The Memorist

Chapter 95

Thursday, May 1^st-8:07 p.m.

Few audience members guessed anything was occurring, but the orchestra knew something was awry. The conductor-baton in midair-was immobile. Never at a loss on a stage before, Twitchel simply stared at Sebastian while he debated what path to take, surprised to feel a wave of sadness overtake him.

The floor below Twitchel was dissolving. He wasn’t on solid ground at all anymore but was treading water. Icy, cold, black water under a black sky. No moon. No stars. Around him, pieces of his ship floated by: broken pieces, broken lives. Screams came from close and far away. As captain of the ship he was responsible for their crossing and now he’d be responsible for their deaths. The cries of the passengers slipped into a pattern; their terror was its own song, music he knew he would hear throughout eternity. The freezing water was turning warm; his limbs were too heavy. He wouldn’t mind drowning, he thought, as long as he didn’t have to hear the horrific symphony of screams anymore.

As Meer edged up to the stage her vision went in and out of focus and the dark auditorium phased into a night sky.

Margaux could smell her horse, the pine trees and the fresh scent of the rain. The wind was blowing so hard Beethoven’s borrowed hat had flown off and her hair whipped her face, stinging her skin. His coat, soaked through with cold rain, was heavy on her shoulders now. Just hours ago, the disguise had seemed like such a good idea.

Archer Wells was as wet as she was and was breathing heavily-at least she had the satisfaction of making him work to catch up with her.

“You’ll never use that,” he smirked, nodding toward the pistol in her hand. “You could betray me, yes, that much is clear. But kill me? I don’t think so.”

If Caspar were there he’d knock this man off his steed and beat him to the ground to protect her. How wonderful it would be to have her husband back and to have him take care of her again but that was a lost dream now. The night before, the Tsar had informed her that Caspar was, indeed, sadly, dead. The story that he was alive somewhere in the Himalayas had been a fabrication contrived by Archer Wells to induce her to steal the flute and the memory song and sell them to him. It had been an elaborate ruse, right from the beginning.

“There are spies everywhere, Archer,” Margaux said. “Remember? You told me that. Well, the Tsar has his spies too and he found out about your lies. You’re not going to get the flute, no matter what you threaten me with.”

The Tsar wouldn’t be getting the flute, either. Margaux wasn’t selling it to anyone anymore. She was determined to deliver the gaming box-complete with its clues-to Antonie Brentano as Beethoven had asked.

Her husband had died finding this ancient talisman. Danger surrounded it as this night was proving. She wouldn’t allow it to bring anyone else to harm. That would not be Caspar’s legacy. So help her God.

With the flute up to his lips, Sebastian played the deceptively simple notes, and as the brittle and sublime sound pervaded the hall and saturated Meer’s mind, pandemonium broke out around her.

Screaming and crying, not understanding the terrible images, smells, sights and sounds overwhelming them, one person after another was affected. Meer tried to stay in the present but kept slipping back, back to the forest, sitting atop her horse, the rain beating down on her. Her hand no longer shook. She held the pistol steady, pointed it at Archer, and tensed her trigger finger.