The Hush (19 page)

And he was gone.

Susannah dangled from the pulley system, high above the glass floor. Her hands slipped and slid, raw with blood and pain. The Echoes were turning on her: the only human left in the room. But she couldn't leave yet. This ceiling contraption only existed in the Hush – if she slipped back into the real world now, she would be left clutching thin air …

She sucked down a breath and swung forwards. The creatures converged, encircling her with translucent limbs. They began to pass through her, frozen splinters in her flesh, her veins, her eye sockets. She felt sick. Her hands
shook and slipped. As the Echoes slid through her, her world turned to cold nausea and her fingers skittered until – in a disorientated panic – she was half-convinced that she was already falling …

‘No!' she choked.

She was almost there. Another swing, and another, and …

Susannah reached the basket seat, which had swung back to its original position at the edge of the glass floor. She clambered into it and sat for a moment, sucking down desperate breaths. Then she hurled herself forwards onto the opaque flooring. Crouching there, hugging her knees, the notes fell like sweat from her lips and the world around her crunched. Darkness faded, the rain fell away, the Echoes vanished, the basket melted … all replaced by empty air. And there was Chester, offering a hand to help her to her feet.

Susannah ignored the hand. She forced herself to stand, wincing in pain as she kept her bloody palms away from the floor. They couldn't afford to leave any traces. Their entire plan depended on Yant taking a long time to figure out that he'd been burgled.

‘Think we set off any alarms?' Chester said. ‘To alert Yant, I mean – not just to call the Echoes.'

Susannah shook her head. ‘Automatic communicators can't work between the real world and the Hush.' She tried to steady her breath. ‘How did you hold off those Echoes by yourself? Didn't the beats all run together and get messed up in your head?'

Chester shrugged. ‘I don't know. Music just … works, for me. If I hear it, I can play it. It doesn't get messed up in my head.' He looked at his feet. ‘It would be like messing up the faces of my friends.'

Susannah stared at him. ‘You're a very interesting person, Chester Hays.'

There was a long pause. Chester seemed unsure how to respond to that, so Susannah decided it was time to take charge again. She'd made a bit of a hash of it tonight and she needed to remind the boy why she was captain of this gang.

The boy?
a small voice inside her said.
You'd barely be a year older than him, if that
.

She gave him her best commanding look. ‘Come on,' she said. ‘Let's get out of here.'

Quietly, they locked the door behind them. As they crept back down the corridor, Susannah kept her eyes on Chester. He moved with a strange sort of grace – quick and nimble, like an arrow in the dark. He might not be good at climbing, but the boy could sure as hell move his feet on solid ground. His eyes glinted in the light of her hideaway lamp and he flashed her a smile.

Susannah's belly gave an odd little twinge. She found her gaze drawn inexorably towards Chester, even when she told herself to pay attention to the corridor. He was bright, she knew. He was talented. And again, there was something about the way he moved … She could tell he would be perfect for the Conservatorium job.

Suddenly, Susannah wished she had been wrong. She wished that Chester had failed this job, that he was a
hopeless thief and too inept for the role she had planned for him in the upcoming heist.

Because Chester's role was the key to her plan.

And if all went to plan, he would die to complete it.

An hour later, Chester lay on his bed in the
Cavatina
. He could feel the gentle hum of the machinery, down in the engine room below.

His body still buzzed with adrenaline. With the thrill of sneaking back through the mansion, of clambering along the Musical ladder, of collecting Dot and Travis, of fleeing into the night and into the Hush, where Sam waited with their echoboat …

In the last few months, Chester had committed his share of reckless deeds. He had left his home, he had begged on the streets and once, when a guard had caught him riding trains without a ticket, he had even been beaten and dumped on the roadside. He'd chased a trail of rumours from Jubaldon to Leucosia, played ‘The Nightfall Duet' in the middle of a packed saloon and landed himself in a prison cell in Hamelin.

But sneaking into a Musically protected vault owned by a wealthy sugar baron? Well, hopping trains and playing his fiddle seemed banal by comparison.

And he had almost ruined everything. If he had fallen for the Song's lure tonight, he'd have blasted a signal to the radar
of every Songshaper in the region. He could have gotten the entire gang killed. If he couldn't even pick a lock without connecting to the Song, how the hell was he supposed to audition for the Conservatorium without doing it?

He had hinted it to Dot earlier in the night, but even she had no idea just how shaky his grip on his powers truly was. His connections to the Song were growing more frequent. Two months ago, it had taken the most complicated musical piece to engage the Song – but now, even a simple lock-picking tune could coax him into blasphemy.

Chester couldn't tell the gang the extent of the risk. They had promised him information in exchange for his Songshaping. What if they decided he was more trouble than he was worth? Then he would never find out about the vanishings.

Chester stepped into the kitchen.

It was dim and cosy, lit by a single dangling lamp and warmed by the scent of oatmeal. Dot sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a bowl, her expression downcast. She poked the lamp and sent it swinging, so that light danced across the tabletop.

Dot glanced up as Chester entered the room. ‘Can't sleep?'

He shook his head.

She pointed to the stovetop, where steam rose in tendrils from a copper saucepan. ‘More oats in there, if you want a snack.'

Chester slid into the seat beside her. ‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Not really hungry, though.'

Dot gave a slow nod. She didn't look surprised. ‘I have a theory,' she said, ‘that when we forget our hunger for food, it means we're busy hungering for something else.'

She reached up to touch the lantern, halting its swing.

‘It's the Music,' Chester said. ‘I can't control it. Tonight, I got so distracted by the tune of that damn hideaway lamp …'

Dot tilted her head. ‘You can't tune it out?'

He wanted to tell her the real problem – that he couldn't stop himself connecting to the Song. But his insides tightened and he knew his trust didn't yet stretch that far.

‘Not really.' It wasn't a lie; he was just omitting part of the truth.

‘Why didn't you say something earlier?' Dot said.

Chester shook his head. ‘I don't know. I … I guess I didn't want to seem weak. When I was a kid, this man told me …' He shook his head. ‘Doesn't matter. Forget I said anything.'

For a long moment, Dot stared at him. Then she pushed her bowl of oatmeal away, slid back her chair and stood. ‘Come on.'

‘What?'

‘Come on.' She looked amused by his hesitancy. ‘I want to show you something.'

She led him to a narrow cabin on the highest level of the
Cavatina
. It was a comfortable nook with a velvet couch and a smattering of little glass stars across the ceiling. They
glinted when Dot lit the sorcery lamps, reflecting orange light across their points.

The room's most striking feature, however, was the piano. It took up half the floor space and arched with a sleek grand blackness that seemed quite determined to out-glint the stars. Whoever owned this instrument clearly loved it. They cared for it deeply, polished it daily, dusted the pure white shine of its keys. Chester felt a sudden yearning for his fiddle. The yearning was so sharp that his fingers ached. The pang wasn't just regret for a lost object. It was more like mourning for a lost friend.

Dot slid onto the piano stool and patted the space beside her.

Chester sat. The cushion was thin and threadbare, worn down by countless uses. Even so, he couldn't help noticing the fine lace skirting around its edges and the gold embroidered patterns across the seat. The piano and stool combination must have cost a fortune.

‘Where's it from?' he said, a little awed. ‘Did you steal it?'

Dot looked down at her fingers, resting on the keys. ‘Someone gave it to me. Someone I … cared for. Very deeply. When I passed my first exam at the Conservatorium, she bought it to congratulate me.'

Chester opened his mouth to respond then spotted Dot's expression. He closed his mouth again.

‘Have you played the piano before?' Dot said. ‘Not as well as the fiddle, but I used to work in an instrument shop so I learnt to bang out a tune on most things.'

‘Good. That will make it easier to listen.'

Dot's fingers were strong and confident on the keys, like the legs of a spider roaming across its web. Notes bounced softly around the room before she launched into a familiar tune. Chester picked it out immediately, before her fingers had completed the second bar. ‘The Nightfall Duet'.

As Dot played, a strange tingle ran through the air. Chester glanced around, startled. It was as though an invisible person had run her fingers across his skin. He shivered a little then returned his gaze to the keys, just in time to see the first wisps of smoke.

‘Hey!' he said. ‘What …?'

Dot smiled at him.

The smoke curled up from her fingertips, tinged with the faint aroma of honey. It spiralled up into vertical whirlpools, slow and silent, then faded like breath into the air.

‘You know the duet, don't you?' Dot said. ‘Sam said you played it in Hamelin.'

Chester nodded.

‘I want you to play it now with me,' she said. ‘And I want you to listen for the Song.'

‘What?' Chester said, startled. ‘But they'll find us! If our Musical signatures aren't registered, they'll …'

‘No,' Dot said gently, ‘they won't. Their radars are in the real world. They can't pick up what we're doing in the Hush.'

‘But why …?'

‘You're having trouble with focus,' Dot said. ‘That's why Songshapers study the Song. They don't disrupt its tune, but they use it as inspiration when they paint their own melodies into the air – it's a source of strength and
focus. I think it could really help you, Chester. And this is the safest place to try.'

Chester wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her the truth – that the Song wasn't an inspiration to him or a source of focus for his own Music. It was a deadly intruder and he couldn't keep it out of his head.

But Dot was waiting for him, a quiet expectation in her gaze as her fingers brushed a verse across the keys. Chester drew the flute from his pocket and placed the cold metal against his lips. He waited until Dot reached the end of the verse then launched into the chorus with her. Music flowed from the flute, high and haunting. Dot provided the chords while Chester played in the melody – usually performed by a vocalist – on the flute. He closed his eyes and let the Music fill his ears, his throat, his lungs. There was nothing but the Music and the stillness of the air …

And then he heard it. The other rhythm. The other melody. It lurked beneath their own duet – a constant thrumming, a constant tune. It slithered through the stool beneath his body, through the floor beneath his feet. It trickled like molasses and it sloshed like whiskey. It was hot and cold and silent and loud, all at once, and Chester felt as though every cell in his body might explode with the sound.

No, not the sound. The Song.

Chester hesitated.

‘Go on,' Dot said. ‘Don't be afraid of it, Chester. It's a part of you. It's a part of all of us.'

And so, his fingers stiff, Chester raised the flute back to his lips. Note by note, they eased back into the duet. Their melody floated upwards, swirling around them, brushing
their skin. And note by note, the second rhythm returned. The beat of the Song. After the initial rush, it felt slightly distorted in the Hush, or oddly distant – like a cry echoing across a deep crevasse. It wasn't the clear, compelling peal he had touched in the real world. But still, Chester could sense it. The heartbeat of the world …

‘Can you hear it?' Dot said. Her own voice sounded distorted, now. Almost like a whisper. A memory of a voice, or a cry from far away. ‘Don't touch it, Chester. Don't interfere. Just listen.'

Chester didn't respond. He was afraid to lower the flute, afraid that he might break the tune, even for a moment, and the Song would be lost to him forever. It felt so perfect on his lips. So light on his fingertips. So sweet in the air, and so –

‘Light up the stars,' Dot said.

Chester almost dropped the tune to say
What?
but he caught himself. He played the next note instead, and opened his eyes to meet Dot's gaze with confusion.

‘The stars on the ceiling.' She nodded up towards the smattering of tiny glass shapes. ‘I made them from leftover glass from sorcery lamps, but they're not enchanted yet. I want you to play a song of light. Of shining. And direct it into those stars.'

Chester let his gaze roam upwards, towards the stars. They still glinted in the light of the sorcery lamps, but they themselves were empty of light. Just translucent glass. He felt a faint jolt in the tune as Dot fell silent, her fingers falling away from the piano keys. It was just his flute now, and just his choice. He could play whatever he wished …

The choice came to him at once. A memory flashed into his mind and for a moment he was young again, a child in a cradle, with his father singing softly.

Into the night, child,

Into the sleep;

Where the stars fly free

And your soul flies deep …

It was a lullaby from his hometown, Thrace. Chester hadn't heard it for years, but his fingers settled into that familiar starting note. He blew it like an owl's hoot, before a whole bar of notes tumbled out into the smoke. He could still feel the Song in his veins, and the Music on his fingers. He focused on the stars and let his vision blur until all he saw was the glint of glass.

Then he slowed. The Song felt quiet at the moment: a deep, rolling beat. Chester shifted his own Music down to fall into the same rhythm, until the two melodies were kissing in his ears. They rolled around each other, clutched at each other's notes and pulled each other's tunes into a spin of quiet embraces. A moment of touch. A moment of connection.

The stars
, Chester thought, staring up at the glass.
Where the stars fly free
…

And then he saw it. A faint gold cord, threaded from light. It rose slowly from the end of his flute and, like a snake charmer coaxing a snake up from its basket, he made the gold sway towards the ceiling. It was hard to focus on it: the light resisted Chester's eyes as though he was observing it with the wrong sense, so he closed his eyes and opened his ears and let the Music flow up in a ribbon of sound.

Dot gasped. ‘Look!'

Chester opened his eyes again and blinked. He dropped his flute. The Music stopped. He felt his connection to the Song snap and the world was silent again. He felt naked, as though something had been stripped from the surface of his skin.

But above his head, the stars were shining.

‘You did it,' Dot said, sounding stunned. ‘On your first try, you …' She turned on him, suddenly looking furious. ‘You've been lying to us! You've been trained already!'

Chester shook his head, mouth dry. He stared up at the stars. They glimmered with a pale gold light, like the splinters of a broken galaxy. Then he stood, stretched on his tiptoes, and reached up to touch one. Music rippled back down through his fingertips into his body, and he felt his own lullaby being played back to him.
Into the night, child, Into the sleep
…

Chester sat heavily on the stool. ‘I swear, I didn't know this would happen.'

He forced his gaze down to meet Dot's accusing eyes. There was a long moment of silence.

Dot dropped her fingers back onto the piano keys. She didn't play, however. She simply rested her fingers, as though contact with the ivory was enough to calm her.

‘It took weeks of classes at the Conservatorium for me to learn that,' she said, sounding awed. ‘Even the best students in my class couldn't do it on their first try. Nobody can.'