The crowd falls silent as 26-year-old Philip Crawford walks onto stage, holding his prized violin in his hands. He has no music stand with him, he doesn't need one. He has this music memorized.
Pushing a few strands of chestnut brown hair out of his clear blue eyes, Philip raises the bow of his violin, and placing it against the instrument, begins to play the gorgeous piece.
The audience listens intently as he begins to play, all of them captivated by both his artistry and the peace that he is serenading them with. They are mesmerized.
Philip closes his eyes, his movements fluid and easy. The breathtaking notes flow like a never ending river throughout the large auditorium. They range from high and angelic soprano, to low and hefty baritone. Each note sores through his heart like a swan.
As the final note of the peace glitters throughout the room, the crowd bursts into applause. They rise to their feet, tearing his name.
Philip smiles at the crowd, acknowledging them with a sweeping bow. He disappears off stage and goes into his dressing room. Once he's alone, he sits down at his dressing table, removing his black velvet jacket and rolling the sleeves of his crisp white linen shirt to his elbows.
The door to his dressing room opens, causing Philip to look up. He smiles as he notices one of his close friends, Benjamin Lukas, striding into the room.
Benjamin's brown eyes twinkle. My dear Philip! Do you realize how wonderful of a show you have just given? You have brought down the house, my friend!
Philip. Thank you, Benjamin. I'm glad you were able to make it.
Benjamin. I wouldn't miss your performance for the world!
Philip chuckles. I know you wouldn't.
Benjamin. So, have you discovered who this mystery composer is?
Philip shakes his head. No, not yet. But I am not giving up. I have to know who this composer is.
Benjamin. Have you looked at the composer name on the sheet music? There's bound to be something there.
Philip. Now that you mention it, I've not done that. He opens his black leather binder, sorts through it, and then selects the piece that he had been playing for that evening. He places it onto the table so that the two of them can look at it.
Benjamin. How odd, I don't see anything on there.
Abruptly, Philip notices a pair of initials at the bottom of the score, something he has not seen before. He brings it closer to examine the letters more closely.
There is no composer, just two letters: AB. He
Benjamin. AB? Who is that?
Philip. I do not know. It could be anyone.
Benjamin. But who? Alexander Brandon? Antonio Bradshaw?
Philip. Your guess is as good as mine, my friend.
Benjamin. Well, we can sort that out later. Tonight, we celebrate your success!
And with that, the two of them make their way back downstairs to the reception hall.
YOU ARE READING
Sonata for a scoundrel (completed)Historical Fiction
Disclaimer. Cover not mine, story mine. England, 1918. Philip Crawford, a well-known violinist, has no idea who is writing the beautiful compositions that he is playing every night. All he knows is that they are absolutely exquisite, intoxicating...