Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
I take out the history textbook and my notebook and pencil from my bag (I take notes better by hand than laptop) and stare at him while waiting for the class to start, like every student seems to be.
“Ah,” he says, standing up straight and glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “I guess we shall begin our class then. My name is Professor Valtu Aminoff, but please call me Valtu.” He says this in Italian, his accent fluent. I have no doubt he can speak countless languages fluently. While I learned German and French growing up and in university, it takes a spell or two to really master another language. As a result, I learned Italian quickly but writing it can be hard for me, and I definitely don’t sound Italian when I speak. He, on the other hand, looks and sounds as if he was born in Venice. Perhaps he was. The history books of the witches have Dracula born in Russia, but they might be wrong.
The thought of Russia slams a memory into my head, one of me on the ground, looking up at a man speaking to me in Russian. But I realize this isn’t a memory at all but a fragment from a dream, from the nightmare I had last night. In all those dreams I could never understand the language spoken, but suddenly now I do.
Why was I dreaming in Russian?
“Now I know you are all students of music,” he goes on, his deep, slightly melodic voice bringing my attention back to him, “and you probably don’t give a rat’s ass about history. You know your stuff, so you say. You can tell me all about Mozart, right? You know Verdi, of course you do, this is Italy. But what about Mendelssohn? Do you know that he was subjected to anti-semitism, brought on by Wagner who was actually jealous of his success? How about Barber, who composed Sadness, a 23-bar piece in C minor at the age of seven.” He pauses, a crooked smile on his lips, as if smiling to himself. I swear I hear the internal swooning of the girl in the seat beside me. “I know you are all here because you want to perfect your skills, whether in strings, percussion, keys, whatever it is. You are musicians ascending to the next level. But in order to really play music, you have to understand where it comes from. There’s no way around it.”
And with that speech, Professor Aminoff launches into what we will be learning over the semester, and I do my best to listen and take notes, like a normal student would do. Only my notes are written down as if I’m on autopilot, because what I’m really doing is trying to understand him. What excites this vampire? What is he passionate about? How will I stand out in this classroom amongst other students who are far prettier or handsomer? How will I endear him to me, enough to get him alone, to infiltrate his life so I can do the job I was sent here to do?
“And you,” Valtu’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I realize he’s turned his attention to me. In fact, I’m only now cluing in that he’s been asking everyone in the class to divulge a little bit about themselves.
Everyone’s eyes are on me and Valtu gives me a slight smirk, his dark eyes glimmering like he knows he’s caught me not paying attention (the irony, when he’s all I’ve been thinking about).
“And what about me?” I say to him, looking him dead in the eyes.
He holds my gaze, his right brow arching slightly. “If you care to follow suit and introduce yourself to the class.”
“As if we are in kindergarten?” I ask, then look around at my classmates who are staring at me, some smiling at what I said, a few looking far-too serious. “All right then. My name is Dahlia Abernathy. I was born in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. My musical instrument of choice is the organ.”
“Ah,” the professor muses and I bring my attention back to him. He’s in front of the desk now, leaning against it with practiced ease, arms folded across his chest. A lock of his dark hair falls across his forehead, giving him the brooding, wild look of Heathcliff wandering the moors, or so I’ve imagined. “One of the four organists I am teaching this year. You’re a dying breed. You’ll have to tell me why you took up the instrument.”
I straighten my shoulders, belied by some inner confidence that slides upon me like stage makeup when I’m playing a role. “I’d rather show you why,” I tell him.
He tilts his head, as if taken aback, staring at me like I’ve totally thrown him off course. “Very well,” he says, then clears his throat, moving onto the next student.