Music lifts into the air. It remains suspended among chattering guests, drifting up the domed ceiling and slipping to the furthest corners of the banquet hall.

One, two, three beats pass.

Polite applause cascades among guests dressed in glittering gowns and tuxedos, a momentary break in the hum of voices before they return to their conversations.

"Wonderful." Mr. Baytes, the man, myth, and legend who gave us our first job in months, approaches us. "Thank you so much for performing tonight. I think it's been a real hit and drawn new attention to our cause."

"I think the work you're doing is awesome," Emi says. She's beaming from ear to ear. "We really do need to spread more awareness about classical music. Do you host these sorts of events often?"

"Unfortunately not," Mr. Baytes says. "But we're hoping that will change soon. How many more selections do you plan on playing tonight?"

"We have about five more," Emi says. "Another half hour, if that's alright."

Mr. Baytes' eyes flick to the shiny gold watch on his wrist. "That sounds perfect. Though please, take breaks whenever you need to and help yourself to some refreshments."

"Thank you."

Mr. Baytes drifts into a sea of elegant guests. Emi turns to Martin and me, practically bouncing with excitement.

"Things are going so well. I'm shocked at how many people are here."

"At least fifty," Martin murmurs.

I glance about the room. A woman emerges from the crowd, and I glimpse her face before she dips back among the others. A frown creases my brown.

Wait a minute. I just saw that face the other night.

"I'm going to grab some refreshments," I say. Before anyone objects, I slip away in the woman's direction.

Moments later, I spot her again. She's speaking with a big, burly man, who's practically busting out of his tuxedo. Her brown hair is tied taut in a bun, and she has the same oval face, slender nose, and slightly pointed chin as the woman I saw in the road outside the unnamed shop. A shiver runs down my spine, and I rush back to Emi and Martin.

"You didn't get anything for us?" Emi teases, nudging me with her arm. Her smile wanes as she takes in the worry etched on my face. "What's wrong?"

"You're not going to believe this," I whisper.

"Huh?"

"Shh, keep your voice down." I glance around. My eyes land on Mr. Baytes, just a few feet away. "Look, something's very wrong here. I think we need to get out."

"What are you talking about?"

"Remember those people with the instruments?"

Emi's face drops into a scowl. "Cerise, do not ruin this night for us with your crazy, treasure-hunting nonsense."

"No, listen—"

"No, you listen. We have a chance to be scouted by real music lovers here. People who can hire us for more jobs. More jobs means more money, meaning there's no need to follow a wild goose chase to a non-existent treasure!"

"But—"

"I'm done, Cerise! If you want out, then we'll find someone to replace you." Emi spins around just as Mr. Baytes steps behind her. She takes a step back. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Everything alright?" Mr. Baytes chuckles.

"Yes. We just had a slight disagreement in tempo for the next piece, which we'll start playing now." Emi reaches for her instrument, resting in its case.

"Good."

I regard Mr. Baytes with a new pair of eyes. A suspicious filter has been placed over them. As my gaze scans the room, I notice the glances over shoulders, the stolen looks in our direction. Throwing back punch, a toss of the hair, turning slightly backward while laughing at a joke. It's all choreographed, all staged, so that meandering eyes are everywhere, on us at every moment. Everyone in this is watching us, keeping tabs on our every move.

I gulp, tamping down the nerves in my stomach. "So, Mr. Baytes, what else does your non-profit do?"

"Mainly education." Mr. Baytes offers a dazzling, pearly-white smile. "We have tons of writers working daily to present new information on classical music. We love to feature famous composers and musicians, as well as showcase local talent."

"Sounds wonderful," Emi says. She nods to me. "Why don't we start the next piece?"

I plop into my chair, and we quickly tune our instruments. During the next piece, though, I can barely pay attention to the notes. My fingers fumble through the fast passages and forget to change notes during the short ones. Flashing in my brain is a big, bold "danger" warning.

Why do they want us here? Are they planning on killing us?

What about the Silverenn songs?

My mind drifts far away from the music I should be focusing on, to my instrument case tucked under my chair. I've been carrying the scores around with me any chance I get just because... well, just because. I don't have a good reason for doing so, or at least, I haven't until now.

The piece has a shaky ending, with the normally happy, melodious ending bordering on dissonance. I slide my finger back to get it more in tune, but it's too late. Emi and Martin are already standing and bowing. I quickly rise to join them while tentative applause ascends around us.

Emi glares at me once conversation resumes. "What do you think you're trying to do?" she hisses.

"I feel sick," I say. "I need to go home."

Emi's face crinkles like she's about to cry. "Cerise, please! Don't do this. I'm begging you. Don't ruin this opportunity for us."

"I'm sorry. My stomach hurts." It's partly true. Fear churns in my gut, and bile creeps up my esophagus. They could kill us at any moment.

"Everything alright?" Mr. Baytes appears again. But this time, his grin has a sinister quality.

"It seems that Cerise isn't feeling well," Emi says. "I'm sorry, but we may need to cut the program short."

"Oh, really?" Mr. Baytes' bushy eyebrows draw together. "Well, let me see." He turns around and chats with a few people behind him.

"Is this really what you want?" Emi asks. Her voice pleads with me to say no, but my head still nods in affirmation. She shakes her head. "Fine. You're out. We'll quit today because we don't have any duo pieces prepared, but going forward, you're out."

My throat tightens, and tears cloud my vision. I could back down. I could sit down and finish the program. But would it be too late to get out at that point?

Or did I just expedite our demise by asking to leave?

I start packing my instrument away. "Emi, we have to go," I whisper.

Emi and Martin do the same but more slowly. My eyes drift to the exits. There are two, and both have two suspicious men standing as pillars on either side. We aren't getting out unless they want us to.

"I need to use the bathroom," I say suddenly. "We can come back later to say goodbye."

"Cerise..."

"I'm going to hurl now if we don't go. Come on." I grab Emi's wrist, and by default, she grasps her violin as we head for the door. At the exit, I hold air in my cheeks and choke out, "bathroom." The men step aside immediately. Our flats pad across waxed tiles, passing by a few guests in the foyer. I dart toward the door, where a few more tuxedoed men and women stand. Emi stumbles behind me, hissing my name but so out of breath, she can't berate me for heading in the direction opposite the restrooms.

Again, I fill my cheeks with air and say, "Need. Air." Works like a charm. The tuxedoed guests step aside, allowing us to pass into the warm, night air. My grip tightens on Emi's arm, and I practically drag her to the car.

"Cerise. Cerise!"

We make it to her sedan just as the doors burst open behind us. I dart into the passengers seat and slam the door behind me. "Drive!"

Emi shakes her head. I know whatever is coming when we get home won't be good.