Rinoa sat in front of Mayor Dobe's house, arms resting on her drawn-up knees, and waited while Selphie rummaged through a pale green folder. Behind Selphie, some residents of Fisherman's Horizon worked with Garden students at setting up a stage, while another group of students painted signs nearby. Rinoa was relieved to find that most of the FH townspeople were far more easygoing than Dobe, and they seemed excited to help with the Garden Festival preparations. She wondered, though, how they managed to convince Dobe to allow the concert right outside his home. Perhaps giving his permission was his roundabout way of thanking them for saving his life.
Off to Selphie's right, a large piano had been wheeled in, and now served as a shelf upon which other instruments lay. Rinoa eyed the piano with a mixture of nostalgia and distaste. On one hand, it reminded her of her mother, and the times she sat with her, picking out the notes to childish melodies; on the other hand, it recalled forced piano lessons under her father's scrutiny, lessons she pointedly abandoned when she was thirteen.
"Ah-ha!" said Selphie, waving sheet music in Irvine's face. "I told you I had them all." Without waiting for Irvine's reply, she turned and examined the instruments, checking them against the scores in her hand. Having been excluded from direct participation for what Selphie called "something more important" – no doubt involving Squall – Rinoa watched with mild interest as the others tried to sort out the musical scores Selphie claimed had gotten mixed up during the Garden's collision with FH.
"Okay," Selphie said, "first up is the bass guitar. Zell, you wanna try?"
The bass guitar gave no melodic indication of the song to which it belonged, but at least it established a rhythm, one which was completely at odds with that of the acoustic guitar Zell tried next.
Rinoa frowned. "Selphie, these songs don't even have the same tempo. How can you not tell the scores apart?"
Quistis looked from Rinoa to Selphie and narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute," she said, jabbing an accusatory finger toward Selphie. "You already knew which scores belonged together. You just don't know what the songs sound like yet, do you?"
"Nope!" Selphie gleefully admitted. "Irvine knows a little, though."
"Really!" Rinoa placed her palm on her forehead, recognizing it as a very Squall-like gesture, but beginning to understand why he did it so often.
"Hey, I haven't had a lot of time. All right, next instrument!"
Zell tried several more instruments, and Rinoa let her thoughts wander. She was jolted back to attention, though, when he began playing the piano. The notes were rough and uncertain, but the rhythm and tone were familiar, and brought to her mind the plush seats of the Deling City Opera House, the polished brass railing of the box where she sat with her parents, and the scent of roses from the bouquet lying across her mother's lap. Rinoa shook her head and focused on some students propping a freshly-painted sign against some scaffolding to dry. The music's familiarity could be a coincidence; after all, many songs shared similar rhythm sections.
Zell finished playing and stood up. "Man, I'm beat! Someone else try the next one."
Irvine took him up on the offer, plucking a sheet of music from Selphie's hand and picking up a saxophone. He played a few random notes, then launched into a halting rendition of the music on the page before him. A chill shot through Rinoa's veins. She began to tremble, clenching her fists to try to hide her shaking. Fighting the urge to cry, she stood quickly.
"Please stop," she said, managing to keep her voice steady. "Please, don't play that part anymore."
Zell looked at her warily. "Hey, you okay, Rinoa?"
"Yeah. It's just … I don't think this song is the best fit for tonight."
"But it sets the mood!" Selphie said.
"And it's got a sax!" Irvine added.
"And it sounds so much like the one you and Squall danced to!"
"Yeah! Wait, what?"
"That's exactly the problem," Rinoa lied, ignoring Irvine. "What if that memory embarrasses him? That's not a great way to start the evening. Besides, the music doesn't need to 'set the mood', it should just be fun. This is a celebration for everyone to enjoy, right?"
Selphie's shoulders drooped. "You have a point. I guess I just wanted to spice things up for you and Squall, you know?"
"Something tells me that Squall wouldn't appreciate that 'spice,'" Quistis said. "Sultry saxophone music is more likely to scare him off."
Irvine, meanwhile, hovered around Selphie, poking her shoulder and waving his hand in front of her face. She swatted it away. "What is it, Irvine?"
"What do you mean, Squall and Rinoa danced? When did this happen?"
Selphie grinned and began recounting the events of the SeeD inauguration ball, with Zell and Quistis offering additional commentary. Rinoa sat down again, grateful for the distraction in that it gave her a chance to calm her breathing and steady her hands. The melody itself hadn't upset her; she'd grown up hearing different renditions of her mother's song. But this version, the last her mother had had a hand in arranging, was far less common, especially outside of Deling City, and for Rinoa, it was inseparable from some very powerful memories.
Memories she didn't care to share with anyone. None of the others seemed to know who had written the song, anyway; even if they did, they hadn't made the connection between Julia's name and hers. Rinoa admitted their ignorance stung a bit, but decided it was for the best. She was already an outsider among the group, and revealing she was also the daughter of a famous musician might only reinforce that status in the minds of her companions.
As she watched Selphie place the scores back in the folder, though, she felt a strong urge to seize them for herself, to jealously guard the song and the feelings it evoked in her from others who knew nearly nothing about it. At the very least, she wanted to look the scores over in her own time, away from inquisitive eyes and intrusive questions, to hold them in her hands and possibly feel, through the years and the ink, her mother's presence in those notes. But with the awkwardness of her outburst still fresh in her mind, she said nothing, and instead hoped to waylay Selphie during a quiet moment and ask, with little fanfare, to see the music.
"Well, it's decided then!" Selphie announced. "We'll be playing the jig."
"On the bright side," said Irvine, "this song has a tap-dancing part. Come on, Quisty, start steppin'!"
"But I thought you were going to be our twinkle-toes, Irvine."
"Quistis says she has no musical talent, and this doesn't require any. It's perfect."
"No, it's too silly for her." Selphie grabbed the acoustic guitar and shoved it toward Quistis. "Here, Quistis, try the guitar. It's only a few chords, you can learn 'em quick. It's easy! Here, I'll show you ..."
* * *
It was late afternoon when the group took a break from practice. Rinoa had stayed out there with them, reading a book she'd convinced the Library Committee to lend her and enjoying the sunlight and her new surroundings after having been cooped up inside the Garden while it was adrift. She listened to the others bicker and collaborate and finally play a decent rendition of the song. It retained a tentative quality, but considering their overall lack of formal training, it was quite an accomplishment. Still, Rinoa was glad she had been able to talk them out of performing the other piece.
She hadn't managed to get her hands on the scores, though. The quiet moment in which she'd hoped to ask Selphie for them never came. All day, Selphie had been fully embodying the role of harried producer, coaching her friends through their practice one minute, assisting with set-up the next. Furthermore, as soon as the music and instruments for the jig had been distributed, Selphie had carelessly tossed the folder containing the four unused scores onto the stage, from where it was shuffled around like the ball in a shell game, until Rinoa lost track of where it might be.
Quistis leaned the guitar at the foot of the stage and rubbed the fingertips on her left hand, then walked toward Rinoa. "I'm heading back to the Garden to get a little rest before tonight," she said. "You probably should, too."
Rinoa nodded, closing her book and getting up. She dusted off her clothes and looked at the others. "What about them?"
"Selphie and Zell want to run through their parts a few more times. I guess Irvine's there for moral support."
"Are you comfortable with your part?"
"Yes. Like Selphie said, it was easy to learn. It's short, simple, and repetitive. I'll probably be playing it in my dreams tonight."
Rinoa chuckled. As they walked past the piano, a student ran up to them. "Instr — I mean, Miss Trepe, would you like us to move the piano back inside now?" he asked.
"Yes, please," Quistis replied, scanning the area for more unoccupied students. "Just get a few more people to help you. Be very careful with it."
Rinoa began to climb the stairs up from the mayor's house. "I didn't know you had a piano at Garden," she said.
"Usually, it's kept in storage, and only rolled out for official events and important visitors: well-to-do clients, benefactors, parents of prospective students." Quistis counted these off on her fingers. "They all want to know that Garden is a reputable institution that provides a well-rounded education, and not, as our detractors claim, just a mercenary factory."
"I get the feeling you've said that last line plenty of times."
Quistis smiled. "I've hosted my fair share of tours. By the way, I saw you admiring the piano earlier. Do you play?"
"I used to. I stopped a few years ago." Rinoa braced for more questions, but Quistis pressed no further. Uncomfortable with the silence that followed, and hopeful that Quistis might know something about the whereabouts of the music folder, Rinoa asked whether she'd seen where it had disappeared to.
Quistis shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. That folder has a tendency to travel."
"What do you mean?"
"The folder belonged to Wimbly Donner, the producer before Selphie. His tastes were ... more sophisticated than his fellow students', and he had some very big plans for the festival programming. I heard he actually traveled to Dollet and Galbadia just to track down different music." Quistis sighed. "If only he'd applied the same determination to his studies."
"Galbadia. That explains some things."
"Hm?"
"The other song you guys tried today comes from Galbadia. I remember hearing it when I was very little."
"Is that why it affected you so deeply?" Quistis asked. She turned and studied Rinoa in a way that made Rinoa feel self-conscious, transparent, as if her hopes, fears, and secrets had become as visible as tattoos across her body. "You seemed to have a very visceral reaction to hearing Irvine play it."
Rinoa looked away, feeling the warmth rise in her cheeks as she prepared to explain away her reaction. "I hadn't heard it in such a long time, but it felt so familiar. I guess the nostalgia just overwhelmed me." She swallowed hard, her mouth gone dry. "It's really strange, though. For all the memories it brings back, I can't remember exactly what the arrangement is called, or where it was played. That's why I was hoping to take a look at the scores. They probably have the answers."
It wasn't an outright lie. If she'd failed to convince Quistis, Quistis hid it well. "I'm sure the folder will turn up as we start to break things down tonight," Quistis said. "It couldn't have gone too far."
"I hope so. I'll check with Selphie after the concert." Rinoa nodded to herself and smiled, and she and Quistis chatted about lighter matters the rest of the way back to Garden.
* * *
Rinoa was mortified to discover that the solar panels on which she stood offered a very advantageous reflection of her body beneath the dress she wore. That realization, coupled with the pain in her feet of having landed on the panels from a considerable height while wearing high-heeled shoes, made her regret allowing herself to be talked into wearing this outfit. She hadn't planned on it; in fact, if not for a simple oversight, it never would have been an option.
She'd accidentally brought the outfit with her. After the SeeD inauguration ball, she'd changed clothes at the hotel in Balamb before boarding the train back to Timber, and she hadn't had time to unpack them before the events of the next day. And then, she'd just grabbed her satchel, thrown a few potions and a box of dog treats inside, and run. She assumed the heaviness was due to the extra supplies and didn't even realize the dress and shoes were still in there until she reclaimed her belongings at the D-District Prison. The guard there made a show of gingerly folding and repacking the dress while Irvine stood behind her, quaking with barely-contained laughter.
She also hadn't planned on spending the evening stranded on a solar array. Shoving Squall from the platform had been an impulsive move, but one she'd deemed necessary to force him out of his comfort zone. His initial outburst aside, it seemed to work. He let her speak, protesting only mildly by way of a pessimistic remark, and made no attempt to leave. He'd even surprised her with an effort to continue the conversation, redirecting her question about future plans back to her. Unprepared for this, Rinoa admitted that she didn't want to talk about the future, either.
"But right now," she said, "I wanna stay right here ... like this."
For a while, neither of them spoke. Rinoa, now mindful of the panels' reflection, placed her feet closer together and watched Squall as he looked up at the sky, his gaze moving down along the sides of the concave array, where the lights from the stage played across the panels.
"Like this," he repeated absently, his expression very much like the one he'd worn after their dance – tranquil, dreamy, the trace of a smile on his lips. He turned toward her again, but when their eyes met, he blinked and looked up in the direction of the stage.
Rinoa smiled. "You have to admit," she said, "this is actually pretty nice. Considering all the commotion up there, this is probably the best place to be."
"But what about when that commotion dies down?" Squall squinted at the center platform and frowned. "How are we getting out of here?"
"What do you mean? We can just climb out, right?"
He turned his frown on her, then walked toward the platform. As he neared its base, Rinoa noticed with growing dread that the panels sloped downward toward the middle. Squall stood flush against the side of the platform and raised his arms, but his fingertips reached well shy of the upper edge. He jumped once, to little effect, but landed hard and immediately began examining the panel beneath him.
"I didn't realize it was that high up," Rinoa said, walking over.
"Yeah. I'm surprised neither of us got hurt." He finished his inspection and tapped the panel with the toe of his boot. "We're also lucky these panels are quite sturdy. What in the world were you thinking?"
"I don't know! I panicked. You were ready to walk away from the conversation like you always do, and I had to find a way to get you to listen."
Squall's expression softened. He sat down and leaned against the platform. Rinoa followed, stretching her legs out in front of her and tucking her dress underneath. Above them, the song was finally winding down.
"Why are you so persistent?" Squall asked. There was no annoyance in his voice; rather, he sounded confused, as if he genuinely could not fathom why anyone would care to get close to him.
"Because I know there's more to you than what you show the world," Rinoa answered. "I've seen it a few times, myself, like when we reunited with Selphie and the others. I don't know why you're so scared of letting it show, but I wish I could convince you otherwise. Nobody's going to think less of you if you do."
"It's not that —"
"Easy, I know. Changes never are. They take time. But like you said, I'm persistent. I can be pretty patient, too, so don't think you'll be able to wait me out!"
Though the song had ended, Selphie had seized the microphone and was now introducing her bandmates to the audience. "You know," Rinoa said thoughtfully, "once things quiet down, this'll be a good opportunity for you to try asking the others for help."
"I won't have to. They'll find us."
"Wow, that's a confident statement! I guess I finally got through to you."
Squall shook his head and jerked his thumb toward the top of the platform. "Irvine wouldn't leave his magazine behind," he said. "He'll probably have something to say about this, too."
"Oh, Irvine can go ... fly a kite!"
Squall smirked. "You can't say it, can you?"
"No, I can't!" Rinoa crossed her arms. "It goes against my nature."
"Whatever."
A roar went up among the audience above. Selphie had apparently turned the concert into a rally against Galbadia and the sorceress. Rinoa heard the word "annihilate" once or twice, as well as an oddly specific statement about Galbadian soldiers' body odor.
"Selphie's getting everyone worked up," Rinoa said. "I wonder where she gets her energy."
"It's probably just adrenaline at this point."
"I think you're right. I'll bet you anything, she's going to crash hard once she gets back to Garden."
Squall hiked an eyebrow mischievously. "So, you won't curse, but you'll gamble?"
Rinoa made a sound of mock-indignation and gave his shoulder a playful shove. He swayed to the side — rather dramatically, she thought — and tried to look severe, but his mouth turned up at one corner, betraying his amusement. The mood between them had become relatively pleasant, and Rinoa didn't want to risk shattering it by forcing him into further conversation, so she said no more and tried to concentrate on something else.
As they had all day, the unused scores once again came to mind. Her desire to have the music to herself, even for a little while, went beyond curiosity, beyond nostalgia. In the time she had spent with Squall and the others, she'd come to think of them as her friends, and done her best to adapt to their lifestyle. But every step she took with them led her further from the world she knew. In unfamiliar surroundings and faced with an uncertain future, she craved comfort, an emotional touchstone to remind her who she was, and that the life she left behind hadn't always been so fraught with tension. They probably have the answers, she'd told Quistis of the scores; but Rinoa realized she wasn't seeking answers so much as she was chasing an elusive sense of peace.
Cheers and applause signaled the end of Selphie's pep talk, but Selphie was not yet ready to relinquish the stage. "All right," she said, "let's send this evening out on a high note! Balamb Garden, this is for you!" She counted off, and the jig started up again. Rinoa and Squall looked at each other in disbelief, then groaned in unison.
* * *
The song didn't last as long the second time, the tap-dancing part fading away well before the instruments. Selphie wished everyone a good night, and Rinoa heard the shuffle and chatter of students filing up the staircase, headed back to Garden. When at last she heard the sounds of the stage being dismantled, she stood up, shouted, and banged on the side of the platform. Squall must have dozed off in the meantime, because at the noise, he scrambled to his feet, assuming a defensive position, and reached for a weapon that wasn't there. When his fingers grasped only air, he blinked and shook his head, frowning.
Rinoa waited for him to orient himself, grateful that he hadn't reacted that way those times she'd woken him in his dorm room. When Squall at last seemed to realize where he was, Rinoa refrained from mentioning his outsized – no doubt highly conditioned – response, and instead put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. "Well, aren't you going to help me?" she asked.
"By doing what?"
"Calling out to the others, of course."
He waved her suggestion away. "You're making enough noise on your own."
"Come on, just once. Show me you actually heard anything I told you tonight."
That got a reaction. Squall's brow furrowed, and he tilted his head back. "Hey," he shouted. "Guys, can you hear me? Quistis, Irvine, Zell!" He looked back at Rinoa, his face flushed. "This is stupid."
"No, it's not. You were doing pretty good." Rinoa smiled. She had never heard that tone from him before, and she liked it. His voice was strong, not tinged with anger or pain, just clear and pleasant.
He tried a few more times, then shrugged. "They can't hear me, I guess."
Rinoa, on the other hand, wasn't ready to give up. She placed her fingers to her mouth and gave a sharp whistle. Squall winced and stepped back, and Rinoa's whistle died out into a giggle. Still no response from above. As Rinoa prepared to whistle again, she heard footsteps approaching, followed by Irvine's voice.
"Well," Irvine said, "here's my magazine. But no Rinoa and Squall."
"We're down here, on the solar panels!" Rinoa kicked the side of the platform.
Irvine flipped through the pages, ignoring her. "Huh, they didn't even read it. Maybe that spread was all the inspiration they needed. Hey, you don't think the two of them snuck off somewhere else, do you?"
"Shut up, Irvine! We're down here!"
Irvine's head poked over the edge of the platform, and even though he was backlit, Rinoa could see the grin spread across his face. "Yeesh, that couldn't have been comfortable!" he said. "I hope you guys didn't leave a mess all over these solar panels. Ol' Dobie'd be pissed."
"That's disgusting!"
"Irvine, just be quiet and get us out of here." Squall stood next to Rinoa, one hand on his hip, the other on his forehead.
Irvine tipped his hat, still smirking. "Sure thing, boss. Uh ... how?"
"I can't quite reach the top. Just give me a hand."
Irvine's eyebrows shot up at the request, but he knelt on the platform and extended his arms. Squall grabbed on to Irvine's wrists and began to pull himself up, bracing his feet on the side of the platform and pushing off.
Irvine grunted. "Damn, Squall, you're heavier than you look!"
"Shut up."
When Squall reached the top, he brushed Irvine aside and reached down for Rinoa. Rinoa jumped, prepared to grapple for any textured surface along the side of the platform if need be, but before she made contact with it, Squall's gloved fingers wrapped around her wrists. Determined not to be a burden, she pushed herself up with her feet the best she could, and he lifted her quickly. Hoisting herself over the edge, she saw that Quistis and Zell had joined Irvine, all of them staring wide-eyed at Squall. Squall, meanwhile, rose and dusted his knees, then faced them with a nonchalant expression, the color in his cheeks as equally attributable to effort as it was to embarrassment.
Irvine chuckled. "Geez, Squa – oof!" Whatever comment he'd had escaped his mouth in a rush of air as Zell elbowed him in the stomach.
Ignoring him, Squall gestured to the stage. "How's everything here?"
"The FH technicians are dismantling the stage," Zell said, "and we've got some students packing the equipment back to Garden. We should be done in no time."
"The FH technicians also updated me on the status of the Garden," Quistis added. "They said they only have a few more repairs to make and some tests to run. Everything should be ready to go by early afternoon, at the latest."
Squall nodded. "Sounds good." He scanned the small group, all of whom continued to watch him, then cleared his throat. "If there's nothing else, I'll be heading back."
"Right."
Rinoa stepped forward. "Good night, Squall. Thanks for humoring me."
He turned to go, but stopped halfway and nodded again. "Good night."
Once Squall was out of earshot, Irvine let out a low whistle. "Wow, you even got a 'good night' out of him! Tell me, what else did he say while you guys were down there?"
"Yo, why're you getting so excited?" Zell eyed Irvine suspiciously. "Are you, like, just a couple of twelve-year-old girls in a coat or somethin'?"
"Oh, so you're interested in what's under my coat? Why, Zell, I didn't know you were that kind of guy."
As the two boys began to squabble, Quistis sighed and Rinoa laughed. "Say," she said, "is Selphie still around here?"
"Yes," said Quistis, "she's 'supervising' the tear-down. The FH guys have been pretty gracious about it, but I don't think they like it. Save them."
Rinoa found Selphie standing on a speaker, directing the activity around her, swinging her flute's cleaning rod like a conductor's baton. Selphie glanced back, and smiled when she noticed Rinoa.
"So, Rinnie," she said, sitting down, "how'd your date go?"
"It wasn't a date. The evening was nice, though. You guys sounded really good."
"Thanks!" Selphie leaned over and nudged Rinoa in the ribs. "So, are we going to be seeing a different Squall from now on?"
Rinoa frowned. "It's not that simple. He's pretty set in his ways. Sometimes, it feels like he's actively trying not to change. In the end, it's up to him."
"Wow, it sounds like his gloominess rubbed off on you."
"It's not that. I just don't want you all to expect him to change overnight. I'm not a miracle-worker."
"Hey, you got him to dance, and you got him to talk. That's close enough for me!" A loud crash startled both of them. It was followed by a chorus of apologies from several students, as they scrambled to pick up the sign they'd dropped. Selphie shouted and shook her cleaning rod at them. The flowered handkerchief dangling from its end dulled her threat somewhat, but the students resumed their work and Selphie turned back to Rinoa.
"Selphie," Rinoa said, "I've been meaning to ask you something all day, but I haven't had the chance."
"What is it?"
"I'd like to take a look at the scores for the song you guys didn't play tonight."
"Of course! Rinnie, you should've just cut into practice and asked! Irvine was annoying me anyway, with all his tappity-tapping." Selphie looked around herself, patting the speaker and searching under the remains of the stage. "Aw, bummer! I think the folder I had them in must've gone back with the other instruments. It's all right, though," she said, placing the handkerchief and cleaning rod into the flute case and snapping it shut, "'cause I have to return these instruments to the same storage room. Come on."
Rinoa picked up a violin case and followed Selphie out of the solar array. As they rode the lift to the walkway leading to Garden, Rinoa asked Selphie if the previous producer had left her more information on the scores.
"Wimbly left a note, but I lost it somewhere. Basically, he was really proud of himself for having found this song. He said it was a rare arrangement, especially outside of Galbadia."
"Did Wimbly say how he'd gotten the scores?"
"I think he said he got them from the archives in the Deling City library. They're photocopies, but he made a big deal in his note about some initials on 'em or something. Why do you ask?"
"I want to see if it's the same arrangement I think it is," Rinoa explained, swinging the violin case. "If so, that song was arranged specifically for a theatrical production in Deling City. Usually, on opening nights, the theater gives patrons special gifts, mementos of the premiere. I once got a fancy letter opener from another production, engraved with the premiere date. The initialed scores must have been given away in the same manner." Rinoa grasped the ring hanging from the chain around her neck – her mother's ring. "It's strange that all four of them ended up in the archives."
"From what I can tell," Selphie said, "only two of them are initialed. The copies are pretty faded, though, and the initials are hard to read. I don't think even Wimbly could read them. Then again, the only notes he left with the music were about how good he was at tracking it down. If you can decipher the initials, let me know."
"Of course."
"Thanks!" Selphie drew herself up and saluted. "Glad to have you on the case, Detective Heartilly. Now, let's go get those scores!"
* * *
Rinoa sat cross-legged on a strange bed, dressed in pajamas she'd borrowed from Selphie and surrounded by the belongings of a SeeD who had evacuated the Garden during the chaos instigated by NORG. She smiled at the tiny chocobos marching across her flannel sleeve, then focused on the folder in front of her. As much as she'd thought about its contents throughout the day, she still felt apprehensive about opening it. Hearing this particular rendition of her mother's song after so many years felt odd, haunting. It was a part of her past that had followed her out to a place where her mother could never have imagined she'd end up, a part of her past suddenly laid out for others to share, ignorant though they were of its context. She toyed with the top corner of the folder, then, taking a deep breath, she flipped it open.
As she riffled through the scores inside, she frowned, disappointed in how sloppy they looked. Whoever had run the copies for Wimbly must have been in a hurry: the images were lopsided on the page, the staves running across at an acute angle. Most of the song's identifying information was missing or incomplete, save for the title in small print at the bottom center.
"'Eyes on Me - "Young Love" Version.'" Rinoa read the title aloud. She'd forgotten the name of the production, but vaguely remembered that it centered on two pining teenagers, and the song had likely been arranged to reflect the tastes of the youth at the time. Rinoa scanned the bass guitar score for the initials Selphie mentioned but found none; the electric guitar score was similarly barren. She looked at the saxophone score, and there, in the upper-right corner, she spied the initials "A.P." Albrecht Portner. Rinoa smiled, recalling a short, lean man with thinning hair, who had frequently collaborated with Julia. Classically trained and commercially savvy, he was Julia's most trusted professional associate, and over the years, he became, in effect, a member of their extended family. After Julia's death, he maintained this relationship with Rinoa and Caraway, and oversaw future arrangements of "Eyes on Me," to ensure they retained Julia's original artistic vision.
Remembering that she'd promised to pass on any new information to Selphie, Rinoa reached for the notepad and pen on the nightstand, careful to move slowly and quietly so as not to disturb Angelo, sleeping on the floor beside the bed. When Rinoa looked at the notepad in her hand, she froze. A reminder for a meeting had been scrawled across the top sheet by the room's former occupant. The words themselves were meaningless to Rinoa, but the suggestion of a life interrupted, of details no longer connected to any existence outside of the room, felt like icy fingers closing around her throat.
She recalled the time, when she was about seven years old, that she had taken the key to her mother's studio from Caraway's desk. When she crossed the threshold of that room, she felt as if she had stepped into the past. Everything remained exactly how Julia had left it the last time she'd been there. The furniture was uncovered, but free of dust; apparently, Caraway had instructed the housekeepers to continue to clean this room, albeit very carefully. Julia's piano, more elaborately decorated than the one on which Rinoa took her lessons, stood in the center of the room. Rinoa approached it and sat down, then played a few notes. The sound that came from the keys was too loud, too intrusive, and Rinoa instinctively knew she had trespassed on a hallowed space. She removed herself from the studio, returned the key, and never went back.
Rinoa blinked and shook away the memory. This wasn't the same at all. In all likelihood, the SeeD who had written this note was still alive, though probably not willing to return to Garden soon. Rinoa jotted down some information about Albrecht Portner, then set the saxophone score aside and looked at the sheet music for piano.
She did not have to hunt for the initials here. They leapt out at her, faded but unique, a pair of letters inside a hastily drawn heart. Julia's signature. Tears stung Rinoa's eyes as she traced the initials with her fingertip. She felt the years slip away, felt the warmth and softness of her mother's body next to hers, smelled her mother's perfume, heard the laughter and chatter between her parents as her mother tested variations on the song's rhythm section. She heard the applause and blinked into the spotlight as Julia stood to be introduced to the audience at the opera house. And as she recalled the brush of her mother's lips against her forehead every night before she fell asleep, Rinoa's tears spilled over.
She tried wiping them away, but they were only followed by more. "I'm sorry," she said, not sure at first who she was speaking to. "It's been so long, I thought I'd run out of tears. But hearing that song today, so unexpectedly ... What would you think, I wonder? What would you think of me now?" She sniffled. "After you died, I felt so lost. Father became so cold, and we couldn't seem to get along without you there. You were the glue keeping us together. I tried to find something else to cling to, tried to find somewhere I could be useful, and look where I ended up. What would you think?" She grabbed the pillow behind her and pressed it to her mouth to stifle the sobs that followed.
"I'm trying," she continued, when her voice had calmed somewhat. "I'm trying to be a good person, someone you'd be proud of. It's not easy, because I don't exactly know what's right and what's wrong anymore. I needed you ... I still need you. But, wherever you are now, I want you to see that I'm doing my best. We all are."
Alerted to her distress, Angelo jumped on the bed and nuzzled Rinoa's chin. Rinoa pulled Angelo close to her and released a final few sobs into the dog's coat. Then, with a husky laugh, she looked into Angelo's eyes. "I'm sorry, girl," she said. "I didn't mean to worry you. I was just missing Mother. I haven't cried like that in ages."
Angelo, apparently appeased, stretched out next to Rinoa and laid her head in Rinoa's lap. Rinoa sighed and cleaned her face, substituting a blank sheet of notepaper for tissue and grimacing at its roughness. Then, taking her pen to a fresh sheet on the notepad, she carefully duplicated her mother's initials. The result was a little wobbly-looking, but Rinoa figured it was good enough to show Selphie. She began to write a new note beneath the picture, listing the title of the song, and the name of the arranger. When it came time for her to reveal the composer's name, she looked at Angelo and smiled.
"It's about time they found out, right?" she said, then wrote her mother's name with a flourish. She gave no further explanation. Selphie could figure it out on her own.
She placed the scores back in the folder, saving the piano score for last. Before she laid the note on top of it, however, she reached down and tore a corner off of the score, a piece just large enough to hold the two letters and a heart that were drawn upon it.
Rinoa closed the door gingerly behind her and walked barefoot down the darkened hallway to Selphie's room. Beneath the happy gaze of a chocobo cutout, Rinoa slipped the folder under the door. Then she retired to bed, one arm draped over Angelo, and slipped into a slumber that offered her no dreams, but instead, a sense of peace she hadn't felt for a very long time.
* * *
Selphie –
You were right, the copies are faded – and crooked! Still, I found some information on the scores. The song's title is written very small along the bottom of the first page of each score: "Eyes on Me ('Young Love' Version)." The initials on the scores are those of the arranger and the composer. "A.P." stands for Albrecht Portner, the arranger. The other initials are a little bit harder to make out, but they are "J.H." inside a heart, like the picture I drew here. They belong to the composer, Julia Heartilly.
Hope this helps!
- Rinoa
P.S. The piano score had a little accident (Angelo), and is now missing a corner (the one with the initials, too!). Oopsie! :)