Duet Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Elise Broach

  Illustrations copyright © 2022 by Ziyue Chen

  Cover art copyright © 2022 by Ziyue Chen. Cover design by Sasha Illingworth.

  Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Christy Ottaviano Books

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: May 2022

  Christy Ottaviano Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company. The Christy Ottaviano Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Broach, Elise, author.

  Title: Duet / Elise Broach.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2022. | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: The life of a musically gifted bird changes forever after she discovers the music of Chopin and helps a talented young pianist solve the mystery of a long-lost Chopin piano.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021010563 | ISBN 9780316311359 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316311557 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Goldfinches—Fiction. | Birdsongs—Fiction. | Music—Fiction. | Chopin, Frédéric, 1810–1849—Fiction. | Piano—Fiction. | Human-animal relationships—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.B78083 Du 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021010563

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-31135-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-31155-7 (ebook)

  E3-20220328-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1: Music Lesson

  2: Michael

  3: Back at the Nest

  4: Emily

  5: Lost Pianos

  6: Duet

  7: The Secret

  8: Names

  9: A Possible Pleyel

  10: At the Bird Feeder

  11: The Heart of Chopin

  12: History and Mystery

  13: A Very Old Piano

  14: Mother’s Surprise

  15: The House Full of Treasures

  16: A Grand Piano

  17: Pieces of a Picture

  18: To Play a Pleyel

  19: Practice

  20: New Arrivals

  21: A Discovery

  22: Valuables

  23: All Locked Up

  24: The Way In

  25: A Door in the Door

  26: Storm

  27: Tricks

  28: Trespassers

  29: A Perfect Match

  30: The Final Push

  31: Ready or Not

  32: Help!

  33: Waiting

  34: Return

  35: Art Among Friends

  36: Tree Full of Songs

  37: Chopin Forever

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elise Broach

  In memory of my dear friend, the poet

  Ann Victoria Christie, lover of birds and words

  Music Lesson

  Call me Mirabelle. It’s a nice name, don’t you think? We all have pretty names, my mother says, because we’re all beautiful. Every last one of us! There’s no such thing as an ugly goldfinch. We’re little and yellow, with gray, black, and white markings. But it’s mostly the yellow you notice: like a beam of sunshine, or a marigold, or a lemon. Just seeing me—even for a split second, half hidden by leaves, a glimpse of that bright, flashing yellow—well, I promise you, it is guaranteed to make you smile.

  Okay, I admit, my brothers are an even brighter color than I am. The boys always are. Why is that? So annoying. They brag about it, too. But Mother says we girls have subtlety in our yellow hues. I like the sound of that. A subtle yellow is more elegant, I’m pretty sure.

  And I’m still yellow enough to brighten the grayest day. Early in the spring, when the old man, Mr. Starek, was sick, I sat on a branch outside his bedroom window to cheer him up. It had been a sad winter for him. His sister died, and even though she lived close by, they hadn’t seen each other in years and years. Isn’t that strange? I can’t imagine not seeing my brothers for years, although they do make me mad sometimes.

  We all knew Mr. Starek was very upset. In a way, that surprised me. If he hadn’t seen his sister in such a long time, why would he miss her now that she was gone? But he did miss her. He has no other family, from what we can tell… maybe relatives far away, in Europe, but not here in America. There’s a photograph of his sister in his bedroom, and after she died, he would look at it sorrowfully for long periods. And then there was some trouble with her house. I’m not sure what exactly—something involving money, and birds have no interest in money, so we didn’t pay much attention. But the old man got sick in the middle of all this, and Mother told me to visit him. It seemed like the least I could do, since he always fills the bird feeder for us.

  Sometimes I would sing for him. The high limb of a dogwood tree grazes his window, so I would hop to the end of it, close to the pane, and then let the song pour out of me—like water rippling or wind blowing through tall grass, something so free and fast and flowing that it can’t be stopped. The old man would startle in his bed and turn toward the window, and then he’d listen intently. I could see the concentration in his face. I don’t think I’m flattering myself when I say he looked impressed, like hearing me sing was a real tweet. Haha, treat, I mean. Bird joke. For a singer, there is no greater compliment than someone who truly listens to you.

  I’m a musical artist, you see. I prefer artiste, actually. It sounds more distinguished. All of us goldfinches can sing, of course, but I’m not like the rest of them, with their wild racket of chirping. I still have a lot of practicing to do, but I promise you this: when I sing, anyone within earshot knows it’s a song.

  Which is why I like the old man. Mr. Starek appreciates music. He’s a music teacher, a pianist. And from what I can tell, he used to be famous. He played the piano all over the world! Can you imagine? Packed on the shelves of his music room are shiny trophies and serious-looking plaques with his name on them. And hanging on the walls are framed pictures of the world’s great composers. How do I know they’re the world’s great composers? Well, he plays their music on his piano, and I have ears, don’t I?

  And something more important, which you can’t really teach: taste. Musical taste. I grew up listening to the old man play—Beethoven and Mozart and Brahms and Bach—and hearing him talk about music, week after week, to the piano students who came through his front door. Now, since he got sick, he’s pretty much stopped teaching. Parents come begging for lessons and he tells them he’s retired. But I learned a lot while he was still giving piano lessons. He’d say things like:

  “This is Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Movement one starts gently, softly, like a lullaby.”

  Or:

  “You need speed
and delicacy for Debussy. When you touch the keys, imagine they are covered in flecks of gold. Pick up the flecks as quickly as possible.”

  See what I mean? For him, even talking about music is an art. It doesn’t hurt that he has an accent. Mother says he’s from Europe, a place called Poland, and he has a careful way of speaking that makes everything he says sound smart.

  “I wish I had an accent,” I tell Mother.

  “You do have an accent,” she says. “You just can’t hear it. If you flew all the way to Europe, you’d sound different to the birds over there.”

  Isn’t that funny? We all have accents! We just don’t know it until we go someplace where people don’t talk the same way we do.

  The children used to come to the old man’s house almost every afternoon. Most of them lived in Boston, which is a big, red-and-gray city about an hour from here, flying time. Remember, we birds don’t have to follow roads or stop for traffic lights, so we can get to places a lot faster than you humans can.

  Anyway, the children’s parents would bring them all the way out to Mr. Starek’s little town for their lessons. A sweet-smelling silk tree grows near the music room, and I would perch on the bottom limb and watch the lessons through the window. I could see everything from there. I would sit perfectly still and listen, because listening is the best kind of learning for me. And birds have excellent hearing—did you know that? Of the five senses, it’s our second-best, after sight. I can hear the piano perfectly even with the windows closed, and when I’m swept up in it, the music fills me almost the way it does when I’m singing. It swirls around me, sliding through my feathers like water, wave after wave washing into my soul.

  Oh, you didn’t think birds had souls? Of course we do.

  With the music lessons, the children did get better over time, but they were never as good as the old man. I think we artists are the only ones who really know what it takes. And we recognize it in each other. Even now, when Mr. Starek goes into the music room and sits at the piano, his fingers dance over the keys, quickly, softly, and then with force: ba-ta-ta-DUM! I see his body sway and his arms tense and then loosen as his long fingers span the keys. I feel the music beat in me like a second heart. Oh my goodness, does it make me want to sing.

  Sometimes the old man glances up and sees me. I think he can tell how excited I am. I miss the piano lessons he used to give. Honestly, I learned so much from them. The old man would often play a short piece for the child at the beginning of the lesson, and I loved listening to him.

  Sometimes, even now, after he plays for a bit, he’ll walk to the window to speak to me.

  “Hello, little bird. Are you hungry?” he’ll say. “I filled the bird feeder for you.”

  I pretend to be shy. If he comes too close, I hop backward on the branch and then fly away home to the shiny green holly tree. It grows by the fence in his backyard, and it’s where I live with my mother and brothers.

  I’m not shy, really. None of us birds are, but people like it when we pretend to be. Don’t get me wrong… birds are careful of dangerous situations. We look out for ourselves. But that whole elaborate dance—hopping close to a person, then flying away, then returning and approaching even closer, then fluttering off again? I’ll let you in on a secret. It’s a performance. People like to feel chosen, like they’ve been singled out for a wild creature’s attention and trust.

  You don’t believe me? One word for you: pigeons. Pigeons aren’t shy at all. They flock to people, and how do people react? Everybody thinks pigeons are very ordinary. Worse yet, people are annoyed by them and call them pests. So believe me, the rest of us birds learned our lesson. Pretend to be shy.

  That’s what I do with the old man. When he comes to the window and talks to me, I quickly hop up the branch, cock my head at him, and then, with a whoosh, I flutter away.

  Here’s another thing I bet you’re dying to know: what it’s like to fly. Well, I won’t lie to you. Flying is THE BEST. Next to singing, it is the most wonderful feeling you can imagine. Mother says we must never take it for granted, and I promise not to.

  How can I describe it?

  When I lift off from a branch, my wings are beat-beat-beating, super fast.

  Currents of air rush underneath me, and it’s like being lifted by a cloud—something weightless but also thick, cushioning my body and streaming off my wings and pulling me, pushing me, raising me higher and higher and higher.

  And then, when I’m high enough, I dive and float and soar, buoyed only by air.

  The whole world spreads out beneath me. I can see the entire backyard of the Garcias, the family who lives next door to Mr. Starek: their swing set, their deck, their barbecue grill. I can see the clumpy tops of trees, the bright flowerpots, the lush green squares of lawn, sometimes a turquoise swimming pool. I can see the colorful metal flashes of cars driving by, the geometry of streets and driveways in the neighborhood. And often, more often than I’d like, I can see the old man’s fluffy gray cat, Harmony, sitting on the back patio, watching me.

  I’m not scared of that old cat. What’s there to be scared of, when you can fly?

  In fact, on this sunny summer day, I am just about to execute a couple of loop-the-loops over Harmony’s head, to remind her that she will never catch me. But then I see a boy.

  His mother gets out of a car in the driveway, and she has to do some coaxing even to get the boy to join her.

  Is he a piano student? I’ve never seen him before. He looks to be about eleven or twelve, though I admit, I am not good at guessing human ages. His hair is smooth and shining black, the blue-black of a raven’s wing.

  I land in the top twigs of the old yew bush by the front door for a better view. The boy is frowning, his face angry and clenched.

  “I don’t see why I can’t keep taking lessons from Emily,” he says.

  “Michael,” his mother says, her voice low, her arm urging him toward the old man’s porch. “We’ve been through this. Emily is the one who thinks you need a new teacher. And years ago, Mr. Starek was her teacher. Think of that! You’ll be taking lessons from your teacher’s teacher.”

  Well, I hate to disappoint these two, but the old man is retired. They’ve come to the wrong place.

  “I want Emily,” the boy says. His hands ball into fists at his sides. He stops walking.

  His mother sighs and bends down, her voice tight with exasperation. “I know you like Emily. She was an excellent teacher for you, all through elementary school. But she believes you have a real gift! She doesn’t want to hold you back.”

  “She wasn’t holding me back,” the boy, Michael, says, still frowning.

  I hop to a lower branch. This would be something new: a boy with real musical talent who doesn’t want to take lessons from the old man. The old man is a very popular piano teacher. Before he got sick and stopped teaching, there was a long list of students waiting to study with him. I know this because, even now, they sometimes come to the house with their parents, or if they’re teenagers, on their own, pleading with him to teach them piano. And he says no. Politely, of course—the old man is always polite. So why should this boy—this reluctant, grouchy boy—get the chance to study with him?

  Is it because of his “gift”? If his mother and this Emily they’re talking about are even right about that. Personally, I doubt it. The boy clearly doesn’t want to be here, and the ones who have real talent can’t wait to play.

  Take me, for example. You couldn’t keep me from singing if you tied my beak shut with string! That’s the difference between an ordinary skill and a gift. A gift is an obsession. You can’t stop yourself.

  So why is the boy being so stubborn? His mother looks mad now, too. She reminds me of my mother when my brothers and I are splashing too long in the stone birdbath.

  “Michael, please. Emily says Mr. Starek is the best of the best. And we’re very lucky he’s close by! At least let’s go in and meet him.”

  “I like Emily,” Michael says, his voice loud. br />
  “Well, Emily likes Mr. Starek. And she thinks he’ll be the perfect teacher for you. Let’s give him a chance, okay?”

  The mother presses the boy forward, herding him up the steps. She knocks on the door, then hesitantly clangs the large brass bell that hangs next to it.

  “No one is better than Emily,” Michael grumbles.

  “Shhhh,” the mother whispers, just as the old man opens the door.

  He stands there smiling, in his pressed shirt and trousers, filling the doorframe. The old man is so distinguished looking. It is another thing I like about him: even on the quiet days, when he has no visitors, he dresses neatly, buffs his shoes, combs his hair.

  “Ah, you must be Michael. Come in, come in.” The old man swings the door wide. “Emily Goldberg told me all about you.”

  “Mr. Starek? We’re so happy to meet you,” the boy’s mother says. Her voice sounds nervous. “I’m Vivian Jin, Michael’s mother. I so appreciate you making an exception for Michael. I know you’re not really teaching anymore.”

  Mr. Starek smiles faintly. “Well, Emily is very persuasive. And for the right student—”

  “I have a teacher,” the boy says to him, his face a stubborn scowl. “My teacher is Emily.”

  This boy is so rude! I want Mr. Starek to slam the door in his face.

  But the old man does the opposite, welcoming him into the house. “Yes, I know,” he says. “She was very enthusiastic about your playing. She says you have a real talent for Chopin.”

  It’s a French name, Chopin. It’s pronounced show-pan. I know this because Mr. Starek is something of a Chopin expert.

  The old man tilts his head, studying the boy. “I understand you have only ten weeks to prepare for the Chopin Festival in Hartford.”

  Ooooh, a festival! I do love a festival.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Jin says. “And Emily says Chopin is your specialty. The festival is in mid-September. Do you think it’s enough time?”

  “We will see,” Mr. Starek says. “We will see.”

  Mrs. Jin hesitates in the doorway. “Shall I stay… or…?”