The Ghost Sonata (Gilda Joyce, Book 3)
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Gilda Joyce?s best friend, Wendy Choy, is chosen to participate in a piano competition in Oxford, England, so of course super-sleuth Gilda finds a way to go too. Once there, the grueling practice schedule takes a backseat to strange and spooky occurrences. There are foreboding tarot cards that keep appearing to the participants and ominous numbers etched in frosty windowpanes. But even more chilling are Wendy?s ghostly nightmares of a young boy?and the haunting melody she can?t shake out of her mind. Could there be a sinister connection to the piano competition? Gilda has a genuine haunting on her hands, and solving this one will take every ounce of psychic intuition she?s got!
other strange things?” Gilda decided it was best not to tell Jenny about the vision of a boy she had seen—at least not yet. She had learned during the past year that once people expect to see ghosts, they often start seeing them everywhere. “What sort of strange things?” “Jenny! What the hell are you doing piddlin’ around up there? Your hair rollers are hot!” “Coming, Mummy!” Jenny rolled her eyes and tried to fake an English accent at the sound of her mother’s loud, twangy voice from the
don’t cry, she kept telling herself. It was bad enough to botch her performance. The only thing that would make it worse would be crying onstage in public. “You have good technique and a very expressive playing style, but I didn’t feel I was really hearing you playing, it was as if part of you was somewhere else. Try to tell a story with the music—convey some of your own feelings.” Somewhere behind Wendy’s eyes a wall of tears was rising, threatening to leak out. So far, she held back what felt
I’ll do just that.” “Go fight for your man! I really want to see what happens when you walk over there.” “I bet you do.” But Gilda discovered that she couldn’t move. There was no denying the fact that Jenny and Julian looked interested in each other. A warm circle seemed to envelop them—a force field that made the idea of interrupting them with small talk akin to throwing cold water on sunbathers napping by a swimming pool. Gilda watched as Jenny and Julian laughed uproariously at something.
hesitated. “I think eet was good,” she said crisply. “But all the work we did—the shading, the dynamics, even your technique—was all so different. If I heard you from outside this room, I would think someone else’s student is playing.” “Maybe—it might be better this way?” All Wendy knew was that it had felt better. “Take the Bach. You almost sound as if you are playing Chopin—all those liberties in your timing and too much pedal!” Mrs. Mendelovich viewed her students as receptacles for the
made it into the finals?” “We’re both practically celebrities around here, Stephen. We’re meeting absolutely brilliant people.” “Are you trying to speak in an English accent?” “This is how I always talk.” “It kind of sounds like you’re faking an English accent.” “I also met this absolutely brilliant bloke named Julian.” And he broke my heart, Gilda thought. “Uh-oh.” “Why ‘uh-oh’?” “Anyone with the name ‘Julian’ sounds like a potential problem.” “You’re so provincial, Stephen.” Secretly,