Pitch Imperfect(78)

Ben might be brusque and taciturn, but he’d always been a confident speaker. His eyes flashed with humour or hatred according to the demands of the epic poem. Anjuli was as appreciative of his performance as the rest of Heaverlock, but her eyes were glued not to steel blue but to mesmerising grey. It was Rob’s turn to enchant the audience with the tale of the soldier-cum-reiver’s recovery from his wounds, tended by a Border Lord’s daughter. Of their doomed romance and her violent death at the hands of an English soldier.

Rob’s multi-layered voice made the poem his own, wrapping itself around the ancient lament and infusing each word with melancholy, then sorrow. Like the rest of the ballroom, Anjuli was caught in the magic of his declamation, the eloquence of his gestures. Her heartfelt response grew stronger with the ebb and flow of his delivery and the nuances in his tone.

Piano. Piano. Forte. Piano.

For the first time in more than a year, Anjuli felt the urge to sing. The desire surprised her, and grew stronger as she immersed herself in the texture of Rob’s performance. The rhythm of his baritone. Silence followed his final, shattering line. It seemed to last forever, then Rob and Ben grinned at each other and bowed, and the applause was deafening.

Anjuli shook herself out of her dreamlike state and stepped forward. It was time to say her piece and then she would talk to Rob. Here and now. She extended her hand for the microphone, stopping short when she saw Mac’s expression—cruel, and cold enough to freeze molten lava.

Mac called everybody’s attention and the applause ceased. “I thought long and hard on how to secure the first prize in the Common Riding Ball competition.” She looked at the three officials at the nearest table. “The Best Common Riding Ball judges, along with everybody else in the village, will be delighted to know that the notorious Anjuli Carver has agreed to break her singing silence and delight us with a rendition of our Official Common Riding song, ‘Heaverlock Lads and Lasses’.”

Mac thrust the microphone at Anjuli and she took it reflexively, clutching it to her breast. The unexpected urge to sing had disappeared at the end of Rob’s performance and all Anjuli felt was rising nausea, warning her of an imminent panic attack. Hundreds of faces gazed back at her expectantly, and she knew she had to say something. Do something. Councillor Hamish’s smile faded and Mac’s widened. People shifted in their seats. Her dress was too tight and her chest too compressed, strangling her efforts to find a gracious excuse.

Mac raised a brow. “Are you ready?” she asked loudly. “I, for one, would love to hear your voice.”

Anjuli scanned the room, avoiding Rob’s table. She didn’t want to see his face, didn’t want the sight of it to derail what little control she had left. Ash clutched Viking’s arm, shaking her head as if she expected Anjuli to crumple into a heap, break into sobs, or faint.

Pride came to Anjuli’s rescue. And experience. One should never let the audience down, no matter the circumstances. The villagers were mumbling and when she looked at Mac, well, she was enjoying her predicament, expecting her to fall flat on her arse or refuse to sing. Her face practically glowed with delight. She wanted to hurt her, embarrass her, get revenge.

Screw that. Anjuli tapped the microphone, and the room quietened. She could do this, damn it; she could sing again. Hadn’t she been praised for her ability to delight audiences with husky blues and powerful cantatas? What challenge a simple ballad for a singer of her calibre?

Anjuli nodded at the pianist. “C major, sixteen bar intro.”

The air charged with excitement as the jovial notes of a fast reel filled the room. Anjuli smiled at Ash and tapped her hip to the beat. Staccato in C major with a slur before the coda to the end. Short and sweet. Her stomach roiled and she tried to ignore it, telling herself it didn’t matter if she was out of practice.

She missed her cue.

The pianist began again, slowing slightly when it was time for her to take over the melody. She had to sing four bars before the other instruments joined in. Sixteen simple notes, that’s all. Anjuli opened her mouth but not a sound emerged. She tried again and...nothing. A deep breath as the piano commenced another intro, willing her rusty vocal cords to obey her command. A hoarse, flat sound emerged from her throat, trailed off and stopped.

The pianist stopped and gaped, and the ballroom blurred into a different scene. Village faces mutated into a crowd of strangers at her final performance, in America. Once again she heard the loud applause and the calls for an encore. “More,” they’d cried, applauding as she’d left the stage.

And she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.