“You play beautifully.” He doesn’t respond. Instead he glares at me so fiercely that I feel like I might burst into flames. “It’s really hard to play Tchaikovsky. I’ve tried,” I add with a weak laugh. His eyes narrow. “You know that song?” “‘Flight of the Swans?’ Of course. It’s from the most famous ballet ever.” Looking down, he rubs a hand over his beard. “It was Anya’s favorite.” I pluck up the courage to step closer. “Where did you learn to play like that?” “My mom taught me.” “She must have been a good teacher.” A faint smile flickers over his lips. “She was.”
