“Then you’re saying,” asked Church, “that he’s angered by our preference forMessiahover his other music?”
That didn’t feel quite right. “I think he’s trying to prove something. To himself. Maybe to someone else. Because other than hardcore classical enthusiasts, people have reduced his entire body of work to a single passage of music. And to his mind, it’s not even his best stuff.”
Kincaid set down his book on a dusty shelf. “Handel’s original score forMessiahwas written for a small performance house in Dublin with just a few vocalists, a solo trumpet, some strings, and that was about it. We’ve a copy of it here in our archives.”
“Nobody remembers it that way,” Chuey said.
“He wrote the whole oratorio in three weeks,” Kincaid continued. “Then he spent the rest of his life rewriting it again and again to suit the performers, the venues, the librettist . . . the people. As it grew in popularity, audiences wanted bigger productions, massive choirs.”
“And yet he never thought it good enough.” I knew a little about that feeling. “He’s still revising.”
Lakshmi set her book aside. “Why wouldn’t a composer simply take joy and pride in the appreciation of his work?”
I shook my head. “Something won’t let him be defined by that one song, the way it is. It’s kind of . . . well, it’s kind of like a prison. And either the fame of it or his need to get it right has become the very thing that keeps him from moving on.”
Church tapped his cane on the floor. “Is this the context you need to see his Rupture and subdue him, Jack?”
“I can’t be sure,” I said. “But either way, what we need now is to find him.” “And if you bind him”—Lakshmi’s eyes were distant—“he’ll never finishhissong, will he?”
I’d never heard Lakshmi speak so . . . unraptorially. “Are you saying you think the worldisabusing the past?”
Her eyes seemed to focus. “Regardless of what I think, I’m sworn to defend Precedent Law, and I take that oath seriously. But if I’m honest, my husband lives on the Modern Stratum . . . it’s not easy to watch a philosopher slowly lose his ability to reason.”
“I thought you met him at the Buck ’N’ Bull,” I said.
“I did,” she replied, “in the Showplace. He poured me a lime and tonic and hooked me with Aquinas. But before that, in his mortal life, he taught at Imperial College.”
“Dude’s a bartender now?” Chuey asked.
Church smiled at Lakshmi. “Where better for a wise man to share his gift?”
“My point is that some of Brach’s contentions are defensible,” Lakshmi said. “His sin is his overreach. But most of the Strata and half the chancery will look past that in exchange for the changes he’s promising with his revolution.”
Church shut his book. “For which he seeks not Handel’sMessiahbut ‘The Lays of Resolve.’ ”
“So then why Handel’s wraith, in particular?” Kincaid asked.
I thought back. “Brach told us he was maturing the wraith toward something he called its ‘final form.’ ”
Kincaid gaped. “Dear Lord, Jack. ‘Final form’ is the language of the ward-bond. Brach must have been grooming this wraith to replace the Iron Horse ward. If it were bound to him and installed, the Ward’s song and all the wisdoms of the Ancient Stratum would be Brach’s alone.”
“Handel may not be bound to Brach this moment,” said Church, “but Purcell is still in pursuit of the wraith. So, we need to know where Handel might go.”
“After I cut away his bindings, he touched me.” I recalled the wraith’s sandpaper feel. “While we were connected, he told me he was still going to the Ancient Stratum. ‘To finally finish it,’ he said. He was obsessed . . .”
“Because of his loyalty to Brach?” Lady asked.
My hands began to tremble. “Handel has only consumed songwriters. He was eliminating them so Brach could replace them with mummers who would write and play only his revolution music.” I recalled the unscathed spinet and lute in his attic office, same as Jimmy’s and Angela’s guitars, which Handel had been sure not to damage—a twisted respect for his victim’s instruments. “But even before Brach bound him, Handel was only enlarging himself with songwriters. I saw it in their shadows.” “Imagine how moody he must be by now, then,” Chuey quipped.
“Why on earth would he do that to himself?”
“I think it’s for their skill.” I pulled Handel’s most recentMessiahfrom my pack and placed it on the study desk. I explained as best I could the progression of the many versions we’d found in Handel’s attic. Then I pointed to the number forty-nine next to the date. “I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling this represents the number of souls Handel possessed in the writing of this version of his song.”
Church ran a hand over his bald head. “And Brach has shown Handel a path to our Ward, one of the oldest, most powerful songwriters in all the Strata.”
I nodded, scanning the music again. It really was beautiful. “That’s got to be why Handel’s going down for himself now . . . ‘Finishing it’ must mean killing the Ward and taking her song in hopes it will give him the power to finally complete his own.”
“But the Ward still holds the Steps,” Lady said.
