Da Capo Al Fine | Chapter 1: First rehearsal
Title: Da Capo Al Fine
Pairing: Phoenix/Miles
Rating: Chapter 11 is NSFW but no actual buttsex. Rest are all general viewing.
Word Count: 57,345
Synopsis: After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...
Chapter Links: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Epilogue | Commentary
Author notes:
1) The contents of the concert programme can be downloaded in mp3 format here:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=PCYYQ0JV
[Not all the pieces selected were originally scored for orchestra or for the types of instruments mentioned here (the Toccata for example), but such pieces can and have been adapted for orchestral performance. You may well recognise the Toccata as Richard Wellington’s ringtone from Game 2 ;)]
2) Miles and Phoenix have never met before, in this AU. This was purely to avoid going into the Von Karma backstory (though Franziska does appear) which was not relevant to the piece at hand.I hope the movement of the plotline makes up for this omission.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The rehearsal hall was tucked away in an outer avenue of Los Angeles, but Miles Edgeworth got there with plenty of time to spare. It was in a former church and its sandstone frontage was dominated by a large set of wooden double doors with iron studs. The rehearsal wasn’t due to start for another forty minutes and he had planned to wait in the car until the other musicians had arrived, but as he parked he noticed that one of the wooden doors was ajar. He retrieved his oboe case from the passenger seat and locked up the car, loafers crunching on the gravel as he walked up to the ornate entrance with its stone saints that stood guard overhead. He looked up at them, noticing that one was a long-haired woman with a lute, and the other was an older gentleman working on some sheet music. Their names were inscribed beneath: St. Cecilia, St. Gregory the Great. The irony did not escape him, and it was with a wry smile that he climbed up the steps to the front doors. Putting his head through the crack he could see a small porch with a little door that lead into the church proper. This too was open, so he crossed the porch and slipped inside.
Rows and rows of seating stretched out in front of him, towards the array of organ pipes that took up the entire facing wall. The seating ended just before a small set of steps leading up to a raised stage where the priest would have lead Communion. Now the tabernacle was replaced by a semicircular array of chairs - that would be where he needed to sit, it seemed, for he spotted the conductor’s dais directly in front. There was so much space; such a change from the closed-in orchestra pits of the Broadway theatres.
He’d only ever played on the performance circuit before, and felt so glad to be out of that environment. The awful six month run of Jerry Springer: The Opera had been the last straw - he’d hated every minute of it. The problem with turning professional was finding those first few jobs. It had been his dream to play in a top symphony orchestra but reality had landed him in the cliquey world of musical theatre, and the need to pay his rent had kept him there. A performance CV containing nothing but Broadway was not conducive to his attempts to escape the pits, and despite performing well at the auditions he’d been turned down by many large-scale orchestras. He had about given up hope at the time he’d auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, and when Mr. Gant had contacted him to say that he’d passed for a few seconds Miles thought there’d been a mistake. But no, it was true, and the last few weeks playing in Jerry Springer were just about bearable as he counted the days until the Symphony returned from their latest tour. They were back in their home city to prepare some new pieces for their next trip, and he was to join their rehearsals starting today.
What will it be like? he wondered, looking up at the stained glass windows. One of the angels was playing on a flute. He hadn’t played in a classical orchestra since University, and had been resigned to spending the rest of his musical career being drowned out by the electric guitars and synthesisers that dominated the modern musicals. He still couldn’t quite believe he was standing here now.
A brash note interrupted the peaceful silence of the hall, and Miles jumped, scanning the seats for the source of it. There was nobody to be seen.
“Hello?”
His voice rebounded back on him, gaining extra harmonics from the echoes.
A head popped up from behind one of the seats. He had dark, spiked-back hair and was holding a trumpet mouthpiece to his lips.
“Oh, hi!” he said, lowering the mouthpiece. “Are you our new oboe player? You’re here rather early.”
“Yes, I’m the oboist,” Miles walked through the aisle between the seats and up the steps. “Miles Edgeworth,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re rather early yourself, are you not?”
“Phoenix Wright,” the man replied, shaking his hand. Miles caught a strong whiff of brass polish and wrinkled his nose. “Pleased to meet you, and sorry about the smell - I get here really early ‘cause of the buses, so I unlock the place and get my cleaning and polishing done before everybody else arrives. This stuff really stinks when I first put it on but it’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
“Oh, I see.” Miles laid his case on one of the chairs, as far away from the odour as possible, sat next to it and undid the clips.
The parts of his oboe lay nestled in crimson velvet, but the first thing he did was get a little canister out of the adjacent compartment. He opened it to retrieve a thin double reed, shaking off a few droplets of excess water before putting the flat end in his mouth to soften it further.
Reed still in mouth, he opened a flat box, taking out a delicate white feather. Only then did he begin taking the gleaming black and silver pieces of his oboe from the case, slowly but meticulously cleaning the insides of each with the feather before clicking the sections into place. Absorbed in this routine, it was a while before he realised Phoenix was watching him.
“Don’t you have your own instrument to put together?” he asked around the reed, a little irritated to have an audience for such basic maintenance work.
“Gotta wait for the polish to dry or I’ll get finger marks all over it. Very posh way of cleaning your instrument, I can tell you’re a professional!” Phoenix said, impressed.
“...What do you mean, ‘posh’? Don’t your other oboists do this?” Miles was a little dismayed - he’d have to give these people a talking-to when they were introduced. Cleaning cloths sufficed for clarinets but oboes had a thinner bore - a cloth could get snagged and trying to sort out that kind of tangle was a nightmare and worse, risked scratching the inside.
“Huh?” Phoenix looked a little blank.
“Your other...” Miles trailed off, taking the reed from his mouth to regard the trumpet-player with disbelief. “You don’t mean to say that I’m the only one?”
“Yup! You’re the first double-reed player I’ve seen since band in junior high, actually. They didn’t use fancy feathers or anything like that.”
Miles looked down at the feather in his hand, at the assembled oboe on the stand beside him. The only oboist in the orchestra? How could this be? He’d done some research on the group after being awarded the place - the woodwind section in the photos on their website had three oboists and the group filled the stage in the pictures taken at one of their concerts in Sheffield.
“Tell me,” he began weakly, “just how many people are there in this orchestra?”
“Well, let’s see...” Phoenix started counting on his fingers. “There used to be loads of us but LA Symphony began head-hunting people, and it’s difficult to find good players who want to travel.”
“So it’s not as large as I was lead to believe.”
“Uh, well, the guy who made our website joined LA Symphony so yeah, the photos on there might be a bit out-dated,” he finished counting. “There’s fifteen of us now, including you.”
“Fifteen? That’s it?” Miles couldn’t believe it. The orchestra at his university had double that number just in woodwind players, never mind the other sections. How could a group that small produce any decent music?
“Well, it’s thirteen, really,” Phoenix corrected himself. “For rehearsals, anyway. Larry and Franziska only turn up for the last two before the concert - Larry’s out with some girl or another most of the time we’re touring, and Franziska’s always measure-perfect so she thinks she doesn’t need to bother. And during the concerts it’s fourteen ‘cause Mike gets stage-fright and can’t get a note out of his trumpet half the time.”
Miles shook his head, bewildered. What kind of ‘symphony orchestra’ was this?
“But hey, being small has its advantages. We’re a happy little family for the most part and we play well together,” Phoenix grinned. “And we fit neatly into a minibus so we can perform in smaller halls - our concerts sell out everywhere we go and we get tons of bookings.”
“Hellooo,” someone else had entered the hall and their greeting echoed back from the eaves. “Ah, it’s great to be back in here again, isn’t it, Pearly? The acoustics are so amazing.”
A slight girl with long, jet-black hair was walking towards them, dressed in the kind of garb Miles had seen in the windows of New Age shops in the malls. A much younger girl followed behind her, dressed in a similar outfit and lugging a large cello case with both hands as she edged sideways, trying not to bump the seats. The cello case was bigger than she was and she could barely see where she was going.
“Hi, you two!” Phoenix waved to them.
“Do you need a hand with that cello of yours?” Miles called out to the older girl. “You shouldn’t leave that little girl to carry it all by herself.”
She stopped for a second, looking at him with surprise, and her friend bumped into her with the cello case.
“Aah, sorry, Maya!” the little brown-haired girl tottered backwards. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Pearly,” Maya laughed. “Look, the new oboe guy is here - we should introduce ourselves! I’m Maya,” she curtseyed, badly, “and this is my younger cousin, Pearl. It’s her cello and she won’t let anybody else carry it. I play violin, see?” she turned around, showing the violin case that was slung across her back.
Miles stared at the younger girl, momentarily forgetting his manners. Surely she didn’t play the cello for this orchestra? She couldn’t be much older than about eight or nine. Things were getting stranger by the minute. Then he regained his composure and nodded to them politely, introducing himself in return.
“Pearls has only been playing with us for a couple of months - she can spin a great melody on that cello of hers,” Phoenix explained, then dropped his voice. “She was made a ward of the state after some, er, stuff. Her Mum was our cellist before then... well, ‘til she got taken away by the police in the middle of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Pearls lives with Maya now, she doesn’t have any other relatives.”
Miles nodded, wondering how many more bewildering people he was going to meet before he’d finished tuning up.
The next to arrive was Dick Gumshoe. He didn’t even have an instrument case, he carried his tuba in a black bin liner closed up with sticky-tape, and when it was out in the light Miles could see that it was covered in grime.
“Good God, has that EVER seen a dustcloth or can of polish?” he burst out, losing his usual reserve at the sight of such a dirty instrument. “That’s terrible!”
“It’d fall apart if it did, wouldn’t it, Dick?” Phoenix joked, and the man in the tatty greatcoat winked in reply.
Miles was about to protest further but Phoenix shook his head at him.
“Even our conductor’s given up telling him to clean it - he always forgets, and it doesn’t matter anyway because he sits at the back,” he explained. “Mr. Gant picked him up off the busking circuit, same as me, and he plays more than well enough to compensate for his dirty tuba. You can always trust him to keep time, no matter what happens - even when the police came for Pearl’s Mum, Dick kept on playing so Diego took up her bass line and we just carried on.”
Miles watched Dick work the water key of his tuba over a bucket, turning away as what sounded like gallons of horn spit gushed into it. He shuddered and picked up his oboe to examine it, still sucking on his reed. It was spotless, and that made him feel a bit better.
The hall was beginning to fill with sound: violin and cello strings being rapidly tuned one by one and then in pairs, the parping of Dick’s tuba, and Miles himself had slotted the reed into his oboe, playing an experimental A. The reed was still a little cold, so it went back into his mouth.
A waist-coated man with a goatee arrived, swigging from a thermos and dragging a large double-bass case on wheels down the aisle.
“Diego,” he said to Miles as he walked past to take up his position on the right hand side. He smelt strongly of coffee. “Yours?”
“Miles,” he extended his hand but Diego was already opening the big case to extract the bass, which was crafted from beautiful cherry wood with a deep lustre from the thick coats of varnish.
“Save those hands of yours for playing, if I were you,” he murmured. “Lana Skye is a hard taskmaster.”
“She’s our slavedriver... ahem, conductor,” Phoenix had finally picked up his trumpet, which shone right down to the last valve.
Miles hated the trumpet as an instrument, but he knew when he was looking at a good one. It was one of the brushed metal types, and the ease with which Phoenix was depressing the buttons as he waggled his fingers showed he took very good care of it. Dick’s dirty tuba seemed to be the only proverbial black sheep in the group - Maya’s violin and Pearl’s cello were also fine examples of their type and probably cost a lot of money to buy.
More people were arriving. A ditzy-looking girl with horn-rimmed glasses sat next to Pearl with her viola and managed to break a string on it before she’d even started tuning up.
(“She ran over her viola with her own car, once,” Phoenix whispered. “But hey, it’s Maggey, these things happen to her.”)
Two girls with their backs to him began unpacking their flutes. Miles was glad to see them - at last, more woodwind players! When they turned to sit down he realised they were completely identical, apart from hair colour. He watched them tune up, wondering if they’d both chosen to learn flute of their own accord or whether they’d simply copied each other.
(“The dark-haired girl is Iris, she’s lovely but very shy. The redhead is Dahlia. Don’t bother trying to talk to her, she won’t speak to anybody apart from her sister. I think she hates the rest of us because she auditioned for LA Symphony and didn’t get in so she’s stuck with us. Iris actually got an invite from them but she’d never leave her sister...”)
A woman with long brown curls, dressed in a coat with swirling staves of music embroidered on it and wearing a hat with a treble-clef sticking out of the top, sat next to the other string players and got out her violin.
(“Angel Starr. She used to be one of the top violinists over at LA Symphony but, uh, let’s just say the conductor wasn’t too happy to find out he was just one of her many lovers-”)
“Do you mind?” Miles said exasperatedly - he was getting sick of Phoenix’s little asides. “I’m trying to tune and I can do without having the life stories of your fellow musicians whispered in my ear.”
Phoenix raised his eyebrows at him.
“You’re a pretty serious sort, aren’t you?” he said.
“Orchestras should be about making music, not mindless gossip.”
Phoenix shrugged and began oiling the valves of his trumpet. He didn’t say anything else. Miles sighed, regretting the snappy comment. He’d managed to avoid most of the petty wars in the pit during Jerry Springer by ignoring the other players and not sharing in this kind of chitchat, and in a larger orchestra he could have just gotten on with the business of playing without having to worry about navigating the social minefield. This group was much smaller and he had to admit that it would be hard to avoid talking to them at some point after the basic introductions, especially on tour. He’d worked hard to get a place here, and if he wanted to keep it he would have to fit in as best he could... or else it would be back to Broadway.
There was a crash and he looked up - a gangly youth in his late teens to early twenties had dropped his trumpet case in the aisle and it had broken open.
“Oh no!” the man exclaimed, dropping to his knees and crawling under the chairs to retrieve the mouthpiece that had rolled away to the other side.
A very tall, broad-shouldered man with bristling sideburns and carroty hair that stuck out in all directions had also just arrived. The youth had gotten stuck somehow underneath the chairs and the big man bent down and grabbed his feet, hauling him back out.
“Th-thankyou, Mr. Powers!” he gabbled, hurriedly grabbing the trumpet case and closing it, running up to sit next to Phoenix.
Mr. Powers joined them, smiling at the youth, who Miles presumed was the Mike that Phoenix had mentioned earlier. Mr. Powers towered above the other two and was getting out a French horn. Miles groaned inwardly when he saw a man who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Western striding up the aisle with a trombone in hand. The brass section outnumbered woodwinds nearly two to one.
“Are there any more woodwind players to come?” he asked Phoenix.
“Ah, that would be gossip, now, wouldn’t it?” Phoenix winked, tapping the side of his nose.
“Look, I didn’t mean to come across so strongly with that comment... I just-“
“It’s okay, honest, I’m only teasing,” Phoenix replied quickly. “Don’t feel bad - Lana said you were fresh from Broadway, and I guess you’d be a bit wary of loose talk with all the backstabbing that goes on there. I should’ve thought of that when I was telling you all that stuff, so, uh, my apologies.”
Miles had grabbed a bit of cleaning paper from his case, slotting it beneath one of the keys on his oboe. It didn’t really need cleaning, but the conversation had turned a little uncomfortable with these mutual apologies and he didn’t know what to say.
“You’ll get to know all the stories anyway,” Phoenix continued, trying to fill the awkward silence between them. “We’re pretty open when we’re chatting, what with being on tour together so much. You’ll probably find it a bit strange at first, after all the cloak and dagger stuff at the theatres, but you’ll get used to it. When I was out busking I met a guy who’d chucked in Broadway - he told me some horrible stories; I don’t know how anyone can hack it.”
“Er,” Miles wasn’t sure how to react to that. “You learn to avoid it,” he said slowly.
Phoenix was looking at him, and Miles could tell that he’d inferred a lot of information from the reply he’d just given. Miles turned back to his oboe, trying to think of any other things he could do until the rehearsal started to avoid further conversation.
“There’s just Ema Skye to come, she plays clarinet,” Phoenix said, finally answering his question. “Though Larry will be there with his for the concerts. You’re sitting in the wrong place, by the way - you’re next to the twins, in front of us, and Ema will sit next to you.”
Miles’ eyes widened at this and he turned to look at the empty chairs to his right side. Phoenix would be sat directly behind him. How was he supposed to hear his own notes with a trumpet blaring in his ear?
“In front?” he said incredulously. “But, you’ll drown us out-“
“Nah, we won’t, we can play quietly,” Phoenix said, slotting in his mouthpiece and playing a very loud, flat G - it sounded awful, and when he began changing his embrouchre the pitch resembled the racket made by a runaway lawnmower. Mike joined in and Miles had to cover his ears.
“Quietly?” Miles had to shout to make himself heard over the two trumpets as Maya gave them the correct note to tune to. “I’ve never met a brass player capable of mezzoforte, never mind piano!”
“What?” Phoenix yelled as Pearl played a B-flat for Jake Marshall to match his trombone to. “Can’t hear you!”
“I said, I’ve never met a brass player capable of piano-“
“Well yeah, that’s ‘cause we play brass, not piano,” Phoenix adjusted his mouthpiece and tuning slide, playing a better G.
Miles gave up, putting the reed back in his oboe and trying to hear his own A amongst the cacophony. Where was the damn conductor?
Abruptly the noise ceased and he could hear his own A play on. He closed his eyes in relief, listening to the familiar, mellow sound his oboe produced when the reed was warmed up and everything was in kilter. He rippled through a few scales before settling back on A again - no watery notes, no air leaking... perfect.
He opened his eyes to see a hand, index finger and thumb joined, zipping across his line of sight, and he responded immediately to the gesture by abruptly silencing the note. Intense brown eyes framed by curtains of matching colour hair were drilling him into his seat. Lana Skye.
“Silence is golden when the conductor commands it. Remember that, Miles Edgeworth,” she said curtly, turning her back on him and walking to the front, the rest of the orchestra waiting quietly for her to speak. She was dressed in military regalia reminiscent of a Naval captain, but she had such an incredible presence that the odd choice of attire merely enhanced her authority.
They’d had stopped playing because she had entered the hall, and he’d gone on trilling away like a fool. Everyone was looking at him, amused expressions on their faces, and the shame of it burnt his cheeks pink. He didn’t notice the younger girl who’d slipped into the seat next to him until she tapped him on the shoulder and waved, quickly assembling her clarinet.
“Have you enjoyed your time off?” Lana addressed them.
They nodded in reply.
“Good. Now, new pieces,” she held up a folder thick with sheet music. “Next month we shall commence a new tour - starting in Los Angeles as usual, and moving on to Hanover from there. You will be playing Faure’s Pavane, the March and Russian Dance from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite-“
Phoenix groaned quietly.
“Shut up, Wright. You survived the Paganini last year without fainting and this piece has more breath marks, so no more complaints - understood?”
“Yes, Ms Skye.”
“Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,” she continued, ignoring the looks of despair on Maya and Maggey’s faces, “and Copland’s Appalachian Spring.”
Dahlia and Iris exchanged glances, and Dahlia nodded to her sister, who raised her hand.
“Which movement?” she asked.
“All of it.”
“All twenty-five minutes of it?” Maya bit her bottom lip. It was a beautiful but horrendously difficult piece for strings and woodwind alike; the Bach Fugue was easy by comparison.
“You’re more than capable of it,” Lana said briskly. “We’ve only done single movements from pieces in the past. It’s about time we attempted something of this scale and gave our paying listeners something worth hearing. No more objections - you will practice hard and play it well. Now, the solo rotations are as follows,” she began reading a list of names and pieces together with the concert at which they’d be playing it. Miles was surprised to hear his name.
“You’re up first, lucky you,” Phoenix’s voice by his ear was nearly inaudible. “Looks like they want to show you off. Unusual choice of piece, mind. Lana doesn’t normally go for -“
“Wright!” Lana said dangerously. “Open your mouth when I’m talking again and I’ll change your solo.”
Phoenix froze mid-sentence, shrinking back into his seat. He’d been forced to play Grieg’s The Hall of the Mountain King last year and the awful triplets had left him with sore lips for days afterwards.
“You’re doing the Ennio Morricone piece because Mr. Gant likes it,” she told Miles, then carried on with the rest of the list.
Miles shrugged - he didn’t mind. He’d never seen the old film that Gabriel’s Oboe was composed for, but the solo was very moving when played right, and he was looking forward to getting to grips with it.
Lana handed out the sheet music and had them all tuning up in an orderly fashion, then the rehearsal began in earnest.
==
“Hey, Miles,” Phoenix said as he packed up his trumpet. “We’re all going out to grab some supper, do you wanna join us?”
“No, I must go home and practice,” Miles replied, stowing his reed back in the canister of water and snapping the lid shut.
“Practice?” Phoenix spluttered. “You’ve just done three hours of practice - your fingers must be dropping off by now. Come on, come out with us. You must be hungry, surely!”
“I’ll grab something on my way home. See you Wednesday,” Miles closed up his oboe case and went down the steps, exiting the church.
“He’s an odd one, isn’t he, Nick?” Maya said, watching him go. “He’s pretty good though, he had that section in Pavane down pat within two run-throughs. Not much of a talker though.”
“I think he had a bit of a bad time on Broadway,” Phoenix said thoughtfully. “Did you see the look on his face when he went up to Lana just now to get the sheets for his solo? He was trying to hide it, but he looked pleased.”
“Pleased? Well, good for him - I’ve gotta learn The Entry of the Queen of Sheba for Madrid,” Maya made a face. “I wish the rotten Queen had stayed outside, the string-crosses on that are horrible.”
“I don’t know if he’s had much of a chance to play solo before. I mean, on Broadway, there’s nearly always someone singing along, or the whole group is playing. And even then, you’re tucked away out of sight in the pit or behind some scenery - that’s really different to playing in a concert setting. I’d be excited if it were me.”
“Listen to you, Mr. Freud!” Maya teased. “What’s with the deep psychoanalysis?”
“Get a move on, little kitty,” Diego bumped her with his double-bass case. “Never go home without having drunk one last cup of coffee, that’s one of my rules.”
“Never mind coffee, I’m starved!” Dick declared, and the little gaggle of musicians left the church, Phoenix locking the doors behind them.
Pairing: Phoenix/Miles
Rating: Chapter 11 is NSFW but no actual buttsex. Rest are all general viewing.
Word Count: 57,345
Synopsis: After years of misery playing in the dingy orchestra pits of Broadway, Miles Edgeworth, professional oboist, has finally been given a reprieve. Having successfully auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, at last he can realise his dream of playing in a top orchestra. However, he is soon to find that he has joined a very eccentric band of musicians...
Chapter Links: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Epilogue | Commentary
Author notes:
1) The contents of the concert programme can be downloaded in mp3 format here:
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=PCYYQ0JV
[Not all the pieces selected were originally scored for orchestra or for the types of instruments mentioned here (the Toccata for example), but such pieces can and have been adapted for orchestral performance. You may well recognise the Toccata as Richard Wellington’s ringtone from Game 2 ;)]
2) Miles and Phoenix have never met before, in this AU. This was purely to avoid going into the Von Karma backstory (though Franziska does appear) which was not relevant to the piece at hand.I hope the movement of the plotline makes up for this omission.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The rehearsal hall was tucked away in an outer avenue of Los Angeles, but Miles Edgeworth got there with plenty of time to spare. It was in a former church and its sandstone frontage was dominated by a large set of wooden double doors with iron studs. The rehearsal wasn’t due to start for another forty minutes and he had planned to wait in the car until the other musicians had arrived, but as he parked he noticed that one of the wooden doors was ajar. He retrieved his oboe case from the passenger seat and locked up the car, loafers crunching on the gravel as he walked up to the ornate entrance with its stone saints that stood guard overhead. He looked up at them, noticing that one was a long-haired woman with a lute, and the other was an older gentleman working on some sheet music. Their names were inscribed beneath: St. Cecilia, St. Gregory the Great. The irony did not escape him, and it was with a wry smile that he climbed up the steps to the front doors. Putting his head through the crack he could see a small porch with a little door that lead into the church proper. This too was open, so he crossed the porch and slipped inside.
Rows and rows of seating stretched out in front of him, towards the array of organ pipes that took up the entire facing wall. The seating ended just before a small set of steps leading up to a raised stage where the priest would have lead Communion. Now the tabernacle was replaced by a semicircular array of chairs - that would be where he needed to sit, it seemed, for he spotted the conductor’s dais directly in front. There was so much space; such a change from the closed-in orchestra pits of the Broadway theatres.
He’d only ever played on the performance circuit before, and felt so glad to be out of that environment. The awful six month run of Jerry Springer: The Opera had been the last straw - he’d hated every minute of it. The problem with turning professional was finding those first few jobs. It had been his dream to play in a top symphony orchestra but reality had landed him in the cliquey world of musical theatre, and the need to pay his rent had kept him there. A performance CV containing nothing but Broadway was not conducive to his attempts to escape the pits, and despite performing well at the auditions he’d been turned down by many large-scale orchestras. He had about given up hope at the time he’d auditioned for the Los Angeles Travelling Symphony, and when Mr. Gant had contacted him to say that he’d passed for a few seconds Miles thought there’d been a mistake. But no, it was true, and the last few weeks playing in Jerry Springer were just about bearable as he counted the days until the Symphony returned from their latest tour. They were back in their home city to prepare some new pieces for their next trip, and he was to join their rehearsals starting today.
What will it be like? he wondered, looking up at the stained glass windows. One of the angels was playing on a flute. He hadn’t played in a classical orchestra since University, and had been resigned to spending the rest of his musical career being drowned out by the electric guitars and synthesisers that dominated the modern musicals. He still couldn’t quite believe he was standing here now.
A brash note interrupted the peaceful silence of the hall, and Miles jumped, scanning the seats for the source of it. There was nobody to be seen.
“Hello?”
His voice rebounded back on him, gaining extra harmonics from the echoes.
A head popped up from behind one of the seats. He had dark, spiked-back hair and was holding a trumpet mouthpiece to his lips.
“Oh, hi!” he said, lowering the mouthpiece. “Are you our new oboe player? You’re here rather early.”
“Yes, I’m the oboist,” Miles walked through the aisle between the seats and up the steps. “Miles Edgeworth,” he said, extending his hand. “You’re rather early yourself, are you not?”
“Phoenix Wright,” the man replied, shaking his hand. Miles caught a strong whiff of brass polish and wrinkled his nose. “Pleased to meet you, and sorry about the smell - I get here really early ‘cause of the buses, so I unlock the place and get my cleaning and polishing done before everybody else arrives. This stuff really stinks when I first put it on but it’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
“Oh, I see.” Miles laid his case on one of the chairs, as far away from the odour as possible, sat next to it and undid the clips.
The parts of his oboe lay nestled in crimson velvet, but the first thing he did was get a little canister out of the adjacent compartment. He opened it to retrieve a thin double reed, shaking off a few droplets of excess water before putting the flat end in his mouth to soften it further.
Reed still in mouth, he opened a flat box, taking out a delicate white feather. Only then did he begin taking the gleaming black and silver pieces of his oboe from the case, slowly but meticulously cleaning the insides of each with the feather before clicking the sections into place. Absorbed in this routine, it was a while before he realised Phoenix was watching him.
“Don’t you have your own instrument to put together?” he asked around the reed, a little irritated to have an audience for such basic maintenance work.
“Gotta wait for the polish to dry or I’ll get finger marks all over it. Very posh way of cleaning your instrument, I can tell you’re a professional!” Phoenix said, impressed.
“...What do you mean, ‘posh’? Don’t your other oboists do this?” Miles was a little dismayed - he’d have to give these people a talking-to when they were introduced. Cleaning cloths sufficed for clarinets but oboes had a thinner bore - a cloth could get snagged and trying to sort out that kind of tangle was a nightmare and worse, risked scratching the inside.
“Huh?” Phoenix looked a little blank.
“Your other...” Miles trailed off, taking the reed from his mouth to regard the trumpet-player with disbelief. “You don’t mean to say that I’m the only one?”
“Yup! You’re the first double-reed player I’ve seen since band in junior high, actually. They didn’t use fancy feathers or anything like that.”
Miles looked down at the feather in his hand, at the assembled oboe on the stand beside him. The only oboist in the orchestra? How could this be? He’d done some research on the group after being awarded the place - the woodwind section in the photos on their website had three oboists and the group filled the stage in the pictures taken at one of their concerts in Sheffield.
“Tell me,” he began weakly, “just how many people are there in this orchestra?”
“Well, let’s see...” Phoenix started counting on his fingers. “There used to be loads of us but LA Symphony began head-hunting people, and it’s difficult to find good players who want to travel.”
“So it’s not as large as I was lead to believe.”
“Uh, well, the guy who made our website joined LA Symphony so yeah, the photos on there might be a bit out-dated,” he finished counting. “There’s fifteen of us now, including you.”
“Fifteen? That’s it?” Miles couldn’t believe it. The orchestra at his university had double that number just in woodwind players, never mind the other sections. How could a group that small produce any decent music?
“Well, it’s thirteen, really,” Phoenix corrected himself. “For rehearsals, anyway. Larry and Franziska only turn up for the last two before the concert - Larry’s out with some girl or another most of the time we’re touring, and Franziska’s always measure-perfect so she thinks she doesn’t need to bother. And during the concerts it’s fourteen ‘cause Mike gets stage-fright and can’t get a note out of his trumpet half the time.”
Miles shook his head, bewildered. What kind of ‘symphony orchestra’ was this?
“But hey, being small has its advantages. We’re a happy little family for the most part and we play well together,” Phoenix grinned. “And we fit neatly into a minibus so we can perform in smaller halls - our concerts sell out everywhere we go and we get tons of bookings.”
“Hellooo,” someone else had entered the hall and their greeting echoed back from the eaves. “Ah, it’s great to be back in here again, isn’t it, Pearly? The acoustics are so amazing.”
A slight girl with long, jet-black hair was walking towards them, dressed in the kind of garb Miles had seen in the windows of New Age shops in the malls. A much younger girl followed behind her, dressed in a similar outfit and lugging a large cello case with both hands as she edged sideways, trying not to bump the seats. The cello case was bigger than she was and she could barely see where she was going.
“Hi, you two!” Phoenix waved to them.
“Do you need a hand with that cello of yours?” Miles called out to the older girl. “You shouldn’t leave that little girl to carry it all by herself.”
She stopped for a second, looking at him with surprise, and her friend bumped into her with the cello case.
“Aah, sorry, Maya!” the little brown-haired girl tottered backwards. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Pearly,” Maya laughed. “Look, the new oboe guy is here - we should introduce ourselves! I’m Maya,” she curtseyed, badly, “and this is my younger cousin, Pearl. It’s her cello and she won’t let anybody else carry it. I play violin, see?” she turned around, showing the violin case that was slung across her back.
Miles stared at the younger girl, momentarily forgetting his manners. Surely she didn’t play the cello for this orchestra? She couldn’t be much older than about eight or nine. Things were getting stranger by the minute. Then he regained his composure and nodded to them politely, introducing himself in return.
“Pearls has only been playing with us for a couple of months - she can spin a great melody on that cello of hers,” Phoenix explained, then dropped his voice. “She was made a ward of the state after some, er, stuff. Her Mum was our cellist before then... well, ‘til she got taken away by the police in the middle of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Pearls lives with Maya now, she doesn’t have any other relatives.”
Miles nodded, wondering how many more bewildering people he was going to meet before he’d finished tuning up.
The next to arrive was Dick Gumshoe. He didn’t even have an instrument case, he carried his tuba in a black bin liner closed up with sticky-tape, and when it was out in the light Miles could see that it was covered in grime.
“Good God, has that EVER seen a dustcloth or can of polish?” he burst out, losing his usual reserve at the sight of such a dirty instrument. “That’s terrible!”
“It’d fall apart if it did, wouldn’t it, Dick?” Phoenix joked, and the man in the tatty greatcoat winked in reply.
Miles was about to protest further but Phoenix shook his head at him.
“Even our conductor’s given up telling him to clean it - he always forgets, and it doesn’t matter anyway because he sits at the back,” he explained. “Mr. Gant picked him up off the busking circuit, same as me, and he plays more than well enough to compensate for his dirty tuba. You can always trust him to keep time, no matter what happens - even when the police came for Pearl’s Mum, Dick kept on playing so Diego took up her bass line and we just carried on.”
Miles watched Dick work the water key of his tuba over a bucket, turning away as what sounded like gallons of horn spit gushed into it. He shuddered and picked up his oboe to examine it, still sucking on his reed. It was spotless, and that made him feel a bit better.
The hall was beginning to fill with sound: violin and cello strings being rapidly tuned one by one and then in pairs, the parping of Dick’s tuba, and Miles himself had slotted the reed into his oboe, playing an experimental A. The reed was still a little cold, so it went back into his mouth.
A waist-coated man with a goatee arrived, swigging from a thermos and dragging a large double-bass case on wheels down the aisle.
“Diego,” he said to Miles as he walked past to take up his position on the right hand side. He smelt strongly of coffee. “Yours?”
“Miles,” he extended his hand but Diego was already opening the big case to extract the bass, which was crafted from beautiful cherry wood with a deep lustre from the thick coats of varnish.
“Save those hands of yours for playing, if I were you,” he murmured. “Lana Skye is a hard taskmaster.”
“She’s our slavedriver... ahem, conductor,” Phoenix had finally picked up his trumpet, which shone right down to the last valve.
Miles hated the trumpet as an instrument, but he knew when he was looking at a good one. It was one of the brushed metal types, and the ease with which Phoenix was depressing the buttons as he waggled his fingers showed he took very good care of it. Dick’s dirty tuba seemed to be the only proverbial black sheep in the group - Maya’s violin and Pearl’s cello were also fine examples of their type and probably cost a lot of money to buy.
More people were arriving. A ditzy-looking girl with horn-rimmed glasses sat next to Pearl with her viola and managed to break a string on it before she’d even started tuning up.
(“She ran over her viola with her own car, once,” Phoenix whispered. “But hey, it’s Maggey, these things happen to her.”)
Two girls with their backs to him began unpacking their flutes. Miles was glad to see them - at last, more woodwind players! When they turned to sit down he realised they were completely identical, apart from hair colour. He watched them tune up, wondering if they’d both chosen to learn flute of their own accord or whether they’d simply copied each other.
(“The dark-haired girl is Iris, she’s lovely but very shy. The redhead is Dahlia. Don’t bother trying to talk to her, she won’t speak to anybody apart from her sister. I think she hates the rest of us because she auditioned for LA Symphony and didn’t get in so she’s stuck with us. Iris actually got an invite from them but she’d never leave her sister...”)
A woman with long brown curls, dressed in a coat with swirling staves of music embroidered on it and wearing a hat with a treble-clef sticking out of the top, sat next to the other string players and got out her violin.
(“Angel Starr. She used to be one of the top violinists over at LA Symphony but, uh, let’s just say the conductor wasn’t too happy to find out he was just one of her many lovers-”)
“Do you mind?” Miles said exasperatedly - he was getting sick of Phoenix’s little asides. “I’m trying to tune and I can do without having the life stories of your fellow musicians whispered in my ear.”
Phoenix raised his eyebrows at him.
“You’re a pretty serious sort, aren’t you?” he said.
“Orchestras should be about making music, not mindless gossip.”
Phoenix shrugged and began oiling the valves of his trumpet. He didn’t say anything else. Miles sighed, regretting the snappy comment. He’d managed to avoid most of the petty wars in the pit during Jerry Springer by ignoring the other players and not sharing in this kind of chitchat, and in a larger orchestra he could have just gotten on with the business of playing without having to worry about navigating the social minefield. This group was much smaller and he had to admit that it would be hard to avoid talking to them at some point after the basic introductions, especially on tour. He’d worked hard to get a place here, and if he wanted to keep it he would have to fit in as best he could... or else it would be back to Broadway.
There was a crash and he looked up - a gangly youth in his late teens to early twenties had dropped his trumpet case in the aisle and it had broken open.
“Oh no!” the man exclaimed, dropping to his knees and crawling under the chairs to retrieve the mouthpiece that had rolled away to the other side.
A very tall, broad-shouldered man with bristling sideburns and carroty hair that stuck out in all directions had also just arrived. The youth had gotten stuck somehow underneath the chairs and the big man bent down and grabbed his feet, hauling him back out.
“Th-thankyou, Mr. Powers!” he gabbled, hurriedly grabbing the trumpet case and closing it, running up to sit next to Phoenix.
Mr. Powers joined them, smiling at the youth, who Miles presumed was the Mike that Phoenix had mentioned earlier. Mr. Powers towered above the other two and was getting out a French horn. Miles groaned inwardly when he saw a man who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Western striding up the aisle with a trombone in hand. The brass section outnumbered woodwinds nearly two to one.
“Are there any more woodwind players to come?” he asked Phoenix.
“Ah, that would be gossip, now, wouldn’t it?” Phoenix winked, tapping the side of his nose.
“Look, I didn’t mean to come across so strongly with that comment... I just-“
“It’s okay, honest, I’m only teasing,” Phoenix replied quickly. “Don’t feel bad - Lana said you were fresh from Broadway, and I guess you’d be a bit wary of loose talk with all the backstabbing that goes on there. I should’ve thought of that when I was telling you all that stuff, so, uh, my apologies.”
Miles had grabbed a bit of cleaning paper from his case, slotting it beneath one of the keys on his oboe. It didn’t really need cleaning, but the conversation had turned a little uncomfortable with these mutual apologies and he didn’t know what to say.
“You’ll get to know all the stories anyway,” Phoenix continued, trying to fill the awkward silence between them. “We’re pretty open when we’re chatting, what with being on tour together so much. You’ll probably find it a bit strange at first, after all the cloak and dagger stuff at the theatres, but you’ll get used to it. When I was out busking I met a guy who’d chucked in Broadway - he told me some horrible stories; I don’t know how anyone can hack it.”
“Er,” Miles wasn’t sure how to react to that. “You learn to avoid it,” he said slowly.
Phoenix was looking at him, and Miles could tell that he’d inferred a lot of information from the reply he’d just given. Miles turned back to his oboe, trying to think of any other things he could do until the rehearsal started to avoid further conversation.
“There’s just Ema Skye to come, she plays clarinet,” Phoenix said, finally answering his question. “Though Larry will be there with his for the concerts. You’re sitting in the wrong place, by the way - you’re next to the twins, in front of us, and Ema will sit next to you.”
Miles’ eyes widened at this and he turned to look at the empty chairs to his right side. Phoenix would be sat directly behind him. How was he supposed to hear his own notes with a trumpet blaring in his ear?
“In front?” he said incredulously. “But, you’ll drown us out-“
“Nah, we won’t, we can play quietly,” Phoenix said, slotting in his mouthpiece and playing a very loud, flat G - it sounded awful, and when he began changing his embrouchre the pitch resembled the racket made by a runaway lawnmower. Mike joined in and Miles had to cover his ears.
“Quietly?” Miles had to shout to make himself heard over the two trumpets as Maya gave them the correct note to tune to. “I’ve never met a brass player capable of mezzoforte, never mind piano!”
“What?” Phoenix yelled as Pearl played a B-flat for Jake Marshall to match his trombone to. “Can’t hear you!”
“I said, I’ve never met a brass player capable of piano-“
“Well yeah, that’s ‘cause we play brass, not piano,” Phoenix adjusted his mouthpiece and tuning slide, playing a better G.
Miles gave up, putting the reed back in his oboe and trying to hear his own A amongst the cacophony. Where was the damn conductor?
Abruptly the noise ceased and he could hear his own A play on. He closed his eyes in relief, listening to the familiar, mellow sound his oboe produced when the reed was warmed up and everything was in kilter. He rippled through a few scales before settling back on A again - no watery notes, no air leaking... perfect.
He opened his eyes to see a hand, index finger and thumb joined, zipping across his line of sight, and he responded immediately to the gesture by abruptly silencing the note. Intense brown eyes framed by curtains of matching colour hair were drilling him into his seat. Lana Skye.
“Silence is golden when the conductor commands it. Remember that, Miles Edgeworth,” she said curtly, turning her back on him and walking to the front, the rest of the orchestra waiting quietly for her to speak. She was dressed in military regalia reminiscent of a Naval captain, but she had such an incredible presence that the odd choice of attire merely enhanced her authority.
They’d had stopped playing because she had entered the hall, and he’d gone on trilling away like a fool. Everyone was looking at him, amused expressions on their faces, and the shame of it burnt his cheeks pink. He didn’t notice the younger girl who’d slipped into the seat next to him until she tapped him on the shoulder and waved, quickly assembling her clarinet.
“Have you enjoyed your time off?” Lana addressed them.
They nodded in reply.
“Good. Now, new pieces,” she held up a folder thick with sheet music. “Next month we shall commence a new tour - starting in Los Angeles as usual, and moving on to Hanover from there. You will be playing Faure’s Pavane, the March and Russian Dance from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite-“
Phoenix groaned quietly.
“Shut up, Wright. You survived the Paganini last year without fainting and this piece has more breath marks, so no more complaints - understood?”
“Yes, Ms Skye.”
“Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,” she continued, ignoring the looks of despair on Maya and Maggey’s faces, “and Copland’s Appalachian Spring.”
Dahlia and Iris exchanged glances, and Dahlia nodded to her sister, who raised her hand.
“Which movement?” she asked.
“All of it.”
“All twenty-five minutes of it?” Maya bit her bottom lip. It was a beautiful but horrendously difficult piece for strings and woodwind alike; the Bach Fugue was easy by comparison.
“You’re more than capable of it,” Lana said briskly. “We’ve only done single movements from pieces in the past. It’s about time we attempted something of this scale and gave our paying listeners something worth hearing. No more objections - you will practice hard and play it well. Now, the solo rotations are as follows,” she began reading a list of names and pieces together with the concert at which they’d be playing it. Miles was surprised to hear his name.
“You’re up first, lucky you,” Phoenix’s voice by his ear was nearly inaudible. “Looks like they want to show you off. Unusual choice of piece, mind. Lana doesn’t normally go for -“
“Wright!” Lana said dangerously. “Open your mouth when I’m talking again and I’ll change your solo.”
Phoenix froze mid-sentence, shrinking back into his seat. He’d been forced to play Grieg’s The Hall of the Mountain King last year and the awful triplets had left him with sore lips for days afterwards.
“You’re doing the Ennio Morricone piece because Mr. Gant likes it,” she told Miles, then carried on with the rest of the list.
Miles shrugged - he didn’t mind. He’d never seen the old film that Gabriel’s Oboe was composed for, but the solo was very moving when played right, and he was looking forward to getting to grips with it.
Lana handed out the sheet music and had them all tuning up in an orderly fashion, then the rehearsal began in earnest.
==
“Hey, Miles,” Phoenix said as he packed up his trumpet. “We’re all going out to grab some supper, do you wanna join us?”
“No, I must go home and practice,” Miles replied, stowing his reed back in the canister of water and snapping the lid shut.
“Practice?” Phoenix spluttered. “You’ve just done three hours of practice - your fingers must be dropping off by now. Come on, come out with us. You must be hungry, surely!”
“I’ll grab something on my way home. See you Wednesday,” Miles closed up his oboe case and went down the steps, exiting the church.
“He’s an odd one, isn’t he, Nick?” Maya said, watching him go. “He’s pretty good though, he had that section in Pavane down pat within two run-throughs. Not much of a talker though.”
“I think he had a bit of a bad time on Broadway,” Phoenix said thoughtfully. “Did you see the look on his face when he went up to Lana just now to get the sheets for his solo? He was trying to hide it, but he looked pleased.”
“Pleased? Well, good for him - I’ve gotta learn The Entry of the Queen of Sheba for Madrid,” Maya made a face. “I wish the rotten Queen had stayed outside, the string-crosses on that are horrible.”
“I don’t know if he’s had much of a chance to play solo before. I mean, on Broadway, there’s nearly always someone singing along, or the whole group is playing. And even then, you’re tucked away out of sight in the pit or behind some scenery - that’s really different to playing in a concert setting. I’d be excited if it were me.”
“Listen to you, Mr. Freud!” Maya teased. “What’s with the deep psychoanalysis?”
“Get a move on, little kitty,” Diego bumped her with his double-bass case. “Never go home without having drunk one last cup of coffee, that’s one of my rules.”
“Never mind coffee, I’m starved!” Dick declared, and the little gaggle of musicians left the church, Phoenix locking the doors behind them.