The Year of Shadows (15 page)

Henry, say something,
I said, and I felt lips that weren’t mine move too. And when Henry said,
Something, Olivia,
my lips also formed the words
Something, Olivia.
My voice echoed over his. So did Frederick’s.

Ah, you’re beginning to understand,
said Frederick.
When we share, we share everything. I am your voice, and your voices are mine. My mouth is yours, my mind, my breath, and your mouths, minds, breaths, are mine, too. We are all one being, at the moment.
He paused.
Have you ever participated in a three-legged race?

Very funny, Frederick,
Henry said—and Frederick’s voice and my voice said it along with him.

Well, I thought it was a good analogy. We must learn to think, speak, and do together, just like if our legs were tied together.

Can we at least try to concentrate enough to use our own voices?
I
said, squeezing my eyes shut again.
I can’t stand this; we’re all echoing over each other.

Very well.
Frederick sighed.
Focus on your voice, but not too hard. We’ll need all the focus we can manage to put my memories back together.

Eyes still closed, I imagined my voice as a bright spot in my brain, vibrating with sound. I imagined grabbing onto that spot and tucking it away, somewhere safe. After imagining that five times in a row, I tried speaking.

Hello, this is a test,
I said. I heard only myself.

Splendid!
Frederick crowed.
Now you, Henry.

My name is Henry, and I don’t like sharing.

Well, that’s rather childish. Try opening your eyes. It might be disorienting.

Why?
I wanted so badly to open my eyes. But what would I see when I opened them?

You will no longer be in Emerson Hall. Or rather, you will be, but not as you remember it. It will be as I remember it.

As he spoke, a feeling like fingers poked through the folds of my mind. Frederick was sewing our minds together into one giant, three-legged-race brain. Sounds began drifting toward us—voices, talking and laughing; rustling of clothes and feet; glasses tinkling together. I smelled people and musty fabric.

Oh,
Frederick whispered, and everything he suddenly felt rushed through me—happiness, wonder. Sadness. Tears filled my eyes, but they weren’t mine.

I remember now.
Frederick sounded so small, like Nonnie wrapped up tight in her scarves.
It’s all really here. Olivia. Henry. You can open your eyes.

We did. At first, everything was spotty, like I had something stuck in my eyes. The more I concentrated, though, the clearer the picture became. And when it finally brightened enough to see where we were, I gasped.

We were in the Hall, and it was beautiful.

C
HANDELIERS OF CRYSTAL
and candles glittered from the lobby ceiling. Curling staircases gleamed with polished wood and rich red carpet.

And there were people—
everywhere.
They looked fuzzy, like we were in the middle of fog. Their voices echoed from faraway. They wore furs and silks, long gowns and sharp black jackets. Their boots shone; their coats fluttered behind them like wings. Glasses in their white-gloved hands caught the light and winked at me.

Most of them held concert programs.

To the left, through the main Hall doors, were rows upon rows of bright red seats. I took a lurching step closer. It felt like lugging two dead weights behind me, and four other legs.

Oof,
Frederick grunted.
A little warning would be appreciated, Olivia. We must move together, remember?

I hardly heard him. From this position, I could see the stage and the pipe organ, blazing with light.

“It’s so
grand
, isn’t it?” someone near us said, a silver-haired lady in furs.

“Indeed,” said her companion, a tall man with a shining mustache. He looked upon the arched ceiling with puffed-up pride. “Unparalleled, architecturally speaking.”

I stumbled over to a shadowy corner where it felt like I could breathe again.

What are you doing?
Henry asked, crammed somewhere inside my ear.

Sorry. I got dizzy.

What I didn’t tell him was that I didn’t know how to handle seeing the Hall like this. It shouldn’t look beautiful and impressive; it should look old and dirty, nasty and crumbling. That was a Hall I knew how to deal with, a Hall I could hate, a Hall I could blame.

Remember, Olivia,
Frederick said gently,
that when sharing like this, it’s easy for us to understand what you’re thinking, if you’re not careful.

An embarrassed feeling crept through my stomach, but it wasn’t my embarrassment. It was Henry’s. I tried focusing on him and saw blurry, confusing images: a red-haired man; a white room; a battlefield. Henry’s dirty brown jar. The lid was off. I could see things inside—papers, something metal and shining.

Then it was like Henry had shut a door. The images went black; I couldn’t feel Henry’s embarrassment. He was protecting himself so I couldn’t see his thoughts.

I imagined snapping down the shades of my mind too. I felt bad for stepping into Henry’s thoughts, but I couldn’t
help wondering what that white room meant, who the red-haired man was. Was it Henry? His dad?

Henry was blushing; I could feel it.
Sorry,
I whispered.
I didn’t see much.

He didn’t answer.

“I say, van der Burg,” said a voice very near us.

We all whirled, stumbling over ourselves—or, our
selves
inside our one, three-legged self.

This is so confusing,
I said.

You’re telling me,
Henry said. He sounded like he was trying hard not to laugh.

I tried to kick him before I could remind myself that he wasn’t actually
there
, and just ended up waving my leg around in the air.
I said, shut up!

“Van der Burg?” the voice said again—a man standing nearby. “You don’t look well, my friend.”

Frederick recognized this man at once. Inside us, he gasped and said,
Thomas!

What do we do, Frederick?
I said.
He thinks we’re you!

You
are
me,
Frederick explained patiently.
Or rather, you
look
like me. He only sees me. We’re all me. This is my memory, after all.

The man, Thomas, was looking at us like we were insane. We probably looked like it—Frederick standing in the corner, kicking himself.

Inside our head, Henry burst out laughing.

“Yes, I’m quite all right, Thomas,” Frederick said, laughter in his voice.

I’m glad you two think this is so funny,
I grumbled.

Frederick leaned toward Thomas. “Between you and me, I think I’ve had a spot or two more of wine than I probably should have.”

He winked. We
all
winked. I’d never been able to wink before.

Thomas clapped us on the back. “That’s my old Frederick. Now come on. Wine or no, you’ve got a concert to play.”

A concert?
I said to Frederick as we followed Thomas through the west lobby.
What’s he talking about?

But Frederick wasn’t listening.
Look at it,
he said, dragging his fingers along the wall.
It’s exactly as I remember. And tonight . . . I wonder which concert it is. There were so many.

Were you a musician, Frederick?
said Henry, his voice full of awe.

Frederick paused before the violinist fountain, which was working for once. I heard Frederick’s thoughts, a jumble of things about ambition and talent, practicing until his fingers bled, stacks of paper covered with music notes. The memory images jumped out at me, one after the other: Frederick, a young boy, sneaking into a tavern to play the old broken piano. Frederick, a half-starved ten-year-old saving money so he could buy a violin.

“I was a musician,” he whispered out loud, remembering, thanks to us. “I . . . played this instrument. I played the violin.”

Thomas stared at us. “Frederick, you’re completely off-kilter
tonight, do you know that? What’s the matter? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem,” Frederick said. We stumbled after Thomas, heading backstage. Our feet felt like metal weights.

Frederick, are you okay?
I asked.

I’m not sure,
Frederick said.
This is all very strange. I know what I’m seeing, but I also don’t quite know it, at the same time. I only half remember. Does that make sense?

Yes,
said Henry.

No,
I said irritably.

For example,
Frederick continued,
now that I see him, I know that this man is Thomas, a friend of mine. A colleague. He also plays the violin. But I don’t remember what concert this is, or what night this is, or even how old I am—

Right at that moment, we passed a mirror—a huge rectangle of glass framed with golden swirls. I recognized the frame. It now hung on one of the walls in the west lobby without any glass in it.

We saw Frederick, and inside his mind, wrapped up in his thoughts, I felt the shock of seeing a real, flesh-and-blood face after so many years of ghostliness.

“I remember my eyes,” Frederick whispered. He poked at his cheeks, felt the shape of his nose. “They were brown like this.”

Brown eyes and dark hair. A crooked nose. A clean black tuxedo, a vest in a shiny fabric, and some sort of weird scarf thing around his neck. And when he smiled, it was broad and silly.

I felt myself smiling too.
You’ve got a great smile, Frederick
.

“I had forgotten,” he said, touching his own cheek and then the reflection’s cheek.

“Van der Burg.” Thomas tugged on our arm, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Hurry up, man; you don’t want to be late.” His smile flashed. “This is your big break, after all.”

Warning bells started chiming in our head. Thomas didn’t seem so friendly anymore.

Frederick?
Henry was thinking the same thing.
Is everything okay with this guy?

Oh yes,
said Frederick.
Thomas is an old friend. D’you know, we were in the Tenth Street Musicians’ Guild for years, back from when we were boys.
Frederick sighed dreamily.
I remember now. I remember those hungry days.

I frowned, inspecting Thomas’s back as he led us downstairs toward the backstage area. I had no reason to suspect Thomas of anything—except for the fact that we were basically on the lookout for impending doom.

What’s a musicians’ guild?
Henry asked.

Oh, it was an organization for us, shall we say, less-privileged musicians,
Frederick explained.
We didn’t have money, you see, or the connections to get into a real orchestra, so we just formed one ourselves. We played anywhere we could—on the streets, in pubs, anywhere. Sometimes we made money. Sometimes we didn’t.

But, Frederick, if you were in that guild, playing on the streets and stuff,
I pointed out,
how are you here now? You’re dressed up so nice, and Thomas said something about a big break?

You know, I don’t recall,
said Frederick cheerfully,
but undoubtedly we’re about to find out!

We stepped into one of the backstage hallways, heading for the main rehearsal room. My heart jumped into my throat as we passed the area that would later be my and Nonnie’s bedroom; right now it was just a brick wall. I dragged my fingers across the rough edges, wondering if my skin would feel a jolt of recognition.

I live here,
I said, before I could hold it back.
Henry, this is where I live. In our time, this is a storage room. It’s made of concrete. I sleep there, on a cot.

I felt Henry pat me on the shoulder, which unfortunately made our physical arm—Frederick’s arm—jerk like he’d been electrocuted.

“Frederick,” Thomas snapped. “Really. Control your limbs.”

“Apologies, friend,” Frederick said. “I seem to be a bit overexcited. Big night, you know.”

Thomas grunted. “Yes, I’m quite aware.”

I know, Olivia,
Henry was saying.
I try not to go back there, though. I know you don’t like it. But you shouldn’t be embarrassed. I think it’s kind of cool, really.

Cool?

Yeah, your family living back there to save the orchestra, giving up pretty much everything. It’s so . . . noble.

Maybe when it isn’t happening to you,
I said as we turned a corner—and were nearly tackled by four giant men.

They slapped our back and gave us rowdy hugs. They
shouted “Good luck!” and “Old Frederick, you’ve really done it, haven’t you?”

Frederick,
I said, trying to catch my breath,
what is going on here?