Fantasy in B Minor
Schizophrenia, music, and the mind of a young woman
If you really wrote that, you are truly gifted, Maestro Delvorini had said, and she’d shrugged, unsure what to answer.
Had she written this piece, or… and what did gifted even mean? Gifted. As if she hadn’t dedicated every free moment to music, ever since she was little. Hammering out tunes on Papa’s antique Fortecelli, or practising her bowing technique on Ma’s childhood violin.
Ailen wasn’t even sure when it had first come to her, this melody, and she had no name for it either. The only thing she knew was that she’d never heard anyone play it, or seen its score until she wrote it down.
Unnamed and with no traceable origin, it just… was.
Hers?
She truly didn’t know. It had earned her a place at the prestigious Conservatory of Lurenta, though. No small honour. Only the best of the best were ever admitted there. She’d been beside herself with joy when she received that letter.
Of course, her happiness didn’t last long. How could it? Nothing good ever lasted.
She had a baby brother once. Ferwynn-Sevriano.
Her memories of him were a chaotic jumble of sound and smell and movement and other sensations she couldn’t even name—all wrapped into a tangled mess, like the bunched-up strands of yarn Fuzzle used to play with.
High-pitched cries mingling with soft, enamoured cooing. The chalky scent of powder failing to mask the sickening stench of baby poo. Shadowy almost-images of a pink, wriggling thing.
He died. Cot death, people said, but she knew the truth. He hadn’t just died. He’d been murdered.
By her.
She’d strangled him with her own bare hands. She, his big sister, who should have loved and protected him.
She’d killed him. Out of jealousy and spite.
It had been so easy. He was so small, so fragile. And she, four turnings old already, so much stronger. Her hands sure and fingers nimble from playing the Fortecelli, her arms steady from holding the violin and bow.
His own stupid fault for crying so much, she’d told herself again and again—until she almost even believed it.
Nobody, least of all Papa and Ma, had suspected a thing. She’d got away with murder, but Il Senzio di Virelli knew, and he never let up. His whispered accusations haunted her dreams. His vicious taunts poisoned her waking hours.
An icy finger stroked her cheek and made her shiver, but when she looked up, there was no one. Just her in the salon. Alone with the Fortecelli and her violin, the Lady Lyrien. Hands trembling, she picked her up—gently—and started tuning the strings.
The song inside resumed, and before long, she joined in. All melded into one breathtaking symphony of sound. Soft, melancholy, and with undertones of guilt. Variations on the theme that had accompanied her ever since…
With a harrowing screech, her bow slipped, and Ailen bit back a curse. Gods above, why did this keep happening? She couldn’t afford to mess up like this. Maestro Delvorini had no tolerance for such incompetence. He’d expel her from the Conservatory, for sure.
And wouldn’t he be right, Il Senzio insinuated, you filthy, twitching fraud! Maybe you should’ve strangled your violin instead. At least then you’d sound less like a dying cat.
Stop it! She thought back at him. No need to embarrass herself and speak aloud to a disembodied voice nobody else could hear. The thing could read her mind. It always did.
At least show me your face for once. Are you even real?
Mocking, hollow laughter, fading into empty, chilling silence, was the only answer she got. She shivered, took a deep breath, and placed the bow on the strings again. She couldn’t let Il Senzio win. She was stronger than that. She had to be.
Maestro Delvorini glared at her from over the rims of his spectacles. The angry staccato jabs of his pencil on the wooden music stand made Ailen shrivel.
‘Concentrate, Altressa di Roclar, concentrate. Your title won’t save your technique.’ He shook his head and mumbled, ‘So much talent. Such a waste.’
She wanted to tell him about Il Senzio. How his presence kept tormenting her, stealing her focus, but how could she? He wouldn’t believe her. Nobody would.
She hung her head. Plucked at the strings numbly.
‘Again, Altressa di Roclar. Start at measure five.’
For a moment, she remained motionless, then she took a deep breath and raised her head, her instrument, her bow. From outside the open window, the music drifted in. Her music. It enveloped her in a warm, welcome embrace, and she started playing.
The sheet on the music stand morphed into a shapeless thing. The room, including Maestro Delvorini, dissolved into nothingness. There was only sound, and she floated somewhere within it. She, and the Lady Lyrien.
Inside this music, there was no time, no space, no fear. These were moments spent in eternity. Peaceful, tranquil eternity. Here, she was safe. Not even Il Senzio could hurt her now.
This music was a living thing. Never the same twice. Always expanding, evolving, modulating. It knew her moods better than she herself did—recognised all these subtle intricacies that were beyond her own understanding.
Today, it was a mournful piece giving weight and voice to the pain she carried inside her soul. It was a song—a fantasy perhaps—for Ma, who’d died of grief, ten turnings after baby Ferwynn’s death.
The orchestra swelled. Dramatic discordants screamed their agony. The timpani thundered underneath, like footfalls in a funeral march, drawing ever closer to the black marble mausoleum.
And above it all, the Lady Lyrien sang a haunting song of love and loss.
Unrestrained.
Applause.
Ailen opened her eyes and squinted against the sunlight.
‘Bravo, Altressa Ailen-Dalzia,’ the maestro’s sonorous voice came from somewhere inside that blinding brilliance.
Then, silence, as she just stood there, violin still resting on her shoulder. Bow still poised, as if ready to resume playing.
‘But…’ there was a slight edge to Delvorini’s voice now, ‘this wasn’t the piece you should have played. The notes are right there, Altressa. On the music stand. Why did you not play them?’
Her shoulders sagged, and the Lady Lyrien slipped off. The bow pointed to the hardwood floor now, and Ailen’s gaze rested on that very spot. She bit her lip. Why, indeed? She had no answer.
‘I… it… I don’t know, Maestro,’ she said in a small voice. ‘It was this other music. The orchestra, the flutes, the timpani, the reeds… I… I needed to play this.’
Delvorini’s sigh seemed half exasperated, half amused. Or was that her imagination? Papa always said she had too much imagination.
‘Ah,’ the maestro said, ‘I see. It’s the same with all you composers. Always dreaming up new music. Always hearing songs nobody else can hear. Sometimes you composer types make me despair.’
His chair creaked, followed by the sound of its legs scraping the wooden floorboards. Delvorini’s footsteps, surprisingly light for a man his age, tapped softly on the floor as he paced the room.
Ailen held her breath. Was he angry with her? Would he… expel her now? But hadn’t he just applauded her performance? Or had that been a game? Had he been mocking her?
‘What am I going to do with you, my dear Altressa? Tell me. What am I supposed to do now?’
He stood before her. Lifted her chin with one finger. Gently, yet urgently, and she had no choice but to look him in the eye.
Il Senzio’s breath brushed her cheek. His whispers—though she couldn’t make out the words—sent a shiver down her spine. She knew their meaning all too well: Il Senzio was displeased. One wrong word from her and—
She shivered again.
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, young Altressa.’ The maestro’s eyes bored into hers with renewed fervour. ‘You will play at La Notte delle Voci Eterne. Your own composition. Have you named it yet?’
She shook her head, afraid to speak.
‘But this piece, or whichever other piece you’ll choose to play for us that night… it needs a name.’ He drew in a long, audible breath. ‘You seem to be drawn to the B minor key, so perhaps… Improvisation in B Minor?’
Playing at La Notte delle Voci Eterne—the night of eternal voices—was every musician’s dream. It had been hers, too. Maybe it still was. But why, then, was she so afraid now?
For three moons, she’d been working relentlessly on her bowing technique. She’d done everything the maestro had asked of her, and more. And he was pleased with her progress. He’d said so himself. Numerous times.
If he was confident she could do it, then why did she still doubt herself?
‘Stage fright,’ Papa had said. ‘It’s perfectly normal, mio tesoro.’
But Papa didn’t understand. It wasn’t the audience she was afraid of, and neither did she fear making mistakes. The music would guide her fingers, her bow, making sure she’d play all the right notes in just the right way.
No, it was something else. Something dark. Something inescapable. And deep down, she knew exactly what. She just didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want it to be true.
‘Piccolina!’ Papa’s voice reverberated from the hall and pierced the sanctity of her room. ‘It’s time to go. Are you ready?’
‘Just a moment, Papa.’
Her hand trembled as she struggled to fasten the last button on the back of her dress. Il Senzio laughed.
Think you can hide behind those layers of silk, do you? Well, you can’t. You can never hide from me. I know everything. All your dirty little secrets. You can’t fool me.
She tried to ignore him, but his hateful laughter echoed off the walls. Louder and louder, until—after the gods only knew how long—it finally faded away.
‘Dalzia, bambina, what’s wrong?’
Papa stood in the doorway, a concerned frown on his lined face.
‘I… this button… I can’t—’ she swallowed, then shrugged.
‘Allow me.’
Within two steps, Papa stood behind her and deftly fastened the offending button.
‘There.’ He stroked her cheek with one finger, then pressed a gentle kiss on her brow. ‘Time to go. Good old Nisto is already waiting in the karr. Poor guy’s probably fussing with the power magnets again.’
The ride to L’Arena Eterna, through cobbled streets where the heat of the day still clung to the rough stone walls of shops and houses, seemed to both last an eternity and be over in mere moments.
As Ailen walked backstage, the cool sea breeze blew through her lace-trimmed shawl and made her shiver. She rubbed her arms, folding them across her chest, but it helped little. The golden glow of twilight, the twinkling of the first stars in a deepening sky, the lemony scent drifting down from the arboretum… none of these could lift Ailen’s spirits.
The cicadas wailed from the trees, a shrill, high-pitched cry that made her ears bleed—made worse by the cacophony of musicians tuning their instruments. She wandered off into the small copse of olive trees behind the stage, hiding in their lengthening shadows. There, with the screech of strings slightly dampened, she started tuning the Lady Lyrien. It wasn’t easy, and it took far longer than usual, but at least she got it done.
She remained hidden in that almost sacred place until the first notes of the overture, rich and inviting, drifted through the night. Then she returned backstage where she waited, heart pounding in her chest, for Maestro Delvorini’s signal.
She stood. Violin resting on her shoulder. Bow poised. Surrounded by thousands, she was alone. Alone with Il Senzio, whose displeasure was palpable even in the silence.
Sweat trickled from her hairline down her forehead onto closed eyelids. Her body as tight as the Lady Lyrien’s e-string. She felt the audience’s eyes on her, like predators stalking their prey.
Don’t run now, Ailen, she told herself. Don’t run. Just play.
She took a deep, steadying breath, then, gently, lowered her bow. A melancholy tune floated down from the sky: silver bells tolling, golden harps strumming, a waterfall of ethereal strings…
She played like never before, one with the magical music from the gods, tears streaming down her cheeks unhindered. And as she played, it all came back to her: Baby Ferwynn-Sevriano, his tiny face as smooth and white as the silken sheets on which he lay. His lips a bluish pink. Eyes unseeing. Ma’s tear-streaked face. Papa’s too-rigid posture. And she, in her little lacquered shoes, stomping on the floor, shouting, ‘stupid, stupid, stupid!’
The timpani roared their displeasure as the strings surged forward in a wave of passionate condemnation. What she had done was unforgivable, and the world would burn for it.
A pause. Then, more music. Gentler now, but grief-filled. Over a chorus of keening strings, the reeds sang a haunting melody, while the timpani rumbled beneath it all in a low, mournful rhythm.
She saw Ma’s decline. Relived those moments of despair where Ma seemed out of reach, in a world of her own, speaking to voices only she could hear. Staring at things only she could see. Afraid of her own shadow.
Their house, where joy once lived, now became home to sorrow. A sorrow that seeped into every nook and crevice. A living thing that walked beside Ailen, no matter where she went. She could not hide from it.
Then Il Senzio came. A friend, whose whispered words brought laughter. Let’s call Papa Il Conte della Cravatta again, and make him laugh. Or, did you see the maestro’s nose twitch when you missed that note?
Sometimes, he would challenge her: I dare you to play that piece backwards from end to start. But over time, his behaviour changed. He’d scold her for telling people about him, yell at her that she was stupid. Threaten to strangle her, like she had her baby brother, if she didn’t obey him.
But tonight, Il Senzio was silent. He never interfered with her when she played her violin, but instead waited until they were alone. Just she and him. Then, he’d lecture her and make her pay for every little mistake. Every missed note.
The music, now restless like a river, took her back to the stream that ran like a narrow blue vein through their ancestral lands. Always moving, always murmuring. But that morning, its perpetual turmoil had stilled as it held Ma in its cold embrace.
Your fault, Il Senzio whispered in her ear, if you hadn’t killed your brother, this would never have happened.
She wanted to scream. Shout at him that he was wrong, and Ma was just sleeping, but deep down she knew. She stepped into the water. It was only a few steps, and the water didn’t even come up to her waist. Ma was a full head taller. Why was she lying there, with her face down? She reached our a hand, hesitated, drew back. Couldn’t bring herself to touch her mother. What if Il Senzio was right?
You killed her, Il Senzio shouted when she trudged back home. Now you killed her, too. Will your father be next? The maestro? Or perhaps the nice lady from the bakery? You are poison, and your poison will kill everyone.
The music swelled into a shrieking crescendo, then died. As the last note lingered in the cool night air, stars glimmering in an inky sky, Ailen stood motionless. The Lady Lyrien still rested on her shoulder, the bow suspended a hair above it. Water dripped from her fingers. Each drop, heavy and slow, echoed as it splattered on the marble floor in a growing puddle. And from its shifting surface, Ma's grief-stricken eyes stared up at her, wide with accusation.
Applause burst loose. Someone lifted the violin from her shoulder, took the bow from her hand and guided her off stage. Back into the shadows, she crumpled up into a heap and repeated the words she’d yelled at Il Senzio all those turnings ago, not my fault, not my fault. Over and over again.
When she knocked on the door to Maestro Delvorini’s office, she already knew what was coming.
‘Enter.’
He sat behind his desk, shuffling piles of papers around. Golden sunshine painted a yellowish streak into his silvery hair. A bee buzzed angrily in a corner of the room.
‘Altressa Ailen-Dalzia…’ his voice faded into a sigh, and in that instant, he looked ten turnings older.
She stood on the other side of his desk, shifting her weight from one foot to another and back again. One hand clasped around her wrist. Gaze downward. Inward.
Il Senzio cackled, but she tried her best to ignore him.
‘This isn’t easy, my dear Altressa, but…’ he scraped his throat. Coughed. ‘It’s not your playing. You moved the entire audience to tears yesterday. You know that, don’t you?’
From the corner of her eye, Ailen saw him get up and trudge to the open window, where he stood staring outside, seemingly frozen in time. Music drifted in, a single cello playing a haunting elegy, but he didn’t react to it. Could he even hear it, or was this yet another of her private experiences?
‘You’re my most talented student, and yet…’ He turned, and a shock jolted through Ailen’s body when she saw the single tear trailing down his cheek. ‘I need to let you go. Release you from your studies.’
She nodded. Numb.
‘Yesterday’s events proved that you’re too delicate, my dear. This life—being a professional musician, the constant pressure—it would break you. I won’t be responsible for that. Your health is more important than my pride.’
He stepped closer. Took both her hands in his, more gently than she could ever have imagined.
‘I love you as if you were my own daughter. You know that, don’t you?’ He let go of her hands and took a step back. ‘Be well. Let the music guide you. Let music be your joy, your salvation. Promise me that.’
She nodded.
‘Will I see you again?’
‘Of course you will. I may no longer be your maestro, but know that my heart will always beat to the rhythm of your music. My door will always be open to you.’
She looked up at him. Wanted to say, thank you, but the words stuck in her throat. Afraid she might break down again, she turned brusquely and fled. But as she ran home, through vineyards and olive groves, through fields where poppies and lavender perfumed the air, a new song came to her.
Il Senzio screeched, but Ailen smiled and ran faster. Not today, she thought at her tormentor. Not today. I need to write this music down.
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