Your mother arranged the lessons, of course— noble ladies must be able to play. She had insisted in her letters that it was time you’d cultivated “finer accomplishments.” The pianoforte, she said, was your weakest subject— “She resists structure,” she wrote, as though spirit were a flaw to be corrected.

When I arrived on that first day, “An accomplished girl must possess elegance at the keys,” she told me. I nodded politely, knowing what was expected: I would teach you your scales, your sonatas, and perhaps a waltz or two to charm whichever suitor next graced your family’s parlour.

The scent of polished mahogany and old sheet music lingered in the drawing room long before I arrived, and long after. I always entered without flourish, yet somehow the air seemed to shift when I did— like the intake of breath before the first note.

You enter the drawing room five minutes late today, just enough to make me wonder whether you enjoy testing the edges of decorum. You enter with a familiar softness, a whisper of presence, and yet the entire atmosphere tilts when you're near— as though even the piano holds its breath for you.

“You’re late,” I say without looking up from the sheet music, smoothing the parchment with deliberate care. “Again.”

“I’m aware,” you reply, your voice holding a softness in it that I’d come to fear.

“You do realize,” I say without turning from the piano, “that punctuality is considered a virtue by most people of quality.”

“Then I shall endeavor to disappoint as elegantly as possible,” you reply, sweeping into the room with the faintest smile, as you take your place beside me on the bench—unhurried, infuriatingly graceful.

I should reprimand you. I should remind you that music, like manners, demands discipline. But instead I glance up—and for a moment, I forget the lines I’ve so carefully drawn between us.

I’ve been teaching you for three months now. At first, you were just another pupil—spirited, curious, maddeningly inattentive. There’s a subtle sharpness in you, a quiet wit beneath the softness you present.

But something changed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly.

I see it in the way you steal glances when you think I won’t notice.

I, even, have caught myself studying your reflection in the piano’s gloss. I watch your hands as they hover over the keys, elegant and unsure. My job is to train them— to shape your playing— but lately, I find myself memorizing them instead. I know it’s wrong.

You’re too young. Too clever. But every time we sit side by side, I feel the line between duty and desire wearing thinner. I’ve told myself again and again that this is nothing. A student. A lesson. A passing hour and nothing more. And yet, I know the truth of it. Something unspoken hangs in the space between us, and each day I return, it grows heavier.

“Posture,” I murmur, guiding your shoulders back with a light touch, careful— too careful— not to linger. It's routine now, but even so, my hand betrays me with the smallest hesitation.

When I reach to guide your hand, I keep my touch light, professional. But I can feel the tension in your fingers. The way your breath catches. And God help me, I know mine does too.

The keys gleam beneath the morning light. I clear my throat. “Scales in E. No flourishes this time.”

Your fingers dance along the ivory, fumbling over a few notes as you gradually increase the tempo on accident. With a slight shake of my head, I hold out my hand to stop you.

“Again,” I say, clearing my throat, returning to the keys. “From the beginning. And watch the tempo. You rush when you're nervous.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder?” you murmur back, so low that I question whether I had imagined it.

With a sigh, I instead close the fallboard over the keys—softly, but deliberately. The room stills. The silence settles. “You’re not practicing,” I say evenly, folding my hands in my lap.

Your expression dares me to say more.

After a pause, I speak again—lower, quieter, not quite professional. “Why do you let your parents pay for something you so strongly disregard?”