“Hmm, to write in your style. Well... your work has always struck me as quite dark, much like the work of Maestro Mahler, from Austria, but without the lighter parts.” The young man began to improvise a piece slowly, in A minor. It started off quite sad, almost weeping, going along at a relaxed pace, much like the Waltz Christopher had been playing before. But he realized that was not quite her style. Hers was much more “chordy,” dramatic. He added more chords, playing louder and louder until he was sure the sounds could be heard above them. Then he stopped, and went back to the melody from before, the more peacefully sad one. He decided that while it wasn't her style, it was closer to the way she acted. She had never rapped his fingers for mistakes in playing, like some instructors he had heard of from his friends in the dormitory. She had never raised her voice against him, merely criticized calmly. Even when he had been late once, a year ago, she had merely pursed her lips and calmly and coldly asked that he not do that again.
“How was that, teacher?” he asked, smiling at her. “Also, what am I to call you now, if you are no longer my tutor?”