“Of course. But I told her she’d be watching via webcast.”

“Good. I mean why would Shizuka Satomi come here?”

Several people turned at the sound of the name.

“Landon … shhh.”

“S-sorry!” Landon Fung nodded nervously.

Of course she was not coming. She couldn’t be.

Ellen tried to downplay her excitement. But still, Shizuka Satomi—the Shizuka Satomi—had sent a letter saying that she would be watching Tamiko Grohl—Ellen Seidel’s student—at this competition.

Ellen Seidel had been teaching for years. She had endured spoiled students, careless students, untalented students, students with nightmare parents.

And then came Tamiko Giselle Grohl.

Yes, the girl was difficult. She threw tantrums, behaved strangely. But she practiced. She obsessed. And, she was a prodigy. To Ellen Seidel, Tamiko was a reward for so much frustration—an affirmation from God.

Ellen glanced at her star student. Tamiko was ready for the next step in her career. She needed to grow; nobody stayed with one teacher. But no matter what, Ellen Seidel would always be her first.

Most people assumed that Tamiko’s next step would be conservatory, like the Kilbourne School, or perhaps Juilliard. Ellen agreed this was logical.

But Shizuka Satomi had nothing to do with logic.

Because Shizuka Satomi’s last student was Yifeng Zheng. And before that, Kiana Choi. And before that? Sabrina Eisen. And so on and so on. These were household names, well, at least in the households of violinists. Each had won medals. Each had been stars.

Were Tamiko to join that pantheon, Ellen’s life as her esteemed former teacher would never be the same. She’d accompany Shizuka and Tamiko to Paris. Frankfurt. A fourteen-stop grand tour of Asia. Meanwhile, back home, a line of brilliant young students would be waiting, each eager for her wisdom, for a promise of greatness.

“I’m studying with Seidel,” they would say.

And all this was possible if Shizuka Satomi, even if merely online, would watch Tami—

And then, without warning, someone gasped.

Long black hair. Blood-red dress. The timeless half smile that a madman might paint. And of course, sunglasses hid her eyes.

Shizuka Satomi. The Queen of Hell.

At her approach, the hall fell silent.

Of course it would. Ellen Seidel had heard the stories, but nothing could have prepared her for this. This was more than power, ambition, beauty, or even genius. In the legendary teacher’s presence, such words seemed meaningless—devoured by an unrelenting, inescapable flame.

Yet what was most startling, even terrifying, was her focus. Nothing about Shizuka Satomi seemed random, without purpose.

Everything was measured. Everything was arranged.

Everything was completely and sublimely composed.

And suddenly, Ellen Seidel realized that, as everyone was watching her, the Queen of Hell was watching them. Perfectly polite, perfectly unapproachable, she seemed to measure, question, and disregard them all …

Then, she stopped.

Tamiko was standing now, quivering, her eyes wavering for the first time.