In the Shadows

Late August, 1900

three

T

HOM'S FINGERS WERE RESTLESS, POUNDING THE NOTES

VIOLENTLY INSTEAD OF THEIR USUAL CARESSING. At the

end of the piece he slammed his fist into the keys, imme-

diately regretting it as the grand piano’s discordant burst sounded

like pain.

He let his forehead drop onto the cool ivory, wishing music

were the refuge it used to be. He couldn’t fall deeply into it,

couldn’t immerse himself far enough to forget to worry.

Standing, he closed the lid carefully. He’d go out. Maybe

someone else’s music could pull him away from reality.

He buttoned a jacket over his vest and raked his fingers

through his hair, slicking it into shape as he looked out over

the New York City night. It glowed and twinkled back with the

promise of escape.

Padding down the thickly carpeted hall, he turned the door-

knob and eased open Charles’s door. His younger brother lay

diagonally across the bed, feet twisted in the sheets, comforter

on the floor, his arm thrown over his face. He never used to sleep

this way, but Thom had been finding him in this position more

and more often. Charles claimed the pressure helped ease the

headaches.

Thom tiptoed into the room, easing the comforter back over

Charles’s much-thinned frame. Charles’s eyes twitched beneath

his lids, rapidly processing dreams. Thom hoped they were dreams

of running, dreams of light and life that would bring his brilliant

brother back from the deathly chasms he walked now.

When Thom went out the front door minutes later, no one