The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

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"Look, not all hope is lost," I say.

"Seriously?" Emi fumes. "We can't just analyze stuff on the fly like this! Who does Silverenn think we are?"

Maybe people who are supposed to be in the warehouse and would thus not feel pressured to analyze "on the fly."

"At least we know which piece we're to work on," I say. "We just need to start decoding the next clue." I pull up the picture of Silverenn's poem. More and more, I'm realizing how vital it was that I took pictures of all of Silverenn's scores and riddles. "The next clue reads: increase a groove up to the top, let it crash into the drop."

Emi's back flops against the bookcase. Her head thumps on the wood, and she reaches behind to rub the spot. "Fine, let me see it."

I angle the score to the piece "In Lace" so we can both see it. Emi points to measure five.

"It says accelerando. Maybe that's how we increase the groove?"

"Yeah." I glance over my shoulder. The light in the hallway has gone dark, yet anxiety prickles in my fingers. A sense of urgency looms over me, this feeling like at any moment, someone could find us. I try to focus on completing our task as quickly as possible.

"The piece starts out Allegro though." Emi's voice draws my attention back. "It must be going pretty fast."

I glance over the first page. Ten measures after the first accelerando, there's another one. A third one sits at the bottom of the page, going into a section marked "Vivace." My head spins as I stare at the tiny ledger lines connecting thirty-second notes together.

"Where's the drop though?"

I get my answer on the next page. More accelerandos populate the top of the second page, closer and closer together, with the notes getting faster and frantic, more pushed together in single slurs and lines of sixteenth and thirty-second notes, until there's a section marked "Presto." There, an entire three-octave scale is jammed into one measure, followed by a descending pattern of sixty-four second notes in the next. I blink at the tiny black lines, barely able to make out distinct notes.

After that climax, the piece decelerates, both in tempo and by the presence of more sixteenth notes, then eighth notes, the quarters. The final measures are marked "Adagio," and the last one mirrors the opening with a whole note.

What a headache to play. I can't believe I ever considered playing these songs in a special concert.

Focus. The clue says that we're supposed to let the groove crash into the drop. I scan the page again, my eyes latching onto the sixty-fourth notes.

"There." I point to the section. "This is the fastest part of the piece, the top of the groove. I think this is the clue we need."

"So what? We just plug the letter names into the lock?"

"I guess so."

Emi sighs. I start spinning the lock around, then stop.

"Wait, how do we know how many times to turn it?" I ask.

"Beats me."

I purse my lips together. The clue didn't give any indication as to how we input the letter values into the lock.

"Hold the flashlight," I say, handing Emi my phone. My fingers spin the combination lock around, going to each letter one after another. I squint down at the tiny glowing notes, but with so many ledger lines (all in alto clef, I might add), it's almost impossible to read. I find myself questioning whether I'm staring at an A or a C, a D or a B.

At last, the final letter clicks into place. I try to open the safe, but the lock holds fast.

"Darn it," I mutter. "I must've put it in wrong."

"What if it's the scale?" Emi asks.

I pause, considering it. Then I shake my head. "The clue says to let it crash into the drop."

"It also says to increase the groove to the top."

"Fair point. But then, why the second part of the clue?"

"Just try it," Emi grumbles.

I do. At least it's a little easier to know which notes I'm supposed to enter in the combination since the tiny black dots and lines are actually on the staff. I realize, though, that it's not a perfect scale. Some notes jump up then jump down, skip here and back, repeating again. My head spins faster than the combination lock's dial.

Finally, I reach the end of the line. Once again, the box does not open. I suppress a frustrated groan. "This is not working. I have no idea how to get this thing open."

A light flicks on behind us, casting a pale yellow glow on the bookcase. Emi and I face each other, then turn around. The quick, staccato of heels marches toward us.

"Hide!" I whisper. Emi squeezes between the two bookcases while I dive under the desk. Moments later, the door opens. A woman walks behind the desk, wearing black pants that are tailored to her long, slim legs. Papers rustle on the desk, then the filing cabinet squeaks open. More folders flipping, papers shuffling. I hug my knees tighter to my chest, clutching Silverenn's safe for dear life.

In hindsight, this isn't the best hiding spot. All this woman needs to do is glance under the office chair, and I'm sunk. My eyes flick to the box beside, the one containing the gun.

Shoot.

What if she needs the gun?

I try to quiet my breathing into a slow, steady pattern. Hyperventilating is too loud in this scenario.

In, out. In, out.

My heart thunders in my chest. Can she hear it? Is it possible for someone to hear another's heart beat? Because it sounds loud enough to raise the dead.

My gaze drifts to the gun again. I wonder how many dead bodies that gun is responsible for.

The woman paces from the filing cabinet to the opposite side of the room. I dare to lean forward just enough to see her shuffling through books on the shelf. She shifts so that she is right next to Emi, whose eyes dart around the room faster than a trapped moth. The woman removes a book from the shelf and flips the front cover over. I squint as she takes a key and places it inside where the pages should've been. She removes something from the box, pockets what seems to be a coiled wire, and replaces the book.

Anxiety prickles up my spine. The woman's face is just inches away from Emi. If her eyes stray four degrees over...

The woman stalks back to the desk, and I duck back. Phew. She didn't spot Emi.

Then I remember the gun. Shoot.

I peek up as the woman shuffles more papers on the desk. At the very top of my visual plane, she probes her pockets with both hands. All I can think is: not the gun! Not the gun!

Her hand disappears into her pocket, removing a shiny black pistol. She breaks the weapon open. I can't breathe, can't move. Should I try to move the box from under the desk? But what if she spots me? I can't risk it.

She might spot me anyway if she looks under the desk.

The woman crouches down, and panic shoots through me.

Treble. Major, major treble.

Now at eye level, I can see her face. She has slim cheeks that seem to narrow into a point at her chin and two hazel eyes that stare straight ahead — straight at the drawer underneath the desk. It rolls open on its hinges, and the woman's long, sturdy fingers rip the lid off a tin. She places one, two, three, four, five bullets inside her gun. The barrel snaps shut, and the drawer bangs closed. Seconds later, the steady clip-clop pierces the hallway, headed far, far away.