Carefully, in case there was something fragile hidden beneath the sheets, I drew the lengths of synthetic silk aside to find bookcases and shelves, chairs and stands of some kind. The furniture was all hard, polished wood, and decorations carved from pieces of obsidian, marble, and quartz. Sam had told me about learning these crafts, and I hadn’t been sure why he bothered. It seemed like a lot of work. But now that I saw the glossy curves of a stone shrike, the delicate etched feathers, I understood.
It was beautiful, and if I was going to live somewhere for five thousand years, I’d want to enjoy looking at it, too.
Then again, he’d said some people did these things as a job. He could buy them, if he wanted. So what was his job? I’d ask when he returned.
Once the edges of the room were uncovered, I turned to all the items in the middle, starting with a particularly strange lump.
The sheet rippled off a large plane of maple wood, over a length of keys, and slipped off a bench.
A piano. A real one.
My chest constricted, and I wanted to call up to Sam and ask why he hadn’t told me, but I hadn’t yet finished my task. There might be more treasures.
In a giddy daze, I moved through the parlor uncovering things I’d seen only as drawings in my favorite books. A large harp. An organ. A harpsichord. A stack of cases with various instruments engraved in the polished wood. I didn’t recognize most of them by sight, but I could identify the violin, another—bigger—stringed instrument, and a long one with a reed and intricate metal keys. Clarinet?
This was too wonderful. Had he called ahead and had a friend bring these over, just because he knew I’d like them?
I couldn’t imagine why, but it did seem like something Sam would do. He was so nice to me, always doing things just to make me happy.
I drifted back to the piano in the center of the room. Carved wood framed the instrument and its bench, and rows of ebony and yellowed ivory keys glimmered under the light. My fingers reached to touch them, but these weren’t my things. I snatched my hand back at the last moment, pressed my palm against my racing heart.
A real piano. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“You don’t like it?” Sam’s voice, tinged with annoyance, came from the balcony. I jumped and stared up at him, struggling to control the questions crowding my mouth. “Does it feel wrong too?”
“Fingerprints.” First thing that came to mind. “I didn’t want to smudge anything.”
His tone lightened as he headed downstairs, fingers trailing along the banister. “Play something.” He’d washed his face and changed his shirt, but he was still flushed from the walk. Or maybe something else, because he hadn’t been the one panting outside. “You won’t hurt it.” Maybe that hadn’t been annoyance after all, but I didn’t let down my guard.
I chose a key in the middle. A clear note resounded through the airy room. Sparks traveled up my spine, and I pressed another, and another. Each note was lower than the last as my fingers crept toward the left end of the piano. I tried one on the right, and the note was higher. It wasn’t like a song at all, but hearing the sound bounce across the polished stone and furniture—my cheeks hurt from grinning.
Sam sat on the bench, dragged his fingertips across the keys without pressing any, then picked out my four notes. They came staccato. Tuneless.
But there was something about the way he sat there, something familiar. This wasn’t a borrowed piano.
Lots of people probably had pianos.
The four notes sounded again, this time in a slow rhythm, and when he glanced at me, some indecipherable expression crossed his face.
I couldn’t stop staring at his hands on the piano keys, the way they fit there so comfortably.
He played my notes again, but instead of stopping after, he played the most amazing thing my ears had ever heard. Like waves on a lakeshore, and wind through trees. There were lightning strikes, thunder, and pattering rain. Heat and anger, and honey sweetness.
I’d never heard this music before. There seemed no room to breathe around my swollen heart as the music grew, made me ache inside.
It went on forever, and not long enough. Then my four notes came again, slow like before. I struggled to breathe as the sound echoed against my thoughts. And quiet blanketed the parlor.
I couldn’t remember sitting. Just as well. My legs didn’t feel strong enough to hold me up.
“Sam, are you—” I swallowed the name. If I was wrong, I would be really embarrassed. But I was already on the floor, the music still thick inside me like the first time I’d stolen the player from the cottage library. A hundred times more, though.
This was here. Real. Now.
“Are you Dossam?”
His hands rested on the keys, at home there. I willed him to play again. “Ana,” he said, and I met his gaze. “I wanted to tell you.”
“Why didn’t you?” If only I could stop thinking of my drug-induced confession of infatuation. If there’d been a hole to crawl into, I would have.
He caressed the keys again, some strange expression crossing his face. “At first I didn’t think it mattered. And after”—he shook his head—“you know. I didn’t want you to feel different around me.”