“No,” Fletcher said, and the single syllable was heavy. “I only wanted you to keep it in the back of your mind.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re angry at him now, and I’m sure you’ll be angry at him again.”
“Ah.” Now Zaria understood. She relaxed the weight of her body more fully against the door. “You’re making excuses for him.”
Fletcher shook his head. “I just think—”
Zaria cut him off. “Are you the only person he hasn’t driven away yet?”
“He could never drive me away. I would never let him.”
“Why not?”
Fletcher hesitated a moment. Above them smog mingled with the moonlight, turning the sky a murky gray. “Kane has always been Ward’s favorite. He convinced Ward to let me join his crew when I was young. He thought he was helping me, and he was at the time. But Kane doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t see the fact that I’d be on the streets—or possibly dead—without him. He doesn’t see how badly a young Irish boy, starving and separated from his family, needed a friend. All he sees is the fact that he damned me to a life governed by Ward’s rules. And nothing I say will change his mind. For whatever reason, he thinks I’m too good for this life.”
Zaria took a beat to digest Fletcher’s words. She didn’t want to relate to Kane, who blamed himself for being a poor friend. But she knew what it was to look at the person you cared for most and wonder if you could have done better by them. “And what do you think?”
Fletcher was quiet again, and at first, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Eventually, he said, “You know, my parents were the most optimistic people I knew. We had so little, and yet they never made me feel like I was wanting for anything. My father used to say this Gaelic proverb—Níor bhris focal maith fiacail riamh.It means ‘A good word never broke a tooth.’ You don’t lose anything by being kind, essentially.” He sighed. “I’ve done a lot of things that would have disappointed my parents. For the most part, though, I try to imagine what they would have done in my place. I have good memories to draw on, and they ground me. Kane doesn’t have that. I’mnot convinced he knows how to be positive. He blames himself for everything, including where I ended up.”
“That’s foolish,” Zaria said decisively. “It makes it sound like you didn’t play any part in your own life.”
Fletcher tilted his head back, gazing up at the sky. “You’re not wrong. But I can’t be angry at him for it. Because if the situations were reversed, I suppose I’d be furious at myself, too. He’s my brother. He thinks misery is all he deserves.”
“Well.” Zaria pushed away from the door. “Maybe he’s right.”
Neither of them said another word.
KANE
KANE STARED AT THE PIANOFORTE.
It was beautiful, all sleek lines without a chipped key in sight. Far lovelier than the one he and Fletcher had back home. Not that it made a difference: He hadn’t touched the instrument. It simply sat there collecting dust that he every so often swept away, a reminder of the place he’d lived before Ward.
His life, Kane was coming to realize, was separated intobefores andafters.Beforewas sitting on a bench beside his mother, legs not quite long enough to touch the floor, copying the deft placement of her fingers as she taught him the difference between sound and music. It was the constant skitter of Baroque pieces in the background—his mother’s favorites when she was in a good mood—or the steady lull of a nocturne when she was feeling particularly reflective.Beforewas Kane learning to replace her music with his own. It was the wayhis racing fingers slowed the racing in his head, and the pride he felt whenever he added something new to his repertoire.
Afterwas an imperfect cadence, discordant in its inconclusiveness.
Afterwas silence.
Kane traced a finger over the keys the way he so often did at home.Do you play?Zaria had asked him the other day.
No, he’d said.
No. Don’t touch it.
Having the instrument was a comfort. Something that had always been around no matter where he was or what was happening. But Kane did not play—not anymore. He couldn’t bear the sound. Music held far too much feeling, and he didn’t want to feel anything at all.
He turned away, an unbearable restlessness creeping through him as he stooped to pick up a sheet in the corner of the room. His hands fisted in the fabric as he unfolded it, then cast it over the pianoforte like a funeral shroud. The material took longer to settle than he would have anticipated. When it did, he stood there a moment, the lone living thing in a hollow space devoid of light and sound.
Ward rarely used this warehouse. He’d more or less allowed Kane to do what he wished with the place, though this was the first time in ages that he’d come here.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, loped back over to the door, and hurled it open to find Zaria staring directly at him.
“Christ,” Kane said, sidestepping her as he reached for his pipe. He surveyed her over the end of it as he drew up beside Fletcher, who was leaning against the side of the building. “Were you missing me?”
The look Zaria shot him was pure derision. It made Kane feel more tired than he already was. “What took you so long?”
