you try playing it that way?”
His face was close to hers and he could smell her lavender fragrance. She looked impressed. “H—how on earth did you ever learn to play like that ?”
Sorg picked up his wine and sipped. “Lessons from the age of four helped.”
“Can you give me any other advice?”
He smiled. “Always make sure that the lid over the keyboard is open before you start to play.”
She giggled. “Now you’re being funny.”
“My father used to say that.”
“Was he a musician?”
He nodded. “Most of my family, too. Poor ones, though. They worked the music halls of Moscow and St. Petersburg.”
“That must have been interesting. But four seems awfully young.”
“I think we try to make up for our shortcomings in different ways. Maybe I wanted to impress.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m just prattling. I was invited to join an orchestra after music college. I managed to stay a year until it taught me a valuable lesson.”
“What was that?”
Sorg smiled. “That living the rest of my life as a member of an orchestra would bore me to tears. So business replaced the piano, I’m afraid. It’s a lot more interesting.”
The young woman stood and put a hand gently on his arm. He felt a stab of electricity at her touch.
“What a shame, it was obviously music’s loss. Could you teach me how to play like that?”
As their eyes met, Sorg felt a flash of attraction. It was absurd. Hewas at least ten years her senior but felt captivated. With her auburn hair, blue eyes, and vivacious personality, he thought she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen.
“Why not? But you’d have to put in the effort.”
“Don’t worry about that. My sisters say that I’m the wild one in the family and do everything with a passion. By the way, your Russian is excellent, but is that a slight accent I detect?”
“I’m an American citizen. My mother and I left Russia when I was a child.”
“My papa says the Americans are going to be the most powerful nation in the world someday. What’s your name?”
“Philip Sorg.”
“I insist on hearing you play again, Mr. Sorg. In fact, seeing as my tutor’s lost his nerve and thinks Russia is doomed, I want you to teach me how to play as well as you did, assuming you’d consider giving lessons.”
“I’d consider it an honor.”
She noticed the silver ring on his finger. “Are you a married man, Mr. Sorg?”
“No, a bachelor.”
A door opened and a young woman stepped into the room. Sorg saw a striking family resemblance—the same lush hair and porcelain features. The woman said, “There you are, you imp! Mama says you’re to return at once to the ball. People are asking for you.”
“Tell her I’ll be there soon.”
The older girl offered Sorg an exasperated grin. “Whoever you are, sir, will you promise me that you’ll make sure my sister returns to the
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