The Year of Shadows

by Claire Legrand

  Oh, Frederick whispered, and everything he suddenly felt rushed through me—happiness, wonder. Sadness. Tears filled my eyes, but they weren’t mine.

  I remember now. Frederick sounded so small, like Nonnie wrapped up tight in her scarves. It’s all really here. Olivia. Henry. You can open your eyes.

  We did. At first, everything was spotty, like I had something stuck in my eyes. The more I concentrated, though, the clearer the picture became. And when it finally brightened enough to see where we were, I gasped.

  We were in the Hall, and it was beautiful.

  CHANDELIERS OF CRYSTAL and candles glittered from the lobby ceiling. Curling staircases gleamed with polished wood and rich red carpet.

  And there were people—everywhere. They looked fuzzy, like we were in the middle of fog. Their voices echoed from faraway. They wore furs and silks, long gowns and sharp black jackets. Their boots shone; their coats fluttered behind them like wings. Glasses in their white-gloved hands caught the light and winked at me.

  Most of them held concert programs.

  To the left, through the main Hall doors, were rows upon rows of bright red seats. I took a lurching step closer. It felt like lugging two dead weights behind me, and four other legs.

  Oof, Frederick grunted. A little warning would be appreciated, Olivia. We must move together, remember?

  I hardly heard him. From this position, I could see the stage and the pipe organ, blazing with light.

  “It’s so grand, isn’t it?” someone near us said, a silver-haired lady in furs.

  “Indeed,” said her companion, a tall man with a shining mustache. He looked upon the arched ceiling with puffed-up pride. “Unparalleled, architecturally speaking.”

  I stumbled over to a shadowy corner where it felt like I could breathe again.

  What are you doing? Henry asked, crammed somewhere inside my ear.

  Sorry. I got dizzy.

  What I didn’t tell him was that I didn’t know how to handle seeing the Hall like this. It shouldn’t look beautiful and impressive; it should look old and dirty, nasty and crumbling. That was a Hall I knew how to deal with, a Hall I could hate, a Hall I could blame.

  Remember, Olivia, Frederick said gently, that when sharing like this, it’s easy for us to understand what you’re thinking, if you’re not careful.

  An embarrassed feeling crept through my stomach, but it wasn’t my embarrassment. It was Henry’s. I tried focusing on him and saw blurry, confusing images: a red-haired man; a white room; a battlefield. Henry’s dirty brown jar. The lid was off. I could see things inside—papers, something metal and shining.

  Then it was like Henry had shut a door. The images went black; I couldn’t feel Henry’s embarrassment. He was protecting himself so I couldn’t see his thoughts.

  I imagined snapping down the shades of my mind too. I felt bad for stepping into Henry’s thoughts, but I couldn’t help wondering what that white room meant, who the red-haired man was. Was it Henry? His dad?

  Henry was blushing; I could feel it. Sorry, I whispered. I didn’t see much.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I say, van der Burg,” said a voice very near us.

  We all whirled, stumbling over ourselves—or, our selves inside our one, three-legged self.

  This is so confusing, I said.

  You’re telling me, Henry said. He sounded like he was trying hard not to laugh.

  I tried to kick him before I could remind myself that he wasn’t actually there, and just ended up waving my leg around in the air. I said, shut up!

  “Van der Burg?” the voice said again—a man standing nearby. “You don’t look well, my friend.”

  Frederick recognized this man at once. Inside us, he gasped and said, Thomas!

  What do we do, Frederick? I said. He thinks we’re you!

  You are me, Frederick explained patiently. Or rather, you look like me. He only sees me. We’re all me. This is my memory, after all.

  The man, Thomas, was looking at us like we were insane. We probably looked like it—Frederick standing in the corner, kicking himself.

  Inside our head, Henry burst out laughing.

  “Yes, I’m quite all right, Thomas,” Frederick said, laughter in his voice.

  I’m glad you two think this is so funny, I grumbled.

  Frederick leaned toward Thomas. “Between you and me, I think I’ve had a spot or two more of wine than I probably should have.”

  He winked. We all winked. I’d never been able to wink before.

  Thomas clapped us on the back. “That’s my old Frederick. Now come on. Wine or no, you’ve got a concert to play.”

  A concert? I said to Frederick as we followed Thomas through the west lobby. What’s he talking about?

  But Frederick wasn’t listening. Look at it, he said, dragging his fingers along the wall. It’s exactly as I remember. And tonight . . . I wonder which concert it is. There were so many.

  Were you a musician, Frederick? said Henry, his voice full of awe.

  Frederick paused before the violinist fountain, which was working for once. I heard Frederick’s thoughts, a jumble of things about ambition and talent, practicing until his fingers bled, stacks of paper covered with music notes. The memory images jumped out at me, one after the other: Frederick, a young boy, sneaking into a tavern to play the old broken piano. Frederick, a half-starved ten-year-old saving money so he could buy a violin.

  “I was a musician,” he whispered out loud, remembering, thanks to us. “I . . . played this instrument. I played the violin.”

  Thomas stared at us. “Frederick, you’re completely off-kilter tonight, do you know that? What’s the matter? Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem,” Frederick said. We stumbled after Thomas, heading backstage. Our feet felt like metal weights.

  Frederick, are you okay? I asked.

  I’m not sure, Frederick said. This is all very strange. I know what I’m seeing, but I also don’t quite know it, at the same time. I only half remember. Does that make sense?

  Yes, said Henry.

  No, I said irritably.

  For example, Frederick continued, now that I see him, I know that this man is Thomas, a friend of mine. A colleague. He also plays the violin. But I don’t remember what concert this is, or what night this is, or even how old I am—

  Right at that moment, we passed a mirror—a huge rectangle of glass framed with golden swirls. I recognized the frame. It now hung on one of the walls in the west lobby without any glass in it.

  We saw Frederick, and inside his mind, wrapped up in his thoughts, I felt the shock of seeing a real, flesh-and-blood face after so many years of ghostliness.

  “I remember my eyes,” Frederick whispered. He poked at his cheeks, felt the shape of his nose. “They were brown like this.”

  Brown eyes and dark hair. A crooked nose. A clean black tuxedo, a vest in a shiny fabric, and some sort of weird scarf thing around his neck. And when he smiled, it was broad and silly.

  I felt myself smiling too. You’ve got a great smile, Frederick.

  “I had forgotten,” he said, touching his own cheek and then the reflection’s cheek.

  “Van der Burg.” Thomas tugged on our arm, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Hurry up, man; you don’t want to be late.” His smile flashed. “This is your big break, after all.”

  Warning bells started chiming in our head. Thomas didn’t seem so friendly anymore.

  Frederick? Henry was thinking the same thing. Is everything okay with this guy?

  Oh yes, said Frederick. Thomas is an old friend. D’you know, we were in the Tenth Street Musicians’ Guild for years, back from when we were boys. Frederick sighed dreamily. I remember now. I remember those hungry days.

  I frowned, inspecting Thomas’s back as he led us downstairs toward the backstage area. I had no reason to suspect Thomas of anything—except for the fact that we were basically on the lookout for impending doom.

  What’s a musicians’
guild? Henry asked.

  Oh, it was an organization for us, shall we say, less-privileged musicians, Frederick explained. We didn’t have money, you see, or the connections to get into a real orchestra, so we just formed one ourselves. We played anywhere we could—on the streets, in pubs, anywhere. Sometimes we made money. Sometimes we didn’t.

  But, Frederick, if you were in that guild, playing on the streets and stuff, I pointed out, how are you here now? You’re dressed up so nice, and Thomas said something about a big break?

  You know, I don’t recall, said Frederick cheerfully, but undoubtedly we’re about to find out!

  We stepped into one of the backstage hallways, heading for the main rehearsal room. My heart jumped into my throat as we passed the area that would later be my and Nonnie’s bedroom; right now it was just a brick wall. I dragged my fingers across the rough edges, wondering if my skin would feel a jolt of recognition.

  I live here, I said, before I could hold it back. Henry, this is where I live. In our time, this is a storage room. It’s made of concrete. I sleep there, on a cot.

  I felt Henry pat me on the shoulder, which unfortunately made our physical arm—Frederick’s arm—jerk like he’d been electrocuted.

  “Frederick,” Thomas snapped. “Really. Control your limbs.”

  “Apologies, friend,” Frederick said. “I seem to be a bit overexcited. Big night, you know.”

  Thomas grunted. “Yes, I’m quite aware.”

  I know, Olivia, Henry was saying. I try not to go back there, though. I know you don’t like it. But you shouldn’t be embarrassed. I think it’s kind of cool, really.

  Cool?

  Yeah, your family living back there to save the orchestra, giving up pretty much everything. It’s so . . . noble.

  Maybe when it isn’t happening to you, I said as we turned a corner—and were nearly tackled by four giant men.

  They slapped our back and gave us rowdy hugs. They shouted “Good luck!” and “Old Frederick, you’ve really done it, haven’t you?”

  Frederick, I said, trying to catch my breath, what is going on here?

  Frederick was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. These are my friends! From the guild. They must have come to wish me good luck!

  I noticed that Thomas wasn’t celebrating with the others. He stood off to the side, looking around nervously.

  Henry, I said, do you see Thomas?

  Oh, yeah, Henry said grimly. Something’s going on with that guy.

  Frederick? Look at Thomas. Don’t you think he seems—?

  “Come on, fellows,” Thomas said, reaching into the chaos to grab Frederick’s arm. He pulled us away, his face shining with sweat. “Let the great composer have some air.”

  Frederick, you’re a composer? Henry repeated as Thomas led us away.

  You know, I haven’t the faintest idea, Frederick said, still grinning ear-to-ear. “Say, Thomas, tell me how I got here, would you?”

  “What?” Thomas snapped.

  “You said ‘the great composer.’ Am I a composer?”

  Thomas laughed. “Very funny.”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “Why, don’t you remember?” Thomas stopped in the darkest part of the hallway. “How the Baron Eckelhart heard us playing on the street that beautiful autumn day? How he was so riveted by your solo that he invited you to his mansion for a private audience? How he brought you to the Maestro Seidl himself, who was so enraptured that he admitted you to the orchestra without even a formal audition?”

  Frederick’s mouth was gaping open. My insides crawled. I did not like the wild look in Thomas’s eyes.

  Henry? Something’s wrong.

  Henry agreed. Frederick, we should get out of here.

  But Frederick wasn’t listening. “Extraordinary,” he whispered.

  Thomas laughed again. “Indeed! And do you remember how, most wondrous of all, the Maestro discovered your talent and commissioned a concerto from you? It’s said to be a masterpiece. Word on the street—with us commoners—is that you’re to premiere it tonight, a surprise encore. That Mozart himself would weep to hear it. That you will be made unbearably famous because of it.”

  Thomas’s eyes gleamed in the shadows. “Well? What do you have to say? Does that jog your memory, old boy?”

  Frederick nodded, a smile spreading slowly across his face. His fingers curled, remembering the feel of the violin in his hands. His mind raced through the strains of the music he’d written; it echoed through our joined minds. My throat clenched, and Henry grabbed my hand.

  Suddenly, we knew what it was to be a virtuoso violinist, to compose music worthy of Mozart. We felt the mathematics of it swirling through our minds, just like the knowledge of how to tie our shoes.

  Frederick, I said, overwhelmed by the rush of memories, this is amazing . . .

  “I am a composer,” Frederick murmured. Thomas looked disgusted. “I am a violinist in the City Philharmonic.” He began to laugh. “I remember now . . .”

  Thomas jerked his head, cutting Frederick off. Strong arms wrapped around us from behind—one around our waist, the other around our neck, choking away our air. Together, we clawed at the arm, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “All of that,” Thomas whispered, “and you forgot about us, didn’t you, Frederick? Your friends in the guild? Your entire life before this fame and fortune? Here you are in your fine clothes, with your wealthy patrons, and you forgot about us. About me. You left us out in the cold.”

  Frederick tried to shake his head, choking. “I didn’t forget—”

  “Oh, it’s too late, old friend.” Thomas laughed. “Where is the music?”

  Frederick didn’t understand; I could feel his panic and confusion. I started to cry.

  This is it, isn’t it? I asked Henry. I reached for him, but I couldn’t find him in our tangle of minds. We’re going to die, aren’t we? This is his death.

  It’ll be okay. Henry might have been crying too. It was hard to tell. All I knew was my fear. Remember? We’ll wake up just fine. It’s not real.

  It felt real.

  “The manuscript, Frederick,” Thomas hissed. “Your bloody brilliant music! Where have you hidden it?”

  But Frederick didn’t remember. I could feel that he had no idea. And with us so afraid, there was no way we could focus to figure it out in time.

  “Where?” Thomas yelled.

  Suddenly, something in my brain clicked into place. The manuscript. Frederick’s music. A sense of rightness filled my every thought, and even though I was terrified, I wanted to laugh.

  That’s it! I thought to Henry and Frederick. It has to be. That’s your anchor, Frederick—the music!

  “D’you know, Olivia,” Frederick said aloud, “I think you’re right.”

  Thomas’s face darkened. “You idiot. No matter. I’ll find it myself.” Then he jerked his head again and disappeared into the shadows.

  The arms whirled us around, slammed us into the wall. A sound of sliding metal, a flash of silver, a veiled face scowling—and then Frederick said, “Oh,” and thought to us, I’m sorry, and then it happened.

  Something stabbed us in the gut. Pain ripped through us, hotter than fire. The killer slipped away, and we slumped to the ground. When Frederick put his hands to his stomach, they came away covered in red.

  I was screaming, grabbing for Henry, but it hurt so much, and it kept getting worse. His arms slipped away from me. I yelled for him, but it hurt to yell. I fell to the floor of our joined brain, curled up in a throbbing ball of blood and guts.

  Henry? I didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice.

  What does the world of Death look like? I thought, trying to keep my eyes open even though everything in the universe was pressing down on them. Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I would see Death. I would see stars and rivers, a flickering exit sign.

  But I saw nothing.

  I let my eyes fall shut.

  WHEN WE WOKE up, Frederick left us, drifting out
of our bodies in gray tendrils. It felt like something was peeling my skin off my bones.

  I threw up, and Henry did too. I was glad to see him right there beside me, in a huddle like me, wiping his mouth like me.

  The pain in my stomach, where the murderer had stabbed us, began to fade. A tingling sensation rushed over my body as warmth seeped back in, melting away the cold of Death.

  Igor burrowed under my arm, butting his head against my chest and meowing. Such a foolish girl. Such a brave girl.

  “Olivia?” Henry said. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, and I didn’t even care that Henry was still holding my hand, that he was squeezing it so tight it hurt. The pain meant we were both here, alive and safe.

  Once I could stand to keep my eyes open, I looked around. We were in the Hall and it was old and crumbling again. Mr. Worthington was floating nearby, his mouth hanging open.

  “That was so weird,” Tillie and Jax whispered. Hovering over us, they inspected us like we were some kind of crazy experiment.

  “What was so weird?” I said.

  “Frederick melted into you,” Tillie explained, “and then the two of you sat there, holding hands, your heads tilted back and your mouths wide open. Frozen. Except your skin and the insides of your mouths were swirling. With Frederick, I guess.” She grinned. “So weird.”

  Jax seemed less happy about the whole thing. “Did Tillie explain?” he said quietly.

  I nodded. “Where’s Frederick?”

  Tillie pointed across the stage. “He’s over there.”

  He was balled up like a kid in the corner, so see-through he was almost invisible. Since I didn’t trust my legs just yet, I crawled over to him.

  “Frederick?” I put my hand on his shoulder. My skin looked like ice, my fingernails blue and purple as I thawed out. “Are you okay?”

  He turned toward me, his face drooping. At each blink, his eyes dripped down his face before sliding back up into their proper places. He could hardly hold himself together. His body wavered like something at the bottom of a lake, way down below the water.