Tamiko Giselle Grohl’s dearest thoughts were of Kiana Choi. She studied Kiana Choi’s repertoire, her mannerisms, her lipstick, her choice of gowns. She imitated her soft-loud speech, her cultivated yet hard-to-place Asian accent.

Tamiko worked. She practiced. She wore the right clothes, the right eye shadow, showed enough leg. And she had prayed. No, more than prayed, she had promised, begged, offered, to whoever would listen, that if she could study with the legendary Shizuka Satomi, the Queen of Hell, the one who transformed Kiana Choi into Kiana Choi, she would do anything, anything at all.

Then, from across the ocean, Shizuka Satomi, had come.

She had looked into Tamiko’s eyes. She had listened to Tamiko play. The timing, the music, the day … had all been so perfect.

So why had the Queen of Hell said no?

“She’s testing me. This must be a test.”

She looked at her forearm, where the blood was as glistening and red as Kiana’s perfect lips.

Ellen Seidel blinked, modulated her voice, and tried to smile.

Tamiko was wearing long sleeves. They freely draped over her slender arms, except for the places where the cuts still wept.

“Honey, cuts on your arms can leave scars, and people will see them when you play.”

Tamiko stared through her, into space. “She was at Grunfeld’s, and Mr. Grunfeld died.”

Ellen nodded nervously. “Yes, it happened suddenly. So sad.”

“Romantic…”

“Tamiko?”

The girl rubbed her arms, and more blood soaked through the sleeves.

“Shizuka Satomi has a new student. And she’s already killed for her.”

That was eleven hours ago.

Ellen Seidel was on her sixth cup of coffee and three millionth recollection of the lesson. Somehow she had gotten through another lesson without breaking character. She had reassured Tamiko, promised Tamiko, that there was no way that girl at Grunfeld’s could have been her new student—if Shizuka Satomi had chosen a new student, that it wouldn’t be whispered in music rooms, it would be front-page news.

Her phone buzzed. She read the text.

“Landon! Would I really be asleep? Come over now,” she replied.

Fifteen minutes later, Landon Fung was at her door.

“So, did you talk to Tiffany?” she said.

“Yes, finally. She’s been busy until now with exams, so she hasn’t been able to write back. It’s her first year of college—at Stanford, by the way—and you know how much of a transition that—”

“Landon!”

“I’m sorry. Um … I know you don’t want to hear this. But yes. Tiffany was at a noodle restaurant and saw Shizuka Satomi. She was discussing her new student.”

So it was true.

“Who is it? Someone from Kilbourne?”

Ellen steeled herself for his answer. Perhaps Ellen had failed her student. Or maybe the Queen of Hell wanted someone more seasoned? More mature?

But Landon Fung shook his head.