The Hush

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  Chester watched her leave, a lump in his throat. It wasn’t until she had disappeared up into a stairwell that he found the strength to turn away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Outside, the city was dark.

  A massive fountain sat out the front of the Conservatorium. From its base, water spewed from the mouths of a dozen marble fish and pegasi. Above this, the next layer of the fountain rose: arches in the shape of musical symbols – treble clefs, minims, quavers. And above it all there stood a beautiful lady, carved from stone to represent the Song. She held a viola and played light and water high into the air above the square.

  Chester stopped for a moment, staring up at the fountain. He could feel the cool of water spray across his skin. He knew it was silly, of course, but the touch was somehow reassuring. As though the Song itself was reaching out and playing a tune to soothe his fears …

  Don’t be stupid, he told himself. It’s just a statue.

  A pair of guards stood at the front of the Conservatorium, resplendent in crimson uniforms. Beside them stood a man in a clerk’s uniform, with a finely starched collar and a pencil in his fingers. He was a portly fellow, in his mid- to late thirties, with a weedy blond beard.

  Chester took a deep breath. ‘My name is Frederick Yant,’ he said. ‘I’m here for my audition.’

  The clerk raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re booked in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve paid the fee?’

  ‘Yes.’ Chester’s throat was dry. ‘I sent my papers ahead last week.’

  The clerk pulled a gilded scroll from his pocket then ran down the list of names. He frowned, then nodded as his finger hit Chester’s false name. ‘Proof of identity?’

  Chester took a deep breath and handed over his forged birth certificate. The clerk seized it, turning it over in his fingers as though he half-expected a forgery. He held it up to the light, frowned, and nodded.

  ‘All right. Better head in, then.’ He crossed Chester’s name off the list and offered him a tiny silver token. ‘You’ll need this to audition. Don’t lose it, or you’ll have to reapply next year.’

  Chester nodded and took the token. It was surprisingly light: a fragile slip of silver paper. He put it in his pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m honoured to be here.’

  And with that, he walked into the Conservatorium.

  Susannah stood by the hotel window.

  Chester looked so small from here, just a boy clutching his suitcase, lit up by the fountain display. When he moved into the shadows of the Conservatorium, Susannah lost sight of him for a moment. Her fingernails cut into her palms and she felt her body stiffen until he reappeared in the light of the doorway conversing with a group of uniformed figures.

  Her insides were tight. She hated how Chester seemed able to twist her emotions, how he could undermine the plans that she had made so carefully, for so many months. Ever since Thrace, he had stirred in her such a violent tumult of feelings that she had barely been able to look at him let alone hold a private conversation.

  There was fury at his foolishness, at nearly getting himself killed and putting her gang in danger. There was horror at the memory of that gunshot and the terrible moment when she thought it had found its mark. Yet above all, there was a quiet pride in how he had claimed the guilt for his mistake. His clear remorse – and his loyalty to Dot – had diluted any final pangs of anger.

  Besides, Susannah knew how it felt to yearn for something so desperately that it seemed worth any price.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Dot said, appearing by her shoulder. ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Still talking.’

  There was no hope of making out the words, not from this far away and with the roar of the fountain and the outdoor music and the chattering of diners. But they could see the exchange take place.

  Susannah watched as a man examined Chester’s papers, then handed him something. ‘What’s …?’

  ‘Audition token.’ Dot sounded a little tense, as though this scene was bringing back unwelcome memories. ‘You give it to the judges to show your application was approved.’

  Susannah felt her fingers unclench a little. ‘So we’re in?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Below, Chester stepped through the doors and into the Conservatorium. Susannah ran a nervous hand through her hair then forced herself to turn away. There was work to be done.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Everyone ready?’

  The others nodded. Susannah flicked her gaze between them, one by one, to check their preparations. Travis wore a servant’s outfit, stolen from the laundry where Conservatorium uniforms were sent for cleaning. He had resisted the urge to spruce it up – apart from the little glass baubles with which he had substituted the buttons on its sleeves. The globe on his left wrist was a hideaway lamp. The one on his right was a signalling globe. Susannah pulled the matching globe from her own pocket and pressed a finger to the glass. There was a flash of warmth on her skin, and Travis gave a little jerk as the glass button heated against his wrist. Unlike a proper communication globe, they could use it for signalling only.

  ‘It’s working, Captain,’ he said, a little irritated. ‘No need to test it again.’

  ‘Don’t you trust my inventions, Captain?’ Dot said.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Susannah said. ‘But I’m not taking any risks, Dot. If anything goes wrong tonight, people could die.’ She gave Travis one last glance up and down. ‘Ready?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Remember, don’t cross the threshold until Chester comes to fetch you,’ Susannah said. ‘The security spells will detect you unless an authorised person brings you over the boundary.’

  Travis nodded. He looked as though he was barely restraining an eye roll, and Susannah bit back her next barrage of warnings. They had recited the plan a dozen times over and her gang members knew what they were doing. If she badgered them over every little detail, they might suspect how terrified she really felt. She had to be strong for them. Fearless. A job like this needed confidence. If the gang let doubt destroy their nerve, they might as well shoot themselves before they began.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you the signal.’

  Travis nodded. He bade a quick farewell to Dot and Sam before slipping out of the hotel suite and out of sight. Susannah listened to his footsteps on the stairs for a moment then turned back to the others.

  ‘Dot?’ she said. ‘Are the charges ready?’

  ‘Ready to be laid, Captain.’

  ‘Good. Sam, how are you holding up?’

  Sam gave a short nod. He held one of Dot’s calming lamps, his grip so tight that the glass was on the verge of cracking. Even so, its tune would be a mere whisper in the storm of Sam’s mind. The hotel was bright with sorcery lamps, all of which would be blasting emotions into his head. More untamed Music floated up from the square as outdoor lights and the Music of the fountain piped melodies into the night.

  By now, Sam would be a riot of conflicting emotions. Susannah’s own skull ached at the thought of it. She could only hope that he held it together until this was over. She needed Sam on this job. She needed his strength and she needed his courage.

  Nathaniel Glaucon slouched in the corner, chin resting unhappily in his palms. His nautilus pendant hung limply at his throat. Susannah knew he felt just as conflicted as Sam right now – but instead of blaming the effects of Music, the Songshaper could only blame his own choices. He was about to betray the people who had trained him. From his perspective, he would be about to betray the Song itself. It took a serious ego to risk a charge of blasphemy all for the sake of a promotion. But still, the man had made no moves to betray them.

  Susannah held up another of Dot’s signalling globes. ‘You remember how this works?’

  Nathaniel looked up at her, his expression stained with distaste. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When we signal you, you make your report. Not a minute earlier. Understood?’


  He hesitated. ‘I …’

  ‘If you screw up our plan,’ Susannah said sharply, ‘the Conservatorium Songshapers will get to be the heroes. They’ll be the ones who stop us, the ones who defeat the Nightfall Gang. You’ll just be the schmuck who tattled on us. And when we’re captured and being interrogated, we’ll be sure to tell them that you were in on it.

  ‘But if you work with us tonight, you get to be the hero. And the arrogant fools who left you feeling like a failure your whole life? They’re the ones who’ll get blamed for our break-in.’ She let a new intensity enter her voice. ‘Don’t you forget it, Mr Glaucon. Don’t forget why you’re here.’

  There was a long silence. Nathaniel rolled the little glass ball in his palm, his expression stony. Then, with a slow nod, he slipped it into his pocket.

  Susannah took a final glance around the room. Somewhere in the depths of that building – just across the square from here – lay a cage in the Hush full of screaming prisoners. A cage she had been thrust into once. A cage she had never wanted to see again.

  She remembered the cold, the fear, the pain, and the burning in her eyes as they buckled her down to that laboratory table and changed her …

  This was it. There was no turning back. Susannah had devoted almost a year to planning this heist, to gathering her gang and putting all the pieces into place. To saving the prisoners from their cage. To fulfilling her dream of justice.

  And tonight, she would achieve it.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The entrance hall was white.

  White stone, white marble. White walls and ceiling, with a grand staircase winding up at the back of the hall. A massive chandelier made of platinum metal, with sorcery lamps on each limb, hung from the ceiling. Their light shone a spectral blue.

  Chester’s footsteps slapped echoes on the floor, sounding out of place and clumsy in this world of shining silence. He tried to step more regally – the way Travis moved, like an aristocrat – but he knew he wasn’t cut out for it. With every step, he winced at the clunk.

  At the top of the staircase, he ventured down a corridor. Its walls were a glorious emerald green, lit by lamps of gold. When Chester breathed, he tasted honey-smoke on the air. Faint music called him towards the ornately carved door at its end.

  This was it. He had to stride in proudly, to look the part of a wealthy young gentleman. He placed a nervous hand on the door. The wooden carvings were sleek, a cold touch of reality beneath his fingertips. There was no point wishing or regretting. Chester had to face the situation he was in and fight to make the best of it.

  Frederick Yant, he told himself. You’re Frederick Yant and you belong here. He stepped inside.

  The audition hall was not what he had expected. The circular room had the same aroma of honey-smoke, only more intense. He had entered at the ground level. Looking up he could see seats looped on a high platform, surrounding a shallow pit of gleaming wood. If he squinted, Chester could make out silhouetted figures through the smoke. His stomach knotted. Songshapers. They must be the Conservatorium’s teachers, here to judge the auditions.

  A round stage coiled in the centre of the pit. A young woman, perhaps four years older than Chester, stood on the stage. Her hair fell in silver-blonde ringlets, as pale as winter sky, and she held a flute to her lips. The tune that escaped was light and carefree, like a breath of wind among the fields.

  Then suddenly, it changed. It was not the wind but a storm, a torrent of rain, a cry of crumpled roofs and screaming children. Chester heard the story in the music. The terror. The crack of lightning. The whip and the whistle of rain. The music grew louder, louder, whipping up into a frenzy of notes and fear and panic.

  Chester’s breath caught in his throat and he clutched his fiddle case to his chest. The woman was good. Too good. If this was the standard expected of those here to audition …

  The smoke changed. Its scent of honey faded and a stink of coal and fumes and charcoal blasted into Chester’s mouth. The room turned dark and his skin felt as though a thousand tiny sparks were crawling across its surface. Was she even allowed to play Music like this? No one had tried to stop her; perhaps she came from a family of Songshapers. So long as she didn’t touch the Song itself …

  In the air above the stage, a bolt of lightning flashed. Chester jerked back. The room was bathed in sudden light and just for a moment, he saw the faces of the Songshapers sitting high up in the stands. Dark eyes and cold mouths, twisted into unreadable lines. Then the flash faded, and they were gone.

  The young woman lowered her flute. The Music stopped. There was a long silence, and the smoke began to clear.

  Chester exhaled. As the smoke faded, the rest of the room grew clearer and shapes materialised out of the grey. He wasn’t the only spectator watching from ground level; a dozen or so other teenagers stood on the far side of the pit. Clutching their music books and instruments, they looked as pale and startled as Chester felt. These had to be his fellow applicants. One or two began to clap but shut up hastily when there was no sign that the Songshapers overhead would join their applause.

  ‘Thank you, Bethany,’ said a voice from overhead. ‘You may leave.’

  The young woman gave a neat little curtsey before turning away. On her way out she passed Chester and raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow at the sight of him. Chester felt his face burn but he didn’t look away. He waited until Bethany had passed into the corridor before he scurried forwards to join the other applicants.

  ‘Well,’ said the voice overhead. His voice was neat and crisp, every syllable like a bite of dry cracker. ‘I hope you all understand why we must be so selective. The power of a Songshaper can’t be entrusted to just anybody.’

  Chester sensed a few muscles clenching in the bodies around him. He felt his own throat go even drier and he licked his lips to moisten them.

  ‘Bethany is a third-year student of Music,’ said the voice. ‘She is an example of what you might achieve here, should you have the talent and perseverance to succeed in your studies.’

  A third-year student. The panic in Chester’s stomach lessened a little. So it had been a demonstration, not an audition.

  He squinted up at the balcony to see where the voice came from. The smoke of Bethany’s Music had mostly cleared now and he could make out the faces of the Songshapers once more. The speaker was a middle-aged man with a beard the colour of straw. Dark-rimmed spectacles graced the arch of his nose and he peered down at the applicants through tinted lenses.

  ‘Someone start, then,’ he said.

  A few people shifted their weight. There were a couple of nervous coughs and whispers. No one stepped onto the stage.

  ‘Go on,’ said the man. ‘Hurry up. Anybody.’

  Chester glanced at the others. He had expected a running sheet, a list of names, and auditions in order. But instead, there was silence in a sea of anxious breaths that sloshed around him, hot and nervous.

  A boy stepped forwards.

  ‘Token?’

  Trembling a little, the boy held up his silver ticket. Up high on the balcony, a female Songshaper gave a melodic little whistle. The token quivered in the boy’s hand. He gasped and released the paper as it twisted from his fingers and floated up and out of his grasp.

  Above, the woman’s whistle twisted into a quiet tune. A scale of notes danced upwards, coaxing the paper towards her. Craning his neck, Chester saw it float up like dust through the air, a twist of flittering silver, until it landed in her outstretched hand.

  He realised he was holding his breath and released it. The Songshapers passed the ticket among themselves, taking note of the boy’s name and family. Finally they nodded and gestured for him to begin.

  And so began the auditions. One by one, Chester’s companions stepped onto the stage. Some played violin, or flute, or harpsichord. One boy sang a perfect scale and Chester could see clearly that he’d had operatic training.

 
The Songshapers made requests occasionally: ‘Play a chromatic scale,’ or ‘Transpose that into F’. Some students played perfectly; others blew off notes, or squeaked out a horrific mistake in their timing. Whenever this happened, Chester saw the attitudes change in the Songshapers above. Their mouths tightened. Their eyes hardened.

  The minutes wore on. The group dwindled. When each audition drew to a close, Chester dug his fingernails into his palms. Finally, he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. This audition was only the start of tonight’s plan and he couldn’t waste hours on the sidelines. He dropped his suitcase to the floor and stepped forwards, fingers wrapped around his fiddle case.

  ‘Token?’ The woman sounded almost bored now, as though the night had dragged on long enough already.

  Chester fished the silver scrap from his pocket and offered it up, trying to hide the tremble in his fingers. The Songshaper whistled her summoning melody and the token floated up into her outstretched palm.

  ‘Very well, Mr Yant,’ she said, a moment later. ‘Play me a run of major scales.’

  Chester took a shaky breath. He tucked his fiddle beneath his chin, raised his bow and began to play. The first note was hesitant, but as soon as it rang out – alive with music, rich with the sound of the instrument he’d helped to carve – he felt his fear leave him. Just another performance.

  He ran his bow along the strings and carved out the scales. C, then G, then D, rising higher and higher as his breath grew tighter in his throat and suddenly there was nothing but the sound and his fingers and the dust-streaked yearning of the air, and –

  ‘Enough,’ said the woman.

  Chester fell silent, halfway through his F scale. He glanced up at her, uncertain. Had he made a mistake?

  ‘Play me something … difficult,’ she said.

  Chester blinked. Difficult? He cleared his throat. ‘Do you mean a song, ma’am?’

  There was no response from up high, just the arch of staring faces, stern and silent. Their eyes bore down like weights and Chester fought the urge to crumple under their pressure. He cast his mind around – something difficult, something difficult …