Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Sixty One: The Tipping Point

He stayed in the hall, listening as the house fell silent around him. When Sarah went up to bed, leaving him two candles which she thoughtlessly set into the sconces on the piano, he hovered by that dreaded instrument, trying not to look at Henry or Baby Jane.

It was insane. He was hanging out with his nightmares because he was afraid to be alone. And he was afraid to be alone because he was worried about falling asleep and having nightmares.

He thought of saying something to them, but there didn't seem to be anything left. He had already tried 'sorry'. He'd felt the gasping inadequacy of the word 'sorry' as soon as it had passed his lips. He'd watched his mother flinch back as if 'sorry' had slapped her.

He thought of trying to justify himself, of trying to make them understand. I never meant to kill either of you. I just wanted Jane to be in the same situation my mother was in. I just wanted her to feel what it was like. I didn't know she'd die, although – although I suppose I did know she would try for an abortion. And I suppose it crossed my mind that putting a woman in a situation like that was as bad as killing her. Probably worse.

Once he'd admitted that, there wasn't much he could cite by way of extenuating circumstances. Besides, they were not here to understand. It didn't matter whether he convinced them, it only mattered how he felt about them. Whether he could ever be at peace with them, or whether he would see them flanking every piano he ever looked at for the rest of his life.

He couldn't remember sitting down at the piano seat. It just seemed to happen by accident. He was very tired by then, but too nervous to let go.

He could feel the doorway behind him, just as he had when his back had been up against the fire-screen. He could feel all that dark chaos teeming at his back – all the shocks, all the screams, all the dead men.

He raised bleary eyes to Henry and Jane, who were still flanking the piano, one beside each candle. Jane was examining her fingernails and Henry had drawn a pocket-watch out of his waistcoat. His mother was nowhere in sight.

And that was it. That was the tipping point. He felt such an odd mixture of loss and relief when he realized she wasn't there, that his eyes started to blur from something other than tiredness. His shoulders shook. His breath came out in convulsive bursts. The keys grew slippery with tears.

And for a while he wasn't sure what was him and what was the piano. He couldn't tell the notes from the sobs.

He couldn't see through the tears, but his hands knew where to go. They were treading long-remembered routes, and if they hit a wrong note, it was no more discordant than his sorrow.

He didn't know what he played. Perhaps it was the piece he had worked on so hopelessly between his concerts at the Alhambra. The darkness made song. His never-ending effort to translate into music that glorious curtain of black hair.

It must have been that, because he had never wanted Ellini more – and never wanted her so chastely. He just wanted to lay his head in her lap and make her read him a story – a three-volume novel, maybe, or the complete works of Shakespeare. Something long and distracting that would allow him to drown in the sound of her voice, without letting her suspect it was her voice – and not the story – he was drowning in.

Henry and Jane disappeared after a while, but he kept playing until the darkness claimed him too. He let his eyes close, and his head drop onto the keys, and was wonderfully oblivious of the racket it made.

***

Five hours of sleep made all the difference in the world. He woke just as the grandfather clock was chiming six, with his face stuck to the keyboard, and an ache for every muscle in his body.