The soul is comprised largely of memory. There is a first, purer, source, but such is shaped and often corrupted by recollection. And memory, itself, is comprised of images, words, sound, and emotion—collectively, change.
—John Locke,An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Strata Edition
Brach nodded at me,eyed Cassius for a moment, then scanned every source of light in the autopsy bay—all man-made fluorescents—before stepping past us toward the coroner’s tables. Even with the sheet drawn up, Brach walked right to where Henry’s body lay and stopped beside it, staring down. After a few long breaths, he gently drew back the sheet. His lips tugged down into a sad smile. Then, softly, he placed a hand on Henry’s forehead and leaned in, whispering something I couldn’t hear. For a moment, I hoped maybe he’d utter something like he had for his lantern and breathe light back intomy dead friend—for all I knew, a thanatist of Brach’s stature could do so. In the end it seemed he was just saying goodbye.
Then he stood back up, pulled a viola from his leather bag, unclasped his bow from his belt, and quietly tuned his instrument. Then he tucked the viola under his chin and paused, his bow poised above the strings, as though he were considering what song to play. A moment more and he began softly to render a melody with a slow, legato hand. He didn’t rush, and the notes turned in a beautiful E minor. I could feel a kind of ache in the song. It made me think of my brother Dan’s funeral, of missing him, but of how much I loved him, too.
Brach’s music never rose much above a whisper. It was beautiful. And masterful.
When he’d finished playing, he put his instrument away, pulled the sheet back over Henry’s face, and slowly made his way over to Cassius and me.
“He was one of a kind,” Brach said.
“No doubt about that.” It was almost hard to believe this was the same man Emaline had accused of orchestrating Henry’s murder. “Was the song you played the one Henry wrote for your daughter Camilla?”
Brach smiled sadly. “It was. I haven’t played it since the day Henry and I did so together. But I haven’t forgotten a single note.”
“Four hundred years ago,” Cassius practically whispered, “I served a binder by the name of Maestro John Dowland. Your melancholic song reminds me of his ‘Lachrimae.’ Taught me much about the power of song to answer grief.”
Brach ignored the compliment. “I had hoped Henry might survive the Meadows. But we can rest easy knowing he has returned home through the fires.”
I let that sit a moment. Everyone deserves their grief. But Brach was the guy behind Henry’s death, and I hated him evenbeing here. I took a breath, thinking maybe I could use Brach’s appearance to pump him for information. “You get a call about Henry? Or just more ears to the ground?”
Brach straightened his shoulders. “That sounds dangerously close to more suspicion, Mr. Solomon. And I might ask the same of you, since you seem to have arrived here ahead of me.”
“Scottland Yard brought us in.” It occurred to me Brach had made his entrance just after Detective Bryant and Dr. Cage had stepped out, and it didn’t feel like coincidence.
“I see,” said Brach. “Does it really surprise you, though, given that my people were the only ones looking for Henry, that I would also be apprised of his body’s recovery, to say nothing of my lifelong friendship with the man?”
“Sorry.” I needed to play this cool. “Maybe I was just hoping you’d find him before . . .”
Brach put a hand on my shoulder. “We both loved him. If nothing else, we share that in common.”
I wanted to shove his hand away, and I think Cassius caught that vibe. “Suspicion,” Cassius observed, “is a legitimate form of grief.”
Brach removed his hand from my shoulder and came around to face Cassius. Brach pulled a thread from his sleeve, balled it, and tossed it toward the ground. It flared into a brief wisp of flame, and Brach looked into the shadow it cast of the centurion. “Notwithstanding my present grief, vestige, I daresay you reek of betrayal. For Jack’s sake—since he’s now entrusted with the Abyssal Steps—I hope you’re a better bondsman to him than you were to whomever you last served.”
Cassius dropped his gaze and retreated a step, his hand trembling on the pommel of his sword. But he’d gotten Brach’s focus off me for a moment, which I’d needed.
“I’ll vouch for Cassius,” I said.
Brach offered a thin smile. “You’ll both please forgive me. None of us is our best self in the face of such grief, are we?” He paused. “ ‘A nobler strain must be sung by us, such that we will not sorrow for a departed friend as though he had suffered anything terrible.’ ”
Plato’sRepublic. If it had to do with music, I’d probably read it. But I wasn’t in the mood for philosophizing. Or pretending that what Henry had suffered wasn’t terrible. “Look, man. It’s a tough day for everyone. If you’ve said your goodbyes?—”
“It’s actually fortuitous that I’ve found you here, Jack.” I waited.
“Now that we can, unfortunately, confirm that Henry is not returning, the matter of the Iron Horse becomes commensurately more urgent.”
Brach paced a few steps away, then turned back. “I confess I’ve come not only to pay my respects but to petition for Henry’s personal effects. As his oldest and dearest friend?—”
“Are you kidding me?” I shook my head. “You’re going to do this here? Now?”
Cassius put a hand on my shoulder, the way Brach just had, though Cassius’s hand felt like a brace.
Brach pursed his lips. “Henry, more than anyone else, would have wanted expedition in the affairs of the Iron Horse.”
Dr. Cage had told me he had some of Henry’s things, but Brach couldn’t have known that. He was after something. “Listen, I just got through an interrogation by the Yard about ten seconds before you waltzed in here. I don’t want to stomp on your friendship with Henry, but if he’d wanted you to have something, I think you’d know. This feels like something else.”
