The morning in South Kensington felt like a scene from an old oil painting. A fine, silvery mist clung to the black iron railings and the edges of the grand Victorian buildings, giving the entire neighborhood an air of quiet, academic mystery.
Inside the East Wing of the Hiiragizawa estate, Tomoyo stood before her full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of a tailored wool coat.
In Tomoeda, her school uniform had been a symbol of belonging. Here, her clothes were her armor. She chose a palette of deep plums and creams—colors that felt grounded, yet held a spark of the creative spirit she had always harbored.
"You're overthinking the buttons, Tomoyo-chan," Nakuru's voice drifted in as she leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a delicate teacup.
"In London, the more you look like you don't care, the more they think you're a genius. But personally? I think you look like a masterpiece."
Tomoyo smiled at her reflection, though her hands were still cold. "It's not about the fashion, Nakuru-san. It's about the voice. I feel like I'm carrying everyone's expectations in my throat."
"Then leave them here," Eriol said, appearing behind Nakuru. He looked sharp in a dark overcoat, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
"The Royal College of Music doesn't want the expectations of Japan. They want to hear what happens when a Daidouji meets the London rain. Shall we?"
The walk to the college was short, but for Tomoyo, every step felt like a mile. As they approached Prince Consort Road, the red-brick grandeur of the Royal College of Music (RCM) rose up to meet them.
It was a cathedral dedicated to sound. Even from the sidewalk, Tomoyo could hear the disjointed symphony of a hundred students practicing simultaneously—a snippet of a Mozart aria here, a frantic cello concerto there, and the low, rhythmic thumping of a timpani echoing from the basement.
Eriol stopped at the base of the stone steps. The fountain in the center of the courtyard was bubbling quietly, its water dark under the overcast sky.
"I have a seminar at the museum annex," Eriol said, turning to her. He reached out and briefly, gently, squeezed her hand. His touch was grounding, a stark contrast to the fluttering anxiety in her chest.
"Go in. Don't look for a camera to hide behind. Just listen to the echo of your own footsteps."
"I'll try, Eriol-kun," she promised.
As Eriol walked away, Tomoyo watched him for a second. She noticed how several older men in academic robes gave him a respectful nod as he passed, but she pushed the thought aside. Today was about her music.
Stepping inside the RCM was like entering another dimension. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, rosin, and the ozone of high-strung nerves.
The hallway was a crowded artery of talent. Students from all over the world leaned against the oak-paneled walls—some frantically marking sheet music with pencils, others with their eyes closed, humming melodies that only they could hear.
Tomoyo felt small. In Japan, her voice was a celebrated treasure. Here, she saw girls with the poise of professional divas and boys who handled their violin cases as if they were holy relics.
She followed the signs to the Vocal Department for orientation. The room was a small, steeply raked auditorium with a grand piano at the center. As she took a seat near the back, she noticed the way the other students looked at one another.
It wasn't the friendly curiosity of her schoolmates in Tomoeda. It was a sharp, clinical assessment. They were checking each other's posture, their breathing, the way they carried themselves.
"First time?"
A girl with a shock of short, platinum hair and a leather jacket sat next to her. She held a battered thermos and smelled faintly of peppermint.
"Yes," Tomoyo said, offering a polite smile. "I'm Tomoyo Daidouji, from Japan."
"Sarah. Mezzo from Manchester," the girl replied, taking a swig of her drink. "Don't let the architecture scare you. Half the people in this room will be gone by Christmas. The RCM doesn't just teach you how to sing; it tries to break your spirit to see if the voice that's left is worth keeping."
Tomoyo felt a chill. "That sounds... intense."
"It's London, love. We don't do 'sweet' here. We do 'brilliant' or 'forgotten'."
The room fell silent as a woman with silver hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful marched to the front.
This was Madame DuPont, the head of the Vocal Faculty. She didn't use a microphone; her voice carried to the back of the room with the force of a physical blow.
"Welcome," DuPont said, her eyes scanning the rows like a hawk looking for prey. "You are here because you think you are singers. You are wrong. You are merely instruments that have not yet been tuned. This year, we will strip away your bad habits, your vanity, and your safety nets."
She walked to the piano and struck a single note—a low, resonant E.
"Music is not about being pretty. It is about being honest. Many of you sing because you want to be loved. If that is your goal, go back to your karaoke bars. Here, we sing because the silence is unbearable."
Madame DuPont then began to call names for a diagnostic "sight-singing" test. One by one, students went down to the piano.
A girl from Italy sang a Rossini aria with terrifying technical speed. A boy from Germany performed a Schubert lieder with such precision it felt mechanical.
"Daidouji, Tomoyo."
Tomoyo's heart skipped. She walked down the wooden stairs, her heels echoing in the sudden silence. When she reached the piano, Madame DuPont handed her a sheet of contemporary music. It was jagged, filled with dissonant intervals and no clear key signature.
"From the middle," DuPont commanded. "No preparation. Just the soul of the notes."
Tomoyo took a breath. She looked at the paper, the notes swimming for a second before they snapped into focus. She began. Her voice was light, a silver thread in the large room.
She hit the difficult intervals with the accuracy she had practiced for years, but she felt her throat tightening. She was singing perfectly, but she was singing carefully.
Madame DuPont raised a hand, stopping her mid-phrase. The silence that followed was deafening.
"Miss Daidouji," the professor said, leaning over the piano. "Your technique is impeccable. Your pitch is flawless. And yet... I felt absolutely nothing."
The words stung more than a slap. Tomoyo felt the heat rising in her face as the other students whispered.
"You are singing as if you are afraid to break the air," DuPont continued, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "You are singing like a shadow. I don't want to hear a recording of a voice. I want to hear your voice. Come back when you've found something worth shouting about."
The rest of the orientation was a blur of syllabi, locker assignments, and tours of the practice rooms. Tomoyo moved through the crowds like a ghost.
For the first time in her life, she felt the crushing weight of being "ordinary." In the world of the RCM, her perfection was her greatest weakness. It was a mask she had worn so long she didn't know how to take it off.
She found herself in the student lounge, staring out at the grey London sky. She felt a sudden, desperate urge to call Sakura—to hear a voice that loved her unconditionally.
But she stopped herself. If she called Sakura, she would fall back into the role of the "supporter." She would hide her pain to make Sakura feelbetter.
No, she thought, clenching her hands. I have to stay in this feeling. Even if it hurts. As she left the building later that afternoon, her mind was a whirlwind of DuPont's words. You are singing like a shadow.
She reached the fountain in the courtyard and found Eriol waiting for her. He wasn't looking at his watch; he was simply watching the water, looking as if he had all the time in the world. When he saw her, his expression shifted—not to pity, but to a deep, analytical curiosity.
"The shadow found its way out, I see," he said softly as she approached.
Tomoyo looked at him, her eyes bright with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. "She told me I sing like I'm afraid to break the air. She said she felt nothing."
Eriol began to walk beside her, his pace slow and steady. "And how did that make you feel?"
"Angry," Tomoyo admitted, surprised by her own honesty. "And embarrassed. I've worked so hard for years to make my voice perfect, Eriol-kun. And she dismissed it in ten seconds."
"Because perfection is a wall, Tomoyo-san," Eriol said, his voice reflecting the calm of the darkening sky. "You've used your perfection to protect yourself and others. But music isn't a shield. It's a bridge. To build a bridge, you have to be willing to let the other side see who you are."
He stopped and looked at her, the streetlights reflecting in his glasses.
"Today was the first time someone was honest with you without caring about your name or your feelings. That is the greatest gift this city will ever give you. The 'shadow' is starting to crack, Tomoyo-san. Don't be afraid of what's underneath."
Tomoyo looked down at the wet pavement. She felt the cold London wind on her face, and for the first time, she didn't try to tidy her hair or adjust her coat. She just let it be.
"I have a lot of work to do," she whispered.
"We both do," Eriol replied. "But for now, let's go home. Nakuru has attempted to make shepherd's pie. Suppi is currently standing guard by the fire extinguisher."
Tomoyo laughed, a small but real sound that felt like it belonged to her, not to a recording. As they walked back toward the estate, she realized that while the day had been a failure by her old standards, it was the most honest day she had lived in years.
The Royal College of Music was a cathedral of sound, and Tomoyo Daidouji had finally started to find her own acoustics.