The Devils Tempo

The tram jerks as it pulls into the station, and the windows rattle in their frames. Outside, Lyon looks like old stone buildings, narrow streets, and people who seem like they already know where they’re going.

My cello case is pressed against my knee. The strap digs into my shoulder every time the tram sways.

I wanted this. That’s true. It's what I keep telling myself. 

My phone buzzes.

Mom: Text when you’re in your room.

Clover: Delly. DELLY. Are you alive.

I answer Clover first. If I don’t, she’ll call, and I don’t have the energy to sound calm.

Me: Alive. Not thriving. But alive.

Clover replies immediately.

Clover: OH THANK GOD. The French didn’t steal you.

Me: Pretty sure they could if they wanted.

Clover: Don’t joke about that.

Me: I’m not.

I add a heart so she doesn’t actually panic.

My stomach flips. Hunger, nerves, and the weird feeling of being far from home all at once. My fingers start tapping a steady rhythm on my thigh.

One-two-three. 

One-two-three.

A woman beside me says something in French and points toward the doors.

“Vous descendez ici?” she asks.

I stand with everyone else.

“Yes,” I say, then add, “Oui. Désolée.” Sorry is the only French word my body reaches for under stress.

When the tram lurches, I nearly bump a man in a scarf with the end of my cello case.

“Sorry—désolée,” I blurt.

He doesn’t answer. He just steps away.

Great.

First impression: walking hazard.

Outside, the air is cold and clean. The city smells like wet pavement and cigarette smoke and something warm from a bakery.

My suitcase wheels catch on the cobblestones. I drag it anyway.

Institut Beaumont des Arts is huge.

The front gates are black iron. The main building is pale stone. A banner with the school crest hangs above the entrance. I can read some of the French, but not fast enough to feel confident.

I haul my suitcase up the steps, one bump at a time.

Inside, the lobby smells like floor polish and perfume. A long check-in table is set up with folders and papers. Students in dark coats stand in small groups like they’ve done this before.

A woman behind the table looks at my forms.

“Sophia Dell?”

“Yes.”

Her smile widens.

“Ah. Enfin. We are very pleased you are here.”

Pleased.

Like I’m a package that arrived on time.

She hands me a key card, a schedule, and a map.

“Exchange dorms are across the courtyard,” she says. “Your audition is tomorrow at quatorze heures. Do not be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.

She doesn’t smile.

I tuck the schedule into my folder and grip my lanyard like it’s something that will keep my feet on the ground.

Outside, the courtyard is bright and open. Students cross it quickly, coats swinging behind them. My coat is the kind I bought because it’s warm and practical.

I check the map.

The dorms should be straight ahead.

I start walking. Then the lobby gets quiet behind me. Not silent. Just… different.

Three boys walk through like they belong there more than anyone else does. People look up. A professor pauses. A few students smile in a way that looks nervous.

I stop without meaning to.

The first one I notice is the one who smiles the most.

He has a lip ring. When he grins at someone, it’s easy to see how people could fall for it. He’s the kind of handsome that looks like a filter in real life.

The second one is taller and more controlled. He doesn’t smile. He looks at the room like it’s already his. A watch flashes on his wrist when he moves.

The third walks half a step behind them. His eyes move constantly. He notices everything.

I should keep walking. I don’t.

The smiling one’s gaze lands on me. My cello case. My face.

It isn’t a stare. It’s more like he’s taking inventory.

The tall one follows his attention and looks at me too. His expression stays flat, uninterested.

The third glances at my key packet and lanyard before he looks at my face. His glasses are placed perfectly on his nose. 

I realize they’re reading me the same way I’m reading them.

I lift my chin. If they’re going to judge me, they can do it while I’m standing straight.

The smiling one’s mouth curves a little more.

Like he likes that I don't look away. Then they pass me.

My heart speeds up, annoyed at itself.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Not my problem.”

A voice beside me says, in English, “That is what everyone says right before it becomes their problem.”

I turn.

A blonde girl stands there with a leather jacket and an easy smile. She looks like she belongs here, like she’s never once wondered where to put her hands.

“You are American,” she says.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You look like you are about to apologize to the building.”

I blink.

Then I laugh, surprised by the sound.

“Yeah,” I admit. “That checks out.”

“I am Camille.” She holds out her hand like this is normal. “Camille Armand.”

I shake it.

Her grip is warm and confident.

“You are Sophia Dell,” she says.

I hesitate. “How do you—”

She taps my lanyard.

“It is around your neck, Sophi.”

I make a face. “No one here gets to call me that.”

Camille’s smile sharpens. “Oh? Who does?”

“My friends back home. Sometimes my sister.”

“Delly then,” Camille says, like she’s testing the nickname. “Cute.”

“Don’t start.”

“I am absolutely going to start.”

She hooks her arm through mine like we’ve known each other for longer than thirty seconds.

“Come,” she says. “I will walk you to exchange housing before you get lost.”

“I wasn’t going to get lost.”

“You were going to get lost quietly and then blame yourself.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

Then I say, because my mouth does what it wants, “Y’all are dramatic here.”

Camille stops.

She turns to me slowly.

“Did you just say y’all?” Her face lights up while she talks. 

My face heats. “It happens when I’m stressed.”

Camille looks delighted. “Good. This year is going to be fun.”

We cross the courtyard toward the exchange dorm. The building is smaller and newer, which makes it feel less intimidating.

I glance back once.

The three boys are still in the lobby behind the glass.

The smiling one is laughing at something someone says, but his eyes are on me again.

Camille squeezes my arm.

“Do you know who they are?” she asks.

“I’m going to guess… trouble.”

Camille makes a sound that could be a laugh.

“They’re the kind of trouble that will ruin your week and still get invited to the concert.”

“Great.”

Her grin widens. “Welcome to Beaumont.”

My phone buzzes again, and i open it’s screen.

Mom: Are you okay?

Clover: SEND A PICTURE OF YOUR ROOM OR I’M FLYING TO FRANCE.

My throat tightens.

I type back to Mom.

Me: I’m here. I’m okay. I’ll call when I’m settled.

Then to Clover.

Me: If you fly to France I will fake my death.

Clover: I WILL FIND YOUR GHOST.

That pulls a smile onto my face. She is so dramatic, in the best way. 

Camille watches my face.

“Family?” she asks.

“My sister,” I say.

Camille nods, suddenly a little softer.

“Good,” she says. “You will need someone who knew you before this place did.”

I tighten my grip on my folder. Tomorrow at fourteen heures. Do not be late. I breathe in.

One-two-three.

One-two-three.

My thumb taps the same rhythm against the edge of my phone.

I face the dorms. And even with Camille beside me, I can still feel the weight of that lobby behind the glass.

Chapter 1: Étienne — First sight

She stops.

Most people do not.

They keep walking. They look away. They pretend they did not notice us. But the American girl with the cello case stops and looks straight at me.

Then she lifts her chin. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to say she is not going to shrink for anyone.

She does not dress like Beaumont. No expensive coat. No careful styling. She looks warm, practical, and slightly irritated by everything.

And still, I can not look away. 

Jolie fille.

Her eyes are dark green. Soft, but not weak. Bangs. Brown hair. A face that looks sweet until you see how she holds herself.

The cello case is big. lourd.

She carries it like she is used to the weight.

I feel interest hit fast and sharp, and it annoys me.

I do not want to want anything that quickly.

Lucien shifts beside me, and his watch catches the light. I see her eyes track it.

Matteo’s attention goes where it always goes—keys, lanyard, paperwork.

I smile because smiling is what I do. She does not react. No flutter. No awkward grin. No quick look away.

She just watches me like she is deciding if I am worth the trouble. That makes my chest tighten.

I walk past her. Then I look back.

She is already with Camille. Of course.

Camille likes collecting people.

The girl walks away with a straight spine and that cello case on her back.

Matteo says her name, like it is a fact.

Sophia Dell.

I watch her leave the lobby and think she is going to be a problem of mine.