Quote Originally Posted by InTheMachine View Post
November 1st
John
Emi’s lips quirk into a self conscious smile as she gets up from the couch. “I’ll be right back,” she says as she heads out of the room.

A minute later, she comes back with a violin under arm and a bow one hand. The violin has an unusually dark patina and looks like it’s been loving used over the years.

She stands at the center of the room, facing John. “I’ll play one of my favorites for you. This is is Nocturne in C# minor by Chopin, adapted from piano to a violin solo.”

Emi put the instrument up to her chin and takes a breath before she starts to play. The song is dark and hauntingly beautiful, and the psychic looks lost in the music as she plays. Her eyes are closed and she seems to feel each note as her fingers glide gracefully over the strings.

When the song is finished, she stands for a moment, letting the last note ring slightly through the room before she opens her eyes and looks to the magician, observing his reaction.
John had long been used to closing his eyes from time to time when listening to Stephen when he played a new piece and requested feedback. He had learned a little bit of musical terminology from him—just enough to allow him to provide the kind of feedback Stephen needed from an observant but non-specialist listener.

Listening to Emi was different. It was much closer to a performance than the listening sessions he had participated in with Stephen. He wasn’t being asked for feedback now, so he did not have to listen with a critical ear.

It was more than that, though. In every other performance before now, it had been a single sensory experience. He was only listening to the music, however carefully or however critically he might be listening.

This time, he found himself in a multi-sensory experience. He listened to the music—sensing the technical skill of Emi’s playing along with the emotional tenor she put into the music. He sensed, at a deeper level, her surrendering a portion of herself to the music, blurring the line between the player and what was played.

What was new was watching the player—really watching her. When listening to Stephen play, he was vaguely aware that one of his instructors might have something to say about his posture or finger work. With Emi, however, he was transfixed. He had almost gotten used to the way a simple motion on her part could scatter his thoughts or transfix him—especially when she turned heir attention on him with some kind of an intention.

This was different. As she embraced the music, her beauty was expressed differently. Her movements mingled with her playing, allowing her to become something else—unveiling a different part of her, a part of her that he would not—and could not—have seen before.

She, herself, became a part of the art she was offering.

When she finished, giving a space for the music to depart from the room, John realized he was holding his breath.

She looked at him, perhaps questioningly—waiting for his response.

He took a deep breath, trying to to hold onto the moment for a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

He stood and took a step forward.

He smiled.

“I didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you have surprised me again with another overwhelming aspect of yourself.

“Thank you.”