Chapter 2

Fiona arrived at Laura’s studio in very good time. Laura answered the door wearing a silk blouse and godet skirt, her hair pinned up in a way that made Fiona’s fingers itch to pull it free.

“You’re early,” Laura remarked, stepping aside to let her in. The studio was an elegant converted loft space with high ceilings, its centerpiece a gleaming Steinway grand piano. The scent of bergamot and rosin hung heavy in the air.

Fiona’s throat went dry at the sight of the grand piano, its polished black surface reflecting Laura’s silhouette. “This is quite a step up from my upright,” she said, eyeing the raised lid and the long sweep of the keyboard. “It’s enormous.”

Laura’s lips curved as she walked around the instrument. “A grand piano presents a different experience, but I’m sure you’ll adjust quickly.” She traced the edge of the fallboard with one finger, before flipping it open. “Sit down.”

Fiona lowered herself onto the bench, hyperaware of Laura standing just behind her right shoulder. She flexed her fingers, feeling they had to be fully ready as a new world was waiting for them. Then her hands hovered over the keys, awaiting directions.

“Begin with scales,” Laura instructed, her breath warm against Fiona’s ear. “Hands separate.” She moved immediately behind Fiona, putting her hands on her shoulders. “Posture straight.”

Fiona inhaled shakily and positioned her hands, the keys cool beneath her fingertips. She played the C-sharp minor scale slowly, each note reverberating through the cavernous studio. Laura was on the move, circling the piano like a predator, listening carefully with every step.

“Again,” Laura murmured when Fiona finished. “Faster this time.”

Fiona obeyed, the notes tumbling out more fluidly now. Laura’s shadow fell across the keys as she completed her circle. She leaned closer, very close, and a single lock of hair escaped her updo, brushing Fiona’s cheek as she played.

“Good,” Laura murmured. Her hands settling on Fiona’s shoulders again, thumb pressing into the hollow of her collarbone. “Now hands together.”

The first chord Fiona struck was too loud, the Steinway’s resonance vibrating up her arms. Laura exhaled - almost a laugh - and slid onto the bench beside her, their thighs touching. “Control the pressure,” she instructed, covering Fiona’s right hand with her own. “The keys respond differently than your upright.” Her fingers lingered, warm and familiar, before guiding Fiona’s into position.

They played a descending scale in unison, Laura’s tempo flawless. Fiona’s pulse hammered when Laura’s left hand drifted to her waist, adjusting her posture. “Better,” Laura murmured, her lips grazing Fiona’s earlobe. The metronome’s steady tick filled the pause between scales, each beat syncing with the throb Fiona could feel between her legs.

Laura stood abruptly, surveying Fiona with a calculating look. “Now the étude.” She placed sheet music on the top board, her own handwritten markings crowding the margins.

The first measure came out jagged, Fiona’s fingers stumbling over left-hand arpeggios. Laura clicked her tongue and seized Fiona’s wrist mid-note, halting the melody. “Patience,” she chided, dragging Fiona’s hand lower on the keys. “Feel the weight first.” Her thumb pressed into Fiona’s pulse point - hard enough to leave marks - as she demonstrated proper pressure.

Fiona’s next attempt earned a hum of approval, but Laura didn’t release her grip. Instead, she guided Fiona’s fingers through the phrase, her other hand sliding over Fiona’s blouse to splay across her abdomen. “Breathe into it,” Laura murmured, her palm rising with Fiona’s inhale. The heat of her touch bled through the thin fabric.

The étude improved with the notes flowing more smoothly. “Keep playing,” Laura ordered, her lips close to Fiona’s ear again, the command vibrating through Fiona’s bones.

Fiona tried hard to keep her concentration, despite her excitement at being alone with Laura again and despite her close proximity, but her fingers faltered on a chromatic run. “Let’s stop there for a minute,” Laura murmured, her lips still close to Fiona’s ear.

Laura extended a hand above middle C, demonstrating proper wrist rotation. “The trill needs more precision,” she chided. “And you’re rushing the sixteenth notes,” she said with a disapproving look. Let’s try it again from measure twelve.”

The metronome’s ticking grew louder as Laura increased the tempo, her left hand forcing Fiona’s fingers into the correct sequence while her right worked in counterpoint. Fiona gasped when Laura’s thumb pressed the exact spot beneath her ribs that made her back arch.

“Focus,” Laura commanded, her voice a velvet whip. Her lips closed in on Fiona’s earlobe. “Theodor Leschetizky once said that a pianist’s most important tools are patience and control.” Now she backed away. “This is a good time to prove you have both. Again from measure twelve.” She tapped the sheet music with one polished fingernail.

Fiona readied herself. The metronome’s relentless tick filled the studio as Laura pressed two fingers beneath her forearm to adjust her form. “Elbows higher.” Fiona began to play, determined to concentrate.

“Better,” Laura murmured, her lips grazing the shell of Fiona’s ear, her hands resting on Fiona’s shoulders again. “Now the trill.” Suddenly her right hand intertwined with Fiona’s on the keys, their joined fingers executing the rapid oscillation with flawless synchrony. The intimacy of the shared technique sent heat pooling low in Fiona’s abdomen, every brush of Laura’s skin against hers a silent lesson in restraint.

The étude’s melody swelled as Fiona played on, without assistance now. She made it safely through the chromatic run this time and executed a flawless legato passage, feeling Laura’s fingers tighten on her shoulders. “Good,” Laura conceded, her voice sounding pleasantly surprised.

Fiona reached the end of the piece, happy with her effort and hoping for praise, but it seemed that Laura wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Again,” she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of Fiona’s ear, “from the cadenza.” Fiona obeyed, keeping very focused as Laura had instructed.

“Good,” Laura said again. “Now let’s try the Appassionata.” Fiona hesitated, her fingers hovering above the keys. The piece was above her current skill level, but she’d managed to play the first movement in her last lesson, so she was willing to attempt it again.

Laura loosened her grip on Fiona’s shoulders. “Unless you’d prefer another étude?” The unspoken challenge hung between them like the dissonant suspension of a half-diminished chord. Receiving no reply, Laura switched the sheet music on the top board.

Fiona got her fingers into position and plunged into Beethoven’s tempestuous opening octaves. On the first fortissimo descent the Steinway’s strings vibrated violently, the sound reverberating through Laura’s loft like a shockwave. Before the last echo faded, Laura’s hand clamped over Fiona’s wrist mid-arpeggio, halting the next note with brutal efficiency.

“Too harsh,” Laura murmured, her breath hot against Fiona’s ear as she dragged Fiona’s limp hand away from the keyboard. “Grand pianos require finesse. You’re treating it like your upright at home.”

Fiona swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering beneath Laura’s thumb where it pressed against her wrist. The comparison wasn’t lost on her. This piano, rather like Laura herself, demanded careful handling.

Laura’s grip shifted, her fingers sliding between Fiona’s with practiced ease. “Feel the keybed,” she instructed, guiding Fiona’s hand back to the keyboard with agonizing slowness. “Don’t attack. Seduce it.” Her other hand settled at the nape of Fiona’s neck, fingertips ghosting along her hairline.

Fiona exhaled shakily, her fingers sinking into the keys with the weight Laura demanded. The Steinway responded differently now, a velvet resistance beneath her touch rather than the sharp rebound of her upright at home. Laura’s approving hum vibrated against her spine as she played the opening bars again, the notes blooming dark and resonant in the charged air.

“Stop,” said Laura, her hands finding Fiona’s shoulders again. “That was okay. But you can do better. Give it another go.”

Fiona tried the opening again, hands trembling slightly as she sank into the first F-minor chord. It growled through the grand piano like a distant storm. She felt it in her ribs.

“Good,” Laura said quietly. “Now the next bar. Don’t rush. Beethoven never rewards rushing.”

Fiona shifted, placed her left hand for the repeated octave figures, and began. The keys were heavier than the upright at home, demanding more strength, more certainty. Her fingers faltered on the third repetition, slipping just a touch.

“Stop.”

Laura moved away and circled the piano. “You’re playing the notes,” she said, “but you’re not playing the weight. This piece isn’t polite. It won’t let you hide.” She stopped when she was directly opposite Fiona, looking straight at her, expectantly.

Fiona nodded, swallowing, and tried again, very focused. Left hand - dark, steady pulses. Right hand - those hesitant answering chords. The sound shook the air, richer and fiercer than she’d imagined. Her heart pounded with it.

“Better,” Laura murmured. “Now bring out the contrast. The quiet is just as dangerous as the loud.”

Fiona attempted the passage once more. Her left hand launched into the pattern with newfound force, but her right hand missed a chord entirely. The clash echoed harshly. She flinched at her mistake.

“We’ll need to punish you for that,” Laura said immediately, her tone sharpening but not unkind. “Or at least make you forfeit something. As a disciplinary measure.”

Fiona’s breath hitched, not knowing what Laura had in mind. The air thickened between them, the metronome’s steady tick the only sound filling the loft. Laura’s fingers tapped against the piano, as she considered the matter. “Take your blouse off.”

Fiona was surprised, but after a brief hesitation she reached for the top button of her blouse and popped it open. Feeling that this was a forfeit she could easily cope with, the other buttons soon followed. She laid the blouse on the bench beside her and sat in her lacy bra, ready to resume playing. Cool air licked her exposed skin, but Laura’s gaze burned hotter, her teaching detachment fraying at the edges.

Laura focused on the lesson again. “Eyes on the music,” she instructed. “From the top.” Fiona drew a deep breath. She tried to relax, but the tension of playing a piece like the Appassionata snaked through her body regardless.

This time the opening landed like a blow. The grand thrummed beneath her, vibrating through her elbows, her knees, right down into the soles of her shoes. She felt dwarfed by the instrument, but exhilarated too, as though she was trying to hold onto a wild horse with both hands.

Laura watched her closely. Not indulgent. Not overly gentle. But completely invested. “Good,” she said. “Now the transition. And be careful. This is where most students lose control.”

Fiona attempted it, but the tempo slipped away from her, fingers scrambling to keep up. She stumbled, the phrase collapsing. She winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just listen,” Laura said, stepping around the piano. She reached over and played the passage herself - slowly, powerfully, each note deliberate, carved out of the air. “It’s not about speed. It’s about inevitability. The tension should feel like a held breath.”

Fiona nodded, mesmerized by the sound.

“Now you,” Laura said softly, moving out of the way and giving her room. “Before you start though, you owe me another forfeit.”

Fiona’s fingers froze mid-air. “What?”

Laura kept her waiting for a while, as she considered. “Take off your shoes and socks.”

“Surely that’s four forfeits?”

“It’s only one in my book,” replied Laura. “It means you’ll need to play the pedals barefoot.”

Fiona hesitated, still thinking that this was effectively four forfeits, but then bent to untie her ballet flats, the familiar act suddenly charged with intimacy. She peeled off her socks, exposing high arches and pink-polished toes that curled instinctively against the polished hardwood floor. The cool surface sent a shiver up her spine - or perhaps it was Laura’s gaze tracing the curve of her instep as she flexed her foot experimentally over the damper pedal.

“Pedal with your heel, not your toes,” Laura instructed, but her voice had gone rough at the edges. She cleared her throat and tapped the sheet music with sudden impatience. “From the development section. And this time—” Her hand closed around Fiona’s bare ankle, guiding her foot into position, “—listen for the resonance. The Steinway will tell you when to lift.” Fiona’s breath shalowed as Laura’s thumb pressed into the delicate tendon above her heel.

Fiona matched her hands to the keys and tried again. Her arms were shaking with the effort, but this time she didn’t stop. She pushed through the unevenness, through the fear, through the part of her mind that told her she wasn’t ready for this piece and might never be.

The transition completed - messy, imperfect, but whole. She gasped, half in shock, half in triumph. Laura merely nodded, allowing a small smile to cross her face.

Fiona stared at the keys, chest heaving. She felt wrung out, stretched thin, but alive in a way she hadn’t expected. The Appassionata had swallowed her whole and she was still in the process of finding her way out.

“Again,” said Laura.

“Again?” she asked.

“Again,” said Laura.

Fiona took a moment to steady herself, flexing her fingers. They ached slightly, but the ache felt honest - the kind that came from pushing past what she believed she could do.

Laura stepped back to give her space. “This time,” she said, “focus on the left hand alone. Forget the melody. Feel the engine of the piece.”

Fiona nodded. She set her hand down and began the octave pattern again. This time it landed differently. The repeated notes were firmer, more grounded - less frantic, more deliberate. They rolled forward with a dark inevitability, like footsteps down a long hallway. She kept the tempo steady, refusing to let her nerves rush her.

Laura’s eyes sharpened. “Yes,” she said quietly. “That’s it. Now make it breathe.”

Fiona adjusted her wrist, letting the sound swell and retreat, tiny gradations of volume shaping the line. It was still rough, still uncertain, but something was opening underneath it - control she hadn’t known she had.

“That’s better than earlier,” Laura said. “Much better.” Fiona almost smiled, but her intense concentration prevented her.