The Year of Shadows (16 page)

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.

W
HEN 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.

“It took a lot out of me, but I’ll be fine,” he said. He tried to hug me, but when I started shivering, he pulled back. “Oh, Olivia. Henry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t remember how badly it would hurt.”

“Don’t worry about that, Frederick,” I said, even though my stomach still hurt. My whole
body
hurt. “Henry and I knew the risks.”

“But you didn’t know you would be murdered,” Frederick said, shaking his head. It fell off with a soft, smoky
plop
, and he held it in his hands, looking back up at himself. “Thomas. My own friend had me killed.
Murdered.
”

I shivered at the word. It sounded just like what it was—evil and angry, hidden in shadows where no one could see you.

“But we’re here now, and we’re okay,” said Henry, coming up behind me. He seemed so different now, so quiet. Dying had changed us. I felt all mixed-up inside, and I couldn’t meet Henry’s eyes when he looked at me. Henry had been in my mind, and I had been in his. He had felt my hatred toward the Maestro and the Hall. He had seen my bedroom. He knew how every day Nonnie looked smaller, how every day I was afraid I’d wake up and find out she’d finally shrunk herself away into nothing.

And I had seen the white room, the redheaded man. The battlefield. The jar. It was almost like we had seen each other naked.

I realized I was looking at the world through tears. I needed to be alone; I needed to think.

Henry put his hand on my arm.
I don’t want you to touch me,
I thought at him—before realizing he couldn’t hear my thoughts anymore. How glad that made me feel, how safe—and how empty.

I shrugged his hand off me and took a deep breath. “But we did find out something important, Frederick,” I said. “We know what your anchor is: the music you wrote.” I walked to the edge of the stage, my toes hanging over the side. I crossed my arms over my chest and glared into the blackness, at that flickering exit sign.

There’s no exit sign on the way to Death,
I thought, and for some reason, that made me angry.
There’s just nothing.

“Now all we have to do is find it.”

We agreed to wait a week to start searching for Frederick’s anchor. He wasn’t kidding when he said sharing took a lot out of you.

I felt like a sack of garbage that someone had taken out back and beaten with a hammer. Every bone in my body ached. Randomly, I’d feel like getting sick and have to run for the bathroom. Sometimes at night I would wake up, gasping, with this sharp pain in my stomach—an echo of the murder.

One time, when that happened, I woke up to find Mr. Worthington settled on the edge of my bed, staring at me.

I shot up into a sitting position, knocking an indignant Igor to the floor. “Mr. Worthington, what are you doing in here?”

Across the room, Nonnie rolled over and smiled at me. “Is one of the ghosts, Olivia?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Tell it I said hello. Oh.” She hugged herself. “I wish
I
could see it. Do you think someday I will?”

“Him,” I corrected automatically. “His name is Mr. Worthington. He was a businessman. And maybe. I don’t know. They have to trust you first.”

“I’m very trustworthy.
Molto fidato.
Does he like scarves?”

“Probably.” I drew my blanket up to my chin. “Mr. Worthington, what are you doing here? I never gave you permission to come into my room.”

Mr. Worthington took off his hat and turned it around and around in his hands. His face looked unusually distressed.

“You were loud, Olivia.” Nonnie pulled out a scarf from the box by her bed and cuddled it. “You had bad dream.
Un incubo.
You have many now. You didn’t always.”

Igor shook himself irritably and glared up at me.
Obviously the old fellow was worried about you, in his own way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, since I’m up, I’m off for a snack.
He slid out the bedroom door, invisible in the dark.