Kane wanted to trust her entirely. But he was nothing if not what Ward had made him.
The exhibitor looked to Jules, who luckily appeared to remember that he was meant to be a member of the Royal Commission. He gave a curt nod. “I seem to recall itwasthe wish of Broadwood & Sons that people be allowed to showcase the sound of their pianofortes. If Mister Mikhailov claims to have been invited, then let him perform. I can’t see why he would lie.”
The exhibitor muttered something to himself, procuring a silver timepiece and squinting down at it. “The queen is expected to make her speech at noon. If you’re going to play something, you have five minutes.”
Kane smiled widely. “I only need four and a half.”
Despite having mentally prepared for this, he couldn’t seem to relax his muscles. He hadn’t played anything in years. Hadn’twantedto play anything, knowing it would remind him of his mother. Of her hands on his and the soft spill of notes she coaxed forth on cold nights.
He sat down on the bench. It had been long enough that only a single Chopin piece lived inside him. It was a miracle he still remembered it at all, but somehow it had taken up residence in his very blood, his bones, and he knew that if he only touched his fingers to the ivory keys, it would spill out before he could stop it.
Music was soft, Ward always said. A skill for women. Ironic, really, considering so many of the composers Kane knew were men. The point, though, was that Kane was not soft. He was bladed edges and tapered points. He was not the kind of man who sunk time into practicing music and feeling whatever came along with it.
This was a Broadwood, though. Perhaps not the one Chopin had practiced on, but it didn’t make a difference to Kane. All at once he was desperate to touch the keys. To discover whether the music that still lived inside him would emerge sounding the way it did in his head.
So he played.
The piece started out soft, expressive, the notes rising and falling in a series of chromatic tones. The steady, grounded rhythm of the bass clef coaxed memories forth from his fingers. The melody slipped from minor to major, then back again, and when it shifted from thecentral motif, he found the trills still came easily enough. There were enough repetitive parts that the song didn’t get away from him, and his throat tightened as his thoughts slipped away with the alternating tempo, taking him elsewhere.
He was in the living room in his old home, listening to this very piece.Underappreciated, his mother always said, because the nocturne was far from the best-known.But I like the way this one feels so delicate. It leaves room to breathe.Kane’s mother always incorporated rubato, or freedom of tempo, in the way she believed Chopin had always intended.The left hand stays steady, but the right hand can dance.
And Kane did let it dance, slowing as he approached the run and adjusting the speed as he worked his way through. When the end came, it was quiet. So very quiet. It snuck up on him, and he scarcely realized he had reached the final chords until his hands stilled.
A small crowd had gathered, Kane realized with a start, and the exhibitor had tears in his eyes. The man clapped his hands together as Kane rose. He didn’t know what to do. He felt as if he were in a dream, or perhaps trapped nearly a decade in the past. He rose, stalking past Zaria and Jules until he came to a halt at the exhibitor.
“Stunning,” the exhibitor said hoarsely. “And one of my favorite pieces. You know, many performers of Chopin elect—”
“Nocturne in E-flat Major, yes,” Kane said. “I’ll admit I’m partial to a minor key.”
His hands were shaking. He didn’t know why. He squeezed them into fists in the hope that nobody would notice. Zaria cut him a sideways glance, clearly marking his behavior as strange, but she didn’t comment on it.
Kane checked his pocket watch. Five minutes to retrieve the items.
He shook the exhibitor’s hand again, waving away the man’s ongoing slew of compliments. “Thank you for your assistance. We’d really rather be going, else we might miss the queen’s speech.”
The crowd that gathered during his performance had begun to disperse, and he stalked away from the display of instruments without checking to see whether Zaria and Jules followed.
“Now what?” Jules demanded in a hiss. “Looks to me like you didn’t get the explosives.”
“Well spotted, Julian. You’re really quite astute.”
Zaria forced her way to Kane’s side, shoulders tense in a way he suspected had nothing to do with the empty pianoforte. Something about this place bothered her, and she cringed every time a particularly loud noise rang out over the crowds. He had the sudden absurd, aggressive desire to shield her from everyone else as she said, “Care to explain whatever the hellthatwas, Kane?”
He scanned their surroundings for a familiar tall figure. “That, my darling, was a nearly flawless performance of Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp Minor.”
“You know full well that’s not what I—”
“The pianoforte was inspected upon being transferred here,” Kane interrupted her. “The items were discovered and confiscated. And by confiscated, I mean that they were handed over to the police, which was always the plan. When I slammed the lid of the pianoforte, that was the sign for Fletcher to prepare to retrieve the items. From there, he knew he had four and a half minutes to get in and out of the coppers’ temporary command center while most of the patrons were distracted by my performance.” He inclined his head toward a discreet door a short distance away from the pianoforte exhibit. At the same time, apprehension roiled in the pit of his stomach. “Fletcher was only supposed to need three minutes. He should be here by now.”
“What does that mean?” Zaria asked quietly.
Kane could feel her eyes on his face but didn’t turn to meet them, knowing any sign of alarm would only set her on edge. He could feel the seconds slipping away, his sanity alongside them. If anything had happened to Fletcher, he was going to raise serious hell.
Tick.Tick.
“I’m going in there,” he said.
Zaria stared at him as if he were mad. Beside her, Jules shifted his weight back and forth, performing an impatient little jig in place. “That’s a terrible idea. You’re not a copper.”
