Apprehensions and Other Delusions Read Online Free Page B

impressive.”
    “It’s a fine instrument,” said Vanessa, bending down briefly to take his hand. “I should probably get the tuner back here. The pitch is beginning to slip.” She started away from him toward the prompt-side wing.
    “Would you rather I go? I have some equipment to bring in, and I don’t want to disturb you.” Warren watched her pause. “It’s no trouble.”
    “All right. I’ll just sit down for a bit, get some water.” She resumed walking.
    “Why did you stop where you did?” Warren called after her.
    Vanessa halted. “Did I stop?” She seemed confused. “I guess it was the pitch going. It felt like I was finished.” Her frown became a glower. “I don’t leave music unfinished.”
    “Well, if the pitch wasn’t right,” said Warren as he cut through a row of seats toward the side door that led to the offices of the hall, “I can see how you’d stop.”
    Vanessa nodded, but went back to the forte-piano, and, after a long moment, sat down and began the Sixth fugue again, concentrating on the music, doing her best to ignore the slight shift in pitch in the strings. “That’s the trouble,” she said. “It needs tuning.” She continued on through the fugue, paying close attention to its tone and the pacing of the work. As she reached the extended passage for the left hand, she faltered. “Damn,” she said aloud, and began the left-hand passage again, a bit more slowly and deliberately. This time it worked, and she thundered on into the end, careening through the dizzying pyrotechnics with the verve of a race-car driver. “There,” she said as if to confirm her final repeated chords. When she was finished, she was a bit shaky; the beginnings of a headache buzzed behind her eyes and she pinched the bridge of her nose to stop it.
    “Brava!” called Warren from the side-door. “That was spectacular.”
    “Yeah. But the pitch is off,” said the tuner, who stood beside him. “Still, the playing’s first rate.”
    “Thanks,” said Vanessa, moving away from the fortepiano. “The low E is really off.”
    “I’ll take care of it,” said the tuner, and brought his small case of tuning forks onto the stage. “Have to do this the old-fashioned way,” he said.
    “Good,” said Vanessa, and sought out the soothing darkness of the backstage area. She leaned against the wall and willed herself to relax, which left her jittery. What on earth had happened to her? she asked herself.
    “Ms. Hylas, are you okay?” Warren asked her as he rolled a strange-looking, metal box on wheels, ornamented with dials and gauges up next to the stage-manager’s podium.
    She made herself straighten up. “Just a bit tired.”
    “There’s coffee in the house-manager’s office.” He studied her for a moment, then began setting up his equipment.
    “And it’s terrible,” she said, attempting levity. “But it’s hot.” She started toward the door that would lead to the hall to the offices.
    “You sure you’re all right?” Warren called after her, his question underscored by the tuner as he started his work.
    “Yes, thanks,” she said automatically, and wondered if she dared to eat anything. It might help her feel better, but it could make her feel worse. She was still debating this as she reached the house-manager’s office, where the odor of scorched coffee told her not to have any of it. She went to the drinking fountain and gulped down several mouthfuls, then wandered back toward the stage where the tuner was making progress on the forte-piano and Christopher Warren was busily setting up his display of machines.
    “Feeling better?” Warren called out cheerfully. “You look a bit less pasty.”
    “Thanks,” she said drily. “Rehearsing can take a lot out of me.”
    “If it was just the rehearsing,” he said almost jauntily.
    “How do you mean?” Vanessa asked.
    “I’ll tell you after I’ve finished monitoring the rest of your rehearsal,” he said, merrily adjusting what