The musicians rarely rehearsed together for these shows. It was widely believed that a more spontaneous sound led to a more spectacular experience. Even though she’d played with Charlie only on the rare occasions when he wasn’t needed at the Red Cat, she knew he would find an entrance and intertwine with her melody. The goal, of course, was harmony, but not just in the music—in the emotions as well.
Ada always started low, laying down loss and longing like a delicate lace. She kept her melody in the minor key, and for almost three minutes hers was the only sound in the room. Charlie’s horn opened soft, for a few bars matching her tone; then he began drawing out a new thread, a vague sense of hope that Ada recognized from the first time she’d ever heard him play. She forced herself to focus, following his lead into a wistful place. The other musicians were playing too, keeping the pace, tying everything together, but it was clearly Ada and Charlie’s show.
The faces in the crowd were slack with the proffered feelings. Ada could sense the emotions that her fellow songsmiths were churning out, but with a little effort she could avoid being overwhelmed by them, letting the gentle melancholy slide off her like rain. It was different for the regs, who wouldn’t be able to put up more than token resistance even if they wanted to. Hemopathy for public consumption had been banned in Boston by city law six months ago, but the shows had continued behind locked doors, and attendance had barely faltered. There was something irresistible about the experience.
Corinne moved closer to the microphone, her voice a gentle, swaying murmur. She was reciting a poem that Ada didn’t recognize. Something about an idle king and barren crags. The stage lights seemed to dim. Suddenly the ceiling above them was a blanket of stars, with a silver moon draped in gossamer threads of light. The audience burst into murmurs of appreciation and awe, but no one onstage broke stride.
Corinne kept reciting, her voice only a hint louder than the music that enveloped them. She spoke of sinking stars, dark broad seas, and men who strove with gods. The constellations came to life. A thunderous Leo shook the heavens in a silent roar. The Twins danced together across the captured sky. The Water Bearer poured his load, sending a river of sparkling light across the patrons.
The entire show was an intricate dance. Even the performers were never entirely sure whether Corinne was matching the music or whether Ada and Charlie were following her lead. Finally the stars began to dim. Corinne cast Ada a surreptitious glance, and Ada dipped her head slightly in recognition. She and Corinne had never played this particular illusion before, but she had an idea where Corinne was going.
Corinne held up her hand and the other musicians fell silent. Ada drew out a long note, then slid into a new melody. Her hope wasn’t as good as Charlie’s, but she’d been told that her nostalgia was masterful. She pushed it into the room, shut her eyes, and envisioned the feeling like a mist, settling over each person.
Ada had never wanted to be a star. There were certain doors that would never be opened to a girl whose parents had formed what society considered an unspeakable union. She didn’t believe in dreaming for the impossible, but the illusions and emotions that she and Corinne could weave together—those were more real to her than the heat of the spotlight, than the gushing of the crowd.
She let herself be consumed by the strings of her violin, the curving action of the bow. If she thought too hard about the enigmatic talent that gave her these abilities, it would elude her. Instead she focused on the mechanics of her music and let a distant part of her mind touch that indescribable place beyond. The people below her would suddenly be remembering that perfect childhood birthday party or that first sunset kiss.
She escorted them past the memory with a final keening note. Then, following a clash of cymbals behind her, she sent them spinning into frenetic, delirious bliss. People leapt to the black-and-white tiled dance floor, hooting and swinging their partners with verve. A chance to remember and a chance to forget. It was what kept people coming to the Cast Iron, night after night.
Once the dancing was well under way, Ada rested her instrument and let the other musicians take over. Corinne had already hopped off the stage at the behest of an eager partner. She was kicking up her heels and laughing wildly, drink sloshing in her hand. Ada smiled and stepped down to the floor. Her exhaustion was a distant memory now. Playing her violin always transported her well beyond her own limitations.
“You gonna pity a poor Southern boy and take him for a spin?”
Ada whirled to see Charlie, sitting on the edge of the stage behind her, his right foot swinging in time to the music. His grin was bright under the stage lights, and there was no trace of their argument in his features. Maybe tomorrow they would have to revisit it, but tonight the Cast Iron was effervescent with laughter and gleaming dresses and clinking glasses. Tomorrow was so far away.