Despite Dot’s lesson, he still couldn’t control his connection to the Song. If anything, it was growing more compulsive. For hours each night, Chester practised with the flute to ensure there would be no off-key squeaks. But every time he played well on the instrument, that dee duh, dee duh, dee duh of rhythmic breaths slurped down into his throat and he felt the tingle of the Song in his veins. In the Hush, its tune was often distorted, as though he was trapped at the bottom of a black lake, hearing the howl of the wind above the surface.
But every day the wind grew stronger.
If Chester stood on that audition stage and connected to the Song, he would put the entire gang in jeopardy. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth. If they rejected him, he would be back at the beginning, with no way to find his father.
At dinner one night, Chester took a nervous slurp of stew and placed down his spoon. ‘I’m going to need a fiddle.’
The others looked at him.
‘What?’
‘A fiddle. I can’t pass this audition on the flute – I’m not good enough. I don’t even know if I can do it on a fiddle, but it’s the best chance I’ve got.’
‘You should have mentioned it earlier,’ Susannah said. ‘We could have picked one up in Linus.’
‘We’ll need to stop in Thrace anyway,’ Travis said. ‘I should post these application documents as soon as possible, to ensure they reach the Conservatorium before you arrive.’
Chester’s throat tightened. Thrace? ‘That’s my home town,’ he said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘I mean, that’s where I grew up.’
‘It’s also the largest town between here and Weser,’ Travis said.
Chester nodded. He tried not to look too affected by the news, but it was hard to maintain a casual expression. He took another gulp of stew to keep his mouth busy, and sloshed the warm mush between his teeth.
Thrace. He was going back to Thrace.
He hadn’t been home in months, not since his father had disappeared. Chester had sworn that he would never return until he’d rescued his father, but surely this wasn’t breaking his vow – he had to visit for the sake of the rescue.
Another thought hit him.
In Thrace, he would find Goldenleaf.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you give me some money, I know where to buy a fiddle.’
Susannah gave him a shrewd look. ‘The shop where you used to work?’
Chester nodded. ‘There’s a fiddle there I carved …’
He trailed off. How could he explain how he felt about Goldenleaf? It wasn’t just wood and string: to him, it was so much more.
‘You sure that’s a good idea?’ Susannah said. ‘If the sheriff in Hamelin put out a name and description for you, word might’ve reached Thrace by now. Locals could be on the lookout, if the reward’s big enough.’
Chester’s stomach twisted. The idea that his old neighbours might sell him out for a sack of gold was nauseating. He thought of the old lady at the bakery, the men who sold meat in the market square. He thought of Mr Ashworth, with his thin white eyebrows and drooping skin. He pictured them at the sheriff’s office, eyes gleaming and fingers grasping at the gold as they reported seeing Chester on the street …
They wouldn’t, would they? They would know they were selling him to the executioner’s block …
But they also had children, parents, friends. Folks with empty bellies and hunger in their eyes. If it meant selling out an old acquaintance for the sake of filling those bellies – well, not everyone would have the guts to refuse. Especially if they’d heard what Chester had done. If they knew he was a blasphemer who’d connected to the Song, they might decide he’d earned his execution.
‘I’ll be careful, Captain,’ he said. ‘I can disguise myself, or –’
‘No,’ Susannah said. ‘Pick another shop, Chester. Somewhere the staff don’t know you.’
‘But my fiddle –’
‘Watch it, Hays,’ Sam cut in. ‘You don’t get to argue with the captain.’
Chester flushed. He nodded, muttered an apology, and looked back down at the table. It was sometimes hard to remember that Susannah was in charge of things. She seemed so friendly and open to discussion that he had let himself get a little carried away. But Sam was right. There was a line between discussion and disobedience, and he had almost crossed it.
He couldn’t mention the real reason that he wanted Goldenleaf so badly. If he had his favourite fiddle – with its reassuring weight, how it felt against the crook of his neck, the way it rested on his shoulder – he wouldn’t have to focus on getting to know the instrument like he had to with the flute, or with any other fiddle. With the reassuring weight of Goldenleaf in his hands, he could focus on finally controlling his Music and resisting the lure of the Song …
Chester bit his lip. He knew that he should tell them. He should admit the truth, admit to Susannah that he was randomly connecting to the Song whenever he tried to play. But he couldn’t do it. If Chester hoped to save his father, he had to keep his role in the gang. And if he hoped to keep his role in the gang, he couldn’t let them know he was a liability.
‘Right,’ Susannah said. ‘When we get to Thrace, we’ll go in and out fast. Sam, Travis and I will head for the post office to post the identity documents and to do a money drop in the beggar districts. Dot, you’re a musician – you can help Chester pick a new fiddle.’
Dot nodded, a distant look in her eyes. ‘I have a theory that instruments have souls, you know,’ she said. ‘And different keys bring out different emotions in those souls. When my piano plays C minor, she feels lovesick. When she plays D major, she feels triumphant.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Well,’ Dot said slowly, ‘if an instrument has a soul, perhaps it has a soulmate. I know I can never play another piano with as much feeling as my own. If Chester feels a bond with this particular fiddle, perhaps –’
‘No,’ Susannah said. ‘If the shop owner recognises Chester, he could shoot him dead for the reward money as soon as you step inside.’
‘But I could buy it for him, Captain,’ Dot said. ‘If Chester points it out to me, I could –’
Susannah shook her head. ‘Too suspicious. If it’s been sitting there for months with no interest from other customers …’ She turned to Chester. ‘We can’t risk drawing attention to anything related to you. I want you to choose a shop with no links to your old life. Understood?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ he said.
Chester caught Dot’s eye and gave her a tiny nod, trying to indicate his thanks. Dot understood. She knew what it was like to rest her fingers on a set of keys and to know – not from logic, but from something deeper – that this was the instrument for her.
‘All right,’ Susannah said, after several moments. ‘If no one else has any objections, we should get some rest.’
They rose to gather bowls and cutlery. Chester volunteered to wash the dishes, lingering in the kitchen when the others had left. He wasn’t ready for bed. He ran the water – heated by the Music of the engine – over his fingers, and let its warmth trickle across his skin.
He imagined himself walking through Thrace. The sights, the smells, the faces. He imagined Goldenleaf, waiting for him, his fingers on the strings and the music flowing fast and warm as water. A new mastery over his music, and the confidence to finally keep the Song at bay …
And Chester knew, in that moment, that he was going to disobey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Three days later, they arrived in Thrace.
It was a growing city: the most densely populated area outside Weser. Its streets were hot and narrow, like strands of heated wire. They swerved and bent, this way and that: alleyways, courtyards, rooftop paths, all brimming with sweaty bodies and brickwork that hoarded the heat.
Chester moved quickly, light on his feet as he retraced old haunts. He wore a loose flannel shirt and Sam’s cowboy hat sat low on his head, cloaking his f
ace in the shadow of its rim. If he bent his head low, no one would recognise the scrawny boy who’d run away so many months ago.
‘Is it always this cramped?’ Dot whispered.
Chester nodded, darting to the side as a trio of burly men shoved past them. ‘You get used to it.’
‘I don’t think I want to get used to it,’ Dot said, wrinkling her nose at the men’s body odour. ‘I feel like an ant scurrying around in an anthill …’
Chester smiled. ‘At least we get some air.’
That was debatable. There was indeed a chink of sky overhead, startling blue in the mid-morning sun. But sheets of laundry hung between the buildings above their heads, muffling the breeze and intensifying the stale weight of alleyway air.
As they passed a row of rubbish bins, even Chester had to hold his breath. The air didn’t just smell bad, he could taste the stink on his tongue. Rotting eggs, old cabbage, maggoty meat …
Had Thrace always been like this? It must have been. So many months away had spoiled him.
‘Right,’ Dot said, when they burst into a market square. ‘Where are we going?’
Chester hesitated. The market was a bustle of activity, obscuring his view of the nearby streets. Farmers sold tomatoes and corn from their stalls, children squealed and darted about, and butchers shouted prices for their freshest cuts. A wrinkled busker played ‘The Captain’s Cat’ and coins clinked into a hat by her feet.
One man was trying to sell a shabby old griffin, which slumped in a metal cage on the back of his cart. The beast looked thin and mangy; its beak was cracked, its feathers were dull and its fur was grey with age.
‘Caught this one wild, up in the mountains!’ he informed a potential customer. ‘Right real bargain he is, and strong as a –’
‘I could buy three pegasus foals for that price!’
‘True, true,’ said the salesman, raising a finger, ‘but they’re gettin’ common as muck nowadays, ain’t they? It’s still a damn rare chance to get your hands on a griffin. If you’re after a real impressive beast to pull your carriage, can’t go past –’
‘That old thing?’ The customer sniffed. ‘It couldn’t pull a wheelbarrow. You’d have more luck selling it to the knackery.’
As they passed, Dot offered Chester a sly grin. ‘What do you think the captain would say if we brought back a griffin instead of a fiddle?’
‘She’d probably try to make me play it,’ Chester said. ‘Just to make a point.’ He looked around, trying to remember the details of the city. ‘There’s a pawn shop on that street down there. They might have an old fiddle, I suppose …’
Dot shook her head. ‘You’re one of Yant’s spoiled nephews, remember? It has to be a shiny new instrument.’
‘Well, there’s a piano shop in the eastern district,’ Chester said, ‘and a woodwind shop near Rattenfanger Bridge. But they’re not going to have many fiddles to choose from.’
Dot raised a suspicious eyebrow. ‘Are you looking for an excuse to go to your old workplace?’
Chester felt himself flush a little but he stammered a denial. ‘No, really – there aren’t many other instrument shops here.’
‘In a city this size?’
‘I’m just telling you what I know. I figured we’d go to a pawn shop, to be honest, but if that’s out …’
Chester held his breath. He knew Dot was considering it, that she was weighing up the risks of disobedience. She knew what it was like to fall for an instrument. It was exactly one week until Chester’s audition, and he would never perform as well on another fiddle as he would on Goldenleaf.
Dot stared at a sausage stall for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the smoke that painted patterns on the air. The town smelt cleaner here: there was a whiff of sizzling corn and fresh bread, and dry wind rustled through the market like a sheet.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to wait outside – and don’t you dare tell the captain about this. We’ll say you bought the fiddle from that place near Rattenfanger Bridge.’
Chester stared at her. ‘Thank you.’
She gave him a hard look. ‘Don’t thank me, Chester. I’m only doing this because we need your audition to go well next week.’ She glanced back at the filthy alleyway and wrinkled her nose. ‘And because I don’t plan to spend a minute longer in this city than we have to.’
‘I know,’ Chester said. ‘I just …’
He shook his head, unable to quite believe this was happening. After all those hours dusting the fiddle, polishing it, tuning its strings and buffing the gold leaf as it sat on display in the window …
A nasty thought hit him. What if it had been sold? He’d been away for months, after all – perhaps a wealthy traveller had passed through Ashworth’s Emporium and plucked Goldenleaf from its nest.
There was only one way to find out.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
The Emporium was nestled in the corner of a side street, in a fog of flatulent air. Rubbish bins lined the alley outside, and a fading wooden sign swung forlornly in the shadows.
‘This is it?’ Dot said, clearly unimpressed. ‘You’ve got your heart set on a fiddle from this place?’
Chester shrugged. ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, but Mr Ashworth makes quality instruments. Besides, I made this fiddle.’
Dot didn’t look convinced but she nodded. Chester moved towards the door but stopped when Dot suddenly grabbed his forearm. ‘What?’
‘I told you: you’re staying out here.’
‘But you’ll need me to point out which fiddle –’
Chester stopped. He had caught a glint of gold in the shop window, behind a layer of dust. He stepped forwards and laid his fingers against the glass.
There it was.
It sat in the same position as always: high upon a pedestal, surrounded by velvet cushions. The gold decorations looked garish, but the wood underneath shone dark mahogany. Goldenleaf. Chester stared at the strings, picturing his fingers upon them. He imagined plucking out a note, a scale, a melody. All that lay between him and this fiddle was glass and dust.
Mr Ashworth needs to hire a new assistant, he thought, remembering all the hours he’d spent scrubbing those windows.
‘Is that it?’ Dot said.
Chester nodded.
‘Wait here, then.’ She strode across to the door and gave it a push, but it refused to open. Dot frowned then jangled the doorknob. Nothing. ‘It’s locked!’
‘Hang on,’ Chester said. He turned to the alleyway wall and retrieved the spare key from behind a loose brick. ‘Here you go.’
‘I can’t just break in,’ Dot said. ‘If your boss catches me, he’ll think I’m a thief.’ She paused then amended this: ‘He’ll realise I’m a thief.’
‘So I’ll come in with you,’ Chester said.
Dot gave him a hard look. ‘Do you trust this man with your life?’
In all honesty, Chester wasn’t sure. Mr Ashworth had always sent a shiver up his spine. He had always asked about Chester and his father in the tone of a taxidermist enquiring about a burrow of rabbits in the area. But the old man had never hurt Chester. He was just a little odd, that was all. Having a strange personality didn’t make you a murderer …
Even as he ran along with these thoughts, Chester knew he was lying to himself. He was making up excuses to walk into that shop. Now he was here with Goldenleaf in his sights, he couldn’t bear the thought of walking away.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I trust him.’
And before Dot could protest, Chester unlocked the door and led the way into the shop.
‘Mr Ashworth’s probably having lunch out the back,’ he said. ‘He locks up when he doesn’t want customers.’
A bell jingled overhead as they entered. Chester inhaled the scent of the shop: wood and polish, as familiar as the salty cheese sandwiches his father would pack for his workday lunches. But there was an added touch of dust, now, and mustiness in the air.
‘Mr Ashworth?’
<
br /> No response. Chester frowned then turned to Dot. To his surprise, she had picked up a nearby clarinet and was holding it to her lips. Her eyes were narrow and she looked sharp with nerves. If they came under attack, did Dot really think she could get out a defensive tune in time? A bullet would always move faster than a melody.
‘Mr Ashworth?’
Something crunched beneath Chester’s feet. He looked down to see the broken shards of a sorcery lamp. The shards were covered in dust, as though they’d lain untidied for weeks or even months.
A cold prickle brushed his neck. This wasn’t right.
Chester reached up to the ceiling, where another sorcery lamp hung. He brushed it with his fingers in a clockwise swirl, coaxing up the Music that would bathe the room in light. As it began to glow crimson, shadows ran the colour of blood.
‘I don’t think anyone’s been here in a while,’ Dot said.
Chester took another step forwards, wincing at the crack beneath his feet, passing a rack of piano-tuning keys to reach the back room. He pushed the door open, fingers strung with tension, and slipped inside.
The room was destroyed. The tapestry hung in tatters from its railing, desk drawers were upside down on the floor, their contents discarded in an avalanche of papers and stationery. Chester waded forwards through the wreckage, heart sinking as he realised the extent of the destruction.
Half-finished instruments lay smashed in their stands. The air stank of mildew, and more broken glass crunched beneath his feet. Following his nose, he discovered the source of the stink: an upturned cup of milk, its contents long since soaked into the rug beneath the desk.
‘Mr Ashworth always drank hot milk,’ he said, a little stunned. ‘He always …’
‘Chester,’ Dot said, grabbing his arm. ‘I think we should leave.’
‘What? Why?’
Dot pointed. Chester looked up from the mess of the mildewed rug to see a dark spatter on the wall. Almost like …
‘Blood,’ he whispered.
‘How come no one’s been here to clean up?’ Dot ran a finger across the desk and held it up to examine the grime. A thin layer of dust blanketed the disorder, much like the dust on the shop’s front window. ‘Someone must have noticed that the shop’s been closed for weeks …’
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