The music came in the same way it had when Rosalind Albany was young: in the middle of the night, through a restless sleep. Except when she was younger, she would roll over in bed, rummage on her bedside table for a pen and napkin, scrawl something semi-coherent and then try to sleep until she could get herself somewhere that she could play music without disturbing her sleeping roommates. Now, she pulled back the sheets of her hotel bed, strode across the room to where her phone was charging, unhooked it, and sang into the voice recorder:
“You sold me for parts, as you sunk your teeth into me…” and then a hum of a tune, a few whispered words about a key, a piano, and then, “I knew it was strange, you only came out at night… Bloodsucker, dream-fucker, no, fame-fucker, you’re bleeding me dry…”
When she was younger, that would have been enough to allow her at least a few hours of sleep. The words and music would stop until the sun rose. But Rosalind hadn’t written like this for years, bordering on decades.
She pressed her fingers deep into the corners of her eyelids, then folded her hands under her chin, staring at the wall, illuminated by her phone light. She wished she was back home in LA, where it wouldn’t be strange to head to a studio in the middle of the night, hit with nostalgia. Where uber drivers weren’t suspicious of a 3am pickup, and drive-thrus supplied coffee by the gallon. England would have to do.
Ros dressed simply, and didn’t bother with makeup given the hour. On her way to the door, Rosalind eyed her guitar, still in its case, pressed against the wall. Did it even still play? Why did she bother packing it, if she knew she wasn’t in the business of writing anymore? Ros pursed her lips as she tied the laces on her shoes, and then picked up the case, before leaving her room.
White Witch Studios was designed to not allow an inch of sunlight through its doors, so Rosalind literally lost track of time. She must have spent hours down there, transitioning from strumming her guitar, to scrawling lyrics and notations on pieces of paper, to sliding on a pair of headphones and singing lines over and over until they sounded correct. It was how it had always been when she was younger, the situation and the emotions overtaking her until they had to pour out into her music. Like a weight in her chest, a frenetic energy that rose within her, spilling everywhere. It puddled at her feet, and rose, and for moments, Ros would tip her head back as if the flood was lapping at her neck, and she was desperate for air.
When the front door to the studio was opened, Ros gave another gasp for air, blinking. She closed her eyes, arched her back and stretched out her neck. Inhaled, and exhaled. The energy in the studio was frantic at the best of times, but even the best of them wouldn’t have coped with the emotional energy Ros expended when she wrote.
She placed her guitar on a stand, then collected her papers, heading out of the recording booth just as Shoshana entered and flung herself dramatically on the couch in the mixing room.
“Shosh,” She greeted the girl, sliding her work underneath a cup of coffee that was long since cold.
Shosh, who was clearly still irritated with her for not disclosing her friendship with Sascha, eyed the blonde irritably. She swept a critical gaze over her, and Rosalind folded her arms, raising her chin. “Are you like… Okay?”
Rosalind rolled her eyes, then started to switch on the monitor in the booth, ready for them to play back and discuss the song Shosh had recorded the day prior. “Of course not. I just read the consultant report on loss margins, if the band decides to continue this tantrum.”
Shosh also rolled her eyes, and Ros turned from her to focus on the computer, searching for the files Eric would have uploaded overnight. Ros tapped her fingers irritably as she searched for it, then pulled out her phone. Eric had not finished the track. He agreed with her- Ignorance was not a solo acoustic piece.
“Is it ready?” Shosh asked, turning her head as though she couldn’t possibly bring herself to be anything other than horizontal.
“No,” Rosalind admitted, and Shosh quirked a brow. That was not how Rosalind did things. The razor-sharp woman ruled her work life with an iron grip, missing a deadline wasn’t just a rarity, but an impossibility. “It’s not a solo piece, Shosh.”
Shosh’s cheeks went pink, and Ros heard her breath tighten. “Yeah, well…” Her voice got a bit squeaky, “There’s not a lot I can do…”
“While you’re here, I’ve got something else for you, too. New song. It’s written for guitar, but I’m sure you could adapt it. Here-” With one hand, she took her coffee, and with the other she passed her music across to Shosh.
Shosh raised her arms so that she didn’t have to sit up, reading the music and humming the notes- not dissimilar to how Ros had, minutes ago. She let the papers rest on her chest, frowning, “Is this open market?”
“No, private sourced.” Rosalind replied, turning back in her chair to prep the booth for the new track.
“Who wrote it?” Shosh asked, finally able to sit up and eventually stand.
Rosalind ignored her for a moment, busying herself with prep work, before Shosh entered the booth, putting on headphones as she had the day before.
“Who wrote it?” Shosh repeated, her voice echoing in the booth before Ros stood to close her in.
Ros put on her headphones, then folded her hands. “I did,” She answered simply, then moved on, “Try to keep it in the same key there- it shifts up after the second chorus.”
Shosh’s mouth was half-open, she looked at Rosalind, dumbfounded. “You wrote this.” She said, doubt dripping from her achingly teenage tone, before she threw her hands up, “When are you going to tell me what the fuck’s going on? First, you’re long-lost besties with Sascha, now you’re telling me you’re- what, a lyricist?”
Rosalind pursed her lips. A lyricist. Frankly, the title was almost an insult after everything she’d pushed to accomplish in her career. “If you don’t want to record, Shosh, we can go home. I have plenty of other places to be.”
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