The Mirror Shattered Midnight by Dhonielle Clayton

Author:Dhonielle Clayton [Clayton, Dhonielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 2021-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

The days sailed by like quick fingers across smooth white piano keys. Zora sang and played with Phillip and Jo as much as she could, wanting to soak up every single piece of music before she’d have to see Mama B. If a band called out sick, she filled in. The three of them fell into an endless rhythm, a song none of them wanted to end. Zora would sneak out early to meet Phillip and Jo in the dressing room at the back of the club, where they’d go through sheet music, prepare for their set, and even write new songs together. Each night, the crowd swelled, packing every table in the club with eager listeners there to hear Sweet Willow, Jo, and their white boy on piano, and just before sunrise, Phillip would drop her off and she’d tiptoe back into her aunt’s house in her little red shoes and slink into her bed without a sound. Just the cat, waiting patiently and eagerly for her return.

A tiny sliver of happiness had been recaptured from her old life. The fear she’d felt since arriving in New Orleans began to ease. Almost allowing her to forget why she was here in the first place.

One night, Zora slid toward the back of the Petit Sapphire, clutching the sheet music she and Phillip had written the day before. The ink was still fresh and threatened to sully her bright marigold dress. The chords were still on a loop in her head.

“Baby girl Z,” Miles called out from his office as she passed.

She poked her head in.

“Got somebody who wants to talk to you.” Miles’s deep brown forehead dripped with sweat he eagerly tried to mop away to no avail.

Zora froze, thinking of the worst possible reasons. “Who? Who wants to talk to me?”

“Come on in and find out.” Miles stood behind his messy desk littered with ledgers and sheet music and ashtrays spilling over with mountains of ash. Shelves held decrepit instruments in various stages of disrepair. The walls were covered in beautiful photographs of all who had graced the club’s stage. She hoped one day that hers might be among them. “You look like a baby chick scared of its own shadow,” Miles said. “Be easy.”

Zora inched the door open wider. There was an old white man sitting in an armchair. She flinched and took a step backward.

“Our visitor has come a long way to see you, chérie,” Miles said.

Zora gazed back and forth between Miles and the strange man. Finally, the white man stood and motioned for her to sit.

Zora’s eyes found Miles’s, and he nodded with encouragement. “I’m supposed to get ready for my show,” she said.

“That’s precisely what I’m here to talk to you about. Are you the Sweet Willow of the Petit Sapphire? The young woman who sang ‘Blues for Tremé’ last night to a sold-out, standing-room-only crowd? The one who has crowds gathering in the street eager to hear even a strain of music slipping out the windows? Is that you?”

Zora stammered out a yes.

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