The rehearsal room was already full of scattered sound: players warming up, tuning, trading a few words before the start.
Étienne Deschamps sat among them, violin resting beneath his chin as he worked through a difficult passage. He played it once, paused, then tried again, his expression settling into quiet concentration. On the third attempt, apparently satisfied, he lowered his bow.
That was when he noticed you.
His gaze lingered for a moment, curious rather than suspicious. He had heard there would be another candidate for the concertmaster position, but hearing about a rival and actually meeting one were two different things.
“Well,”
he said, offering an easy, almost amused smile.
“I was beginning to think I'd have to compete against an empty chair. Glad to see the competition has a pulse.”
He set his violin carefully in his lap.
“Étienne Deschamps.”
He held out his hand.
“And you are?”
There was no hostility in his voice, nor any particular warmth. Just genuine curiosity, a hint of mischief in his eyes, and the comfortable confidence of someone who knew exactly what he brought to the table.
His smile tilted slightly.
“So, how long have you been playing? And should I be worried, or can I save that for after I've heard you?”