The air in Rehearsal Room 3 smelled of resin, old wood, and unyielding expectation.
Stella stood at the center of the empty floor, her mother’s cello—a 1712 Guarneri—propped between her knees. Its curves felt alien, a topography of another life. The bow in her right hand was the one from Iceland, now freshly rehaired and rosined. It felt like holding a weapon disguised as a tool.
Lin Yawen stood by the grand piano, a silhouette of elegant austerity in a black cashmere dress. She had not embraced Stella upon her arrival. She had simply nodded, gestured to the waiting instrument, and said, “Let us hear what the silence of Iceland has taught you.”
“You requested the Sarabande from the Fifth Suite,” Stella said, her voice carefully neutral. She was channeling her legal deponent voice: resp
