Emi's keys clang on the corner table as we enter our apartment. I hurry into the kitchen, clutching the safe to my chest. It bangs down on our dining table, beside an empty bowl and mac n' cheese box.

"I don't like this," Emi says. She appears across from me, and her chair screeches backward as she pulls it back to sit in. "I mean, what if that man took down my license plate number? They might cme looking for us!"

"Why would they do that?" I sigh, laying Silverenn's music out on the table.

Increase a groove up to the top. Let it crash into the drop.

"You can't honestly believe that they were doing some harmless little errand in that warehouse. They were smuggling musical instruments."

"That's a hasty conclusion to jump to." Though my suspicions are the same.

"Cerise, we could get into major trouble if we keep pursuing the treasure."

My eyes still are glued to the score, searching for what the riddle could mean. "And we will be in major trouble if we don't find the treasure — major financial trouble."

"Oh, please! Give it up already so we can find a real job."

My gaze snaps up, gaze narrowed on Emi. She matches me with a piercing stare of her own, her dark brown eyes daring me to challenge her.

There is that performance job, the one that requires me to submit a video of me playing Bach and a concerto. When was the deadline again? Would there even be enough time to practice for it?

Emi pushes back from the table, the chair's legs scraping against the floor. She stalks to her room, while I continue to survey the tiny lines on the piece "In Lace." A moment later, she returns, plopping down with a sigh across from me.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"All good. It's been a long day." My fingers tap a few times on the table. "I just can't figure out why the combination wouldn't work inside the warehouse." My eyes drift to the dial, complete with all the notes of a scale: letters A-G in the alphabet. The trick is to figure out which measure, or measures, are the combination.

Increase a groove up to the top.

"The top sounds like the top of the scale," I say. "I'm like, ninety-percent sure that the combination is all those sixty-four second notes."

Emi doesn't peel her eyes away from her mug of tea. Her fingers shift around its ceramic sides. "How many accelerandos are there?"

"Huh?" I count them quickly. "Nine. Why?"

"Maybe we're supposed to spin the dial ten times each time we input a letter."

"What?" I exclaim. "That's crazy."

"Silverenn is crazy."

A scowl settles over my face. "Fine. But I'm writing down the note names first. I don't need the lock to not work on account of getting the note name wrong."

With two pairs of eyes scrutinizing each note, we come to a consensus on which letter each one is. I jot down the long string of numbers, then begin the painstaking task of turning the dial nine times to the right, then to the left.

Emi hovers over my shoulder, silently counting along with me. At the end of the combination, metal clicks into place. I glance up at Emi, a grin parting my lips.

"And that's how you open a safe." I swing the lid back. Inside, a single, faded black-and-white photograph lies amidst the black, metal interior. Carefully, I raise the flimsy print to the light. A circular object with a dot in the center sits in the middle, and to the side, a chain swirls in a pile.

"It looks like some sort of necklace," Emi says.

"Yeah," I murmur. The image is oddly familiar, like I've seen it somewhere before. I snap my fingers. "Wait a minute, I think I remember that from the shop."

"Which shop?" Emi's eyes widen the second she says. "You're not meaning the place you bought your music."

"That's exactly the place."

"Well, I'm not going back there." Emi folds her arms over her chest, hunching slightly forward so she's even smaller than usual.

"I'll go and buy it for both of us, first thing tomorrow morning."

"But you have lessons tomorrow."

"No, that was one of my students who quit."

"Oh. Right."

Something tightens my throat, perhaps tears, perhaps the thought that I'm a failure as a viola teacher. Blinking back the clouds over my eyes, I place the photograph inside the folio with the other music scores. Gently, I begin to prod the inside of the box.

"What are you doing?" Emi asks.

I clear my throat. "Checking for any additional secret panels."

Emi shakes her head and exits the room. A moment later, she bounds back in. "Cerise, you won't believe it! The most awesome thing just happened."

"What?"

"We have a job offer for this coming Saturday! Someone wants our trio to play at a party they're hosting."

"Oh." Any excitement I'd been feeling over the new treasure hunt discovery fizzles out.

"We have to start planning our program. Over the next week, we should have practices every afternoon. I'm thinking we should start at twelve-thirty, too, instead of one, to get even more time in. The name of the game is practice, practice, practice."

I nod dumbly while Emi calls Martin. Her voice fades to the background while my entire schedule for the week shifts. No doubt, with the extra rehearsals, practicing the chamber music, and teaching lessons, there will be no time to work on the audition for the Staysberry Academy gig, especially if I plan to use my free time following up on the treasure hunt clue.

In my peripheral, I steal a glance at Emi. It's doubtful she will help me until the performance is over.

Well, I guess I'll have to continue the hunt on my own.

═════∘✧◦ 🎻◦✧∘═════

Sunlight draws me from sleep, back into the conscious world. I blink several times at the beams peering through the blinds behind me. They're far too bright to be morning rays. When I roll over, my clock glows the time, 12:00 p.m., in red.

I suppose it's nice to sleep in until noon. There isn't much else to do. Auditions are over, there's no orchestra to practice for, I have fewer lessons to teach. Worst of all, I'm too broke for window shopping, a pastime that seemed to consume more and more of my time recently.

Knuckles rap against my door. "Cerise, are you ready?"

My lips part in a yawn, muffling my words. "Ready for what?"

The door bursts open to reveal Emi, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I lift my head to look at her, though the rest of me stays sunken in pillows and blankets. I notice she isn't wearing an "I just finished teaching a lesson" outfit. It's more like "I'm going somewhere and just want to be comfortable."

"Why aren't you up?" Emi nearly shrieks. "We have rehearsal in half an hour."

"It's Tuesday."

"Don't you remember the gig we have this Saturday?"

Realization dawns, and I bolt upright. "Shoot! I'm so sorry."

Emi huffs in frustration. "Ugh, just get up!"

I dart for my closet, and Emi shuts the door. I throw a giant, gray hoodie over my pajama top. I'm pretty sure it's too hot for such attire, but it's the fastest thing I find. To compensate, I pull on a pair of shorts. My shoulder length hair gets wound into a dirty-blonde bun as I scramble to collect my instrument and music. Five minutes later, I'm out of my room, ready to go.

From the kitchen, Emi tosses me a granola bar from her stash.

"We'll eat in the car," she says.

Next thing I know, we're into the warm spring air, jogging down several flights of stairs. I'd say it's too early for cardio, but the sun beating overhead reminds me otherwise.

Our rehearsal studio is an unused storage room on the sixth floor of an old office building, filled with tables, chairs, white boards, and other unwanted furniture pieces. We rented it several years ago, and by we, I mean Martin's rich uncle that paid his tuition to the prestigious Curtis Institute of Music. Part of me suspects we're getting the short end of the deal since it's usually sparsely used. Typically, there's no need to meet more than twice a week for an hour or two.

Thanks to Emi's time management and well-practiced driving skills, we reach the top floor with two minutes to one. Our sneakers squeak against the ground with each stride past storage rooms. A minute later, Emi throws open the door to our studio. Both of us disturb the peaceful air with our ragged breaths. Martin's already set-up with his cello, plucking the thick strings while peering at his music. He doesn't even notice we're winded as we set-up beside him, or that I look like a complete wreck.

What can I say to accurately describe rehearsal? Rehearsal is a mere silhouette of a performance, a shadow of an event that usually never happens. Stakes are virtually nonexistent, and once you've played a piece several times, it's all too easy to slip into going through the motions, reducing a fluid passage into disjointed notes. You drill the same notes until eighty percent of the time you know what's coming next, and fifty percent of the time you don't stumble over them.

That's the problem with rehearsal: it's a rehearsal. The same things are drilled over and over until the thought of playing makes you physically sick and want to hurl the eight-thousand dollar wood in your hands at the wall. It isn't until the concert comes that you realize just how much you've been missing in the piece, how much more can be improved, all the little places you should've spent more time.

It's a never-ending spiral. You practice, you see no results, you lose motivation, you practice even less, you see even fewer results, and the cycle goes on. That's my problem with rehearsal and practicing. Why can't I be like everyone else? They don't just try to improve with each bow stroke and finger movement, they actually do. While they get better and better, I stagnate. No gigs for me. So in that case, who cares if I play well? I'll only ever be heard by walls, empty chairs, and coughing AC units.

Slowly, over the course of our rehearsal, the others take the weight of the piece on their backs, until they're carrying it all the way. At certain moments, I almost believe I sound good, like them. And then I remember what I'm doing, moving your fingers in the general direction of the notes and skating the bow across the string so it makes no noise. No one notices, so it barely makes a difference either way. After all, that's the life of a violist. Always in the middle, always overshadowed.

The melody oscillates between Emi and Martin, and even though they're sight reading the requested music for Saturday's performance, they play expressively, beautifully. I barely keep up with the weird accompaniments. At last, the tempo unravels, and I spot a ritardando at the end of the last page. I fall into time with them, playing the last note when Emi cues. It echoes through the room for several seconds after our bows rise from the string.

"Beautiful," Martin murmurs. "A true masterpiece."

I refrain from saying that it sounds repetitive, like Mozart's other eight-hundred works.

"I think we need to slightly decrescendo in measure twenty-one," Emi says. She's the one who takes charge of our rehearsals, picking out spots to rework. I'm just along for the ride. She stopped chiding me long ago for my lack of active engagement in the group. She realized that if she wants something done, she needs to do it herself.

More music and a tight deadline turns the usual rehearsal hour into four. I'm relieved when Emi and Martin decide to call practice for the day. Tension radiates off Emi, from her jaw to her shoulders. I can sense a lecture brewing for the car ride home. When I finally reach her Honda, I shrink closer to the window.

"What's gotten into you, Cerise? Five days of treasure hunting, and you sound like you've never played before." The car engine revs, and we shoot backward out of the parking space. Emi slams her foot on the break, jolting me forward and my heart rate upward.

"You were constantly getting lost in the music. I could hear the timidness in your glassy tone. You weren't using enough finger weight or bow speed. And don't even get me started on the squeaking. Seriously, you're a professional. You shouldn't be accidentally vibrating the wrong string."

So much for no one noticing violists.

I bite back any response; best not to fuel the furioso fire. I've been playing like this for months, Emi. If you didn't like it, why didn't you say something?

Oh, that's right. Because it's a rehearsal. A silhouette, a shadow, a dream, a mirage. The performance does not exist yet. A performance was not a reality for us. We both slacked off, me with practicing, Emi with critiques. And now we're paying the price.

The light before us turns green, and the car tires squeal. We shoot through the intersection, barreling toward the Porsche ahead. At the last moment, Emi twists the wheel, ducking into the other lane. I grip the viola case at my feet. Someday, I should get my own car.

"Don't worry, I'll practice," I say. I have nothing better to do, except treasure hunting...

The corner of Emi's eyes shifts to me. "You'd better."