The Brahms Deception (29 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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He showered instead, taking a long time under the hot water, washing his hair, soaping himself from ears to heels. He caught himself, at one point, staring at his own hands with soap foaming around his fingers and wondering whose they were.
Time lag,
he told himself.
It's just time lag.
But when he wiped steam from the mirror with the flat of his hand and stood with his razor in his hand, looking at himself, he wondered. He knew it was his face, but it didn't seem to quite . . . fit. Something about the mouth, the eyes . . . He wished Rik were here. She would know.
It was past one in the morning when he gingerly opened his door, trying not to make any noise, and crept down the stairs in his stocking feet, the book under his arm. He went to the kitchen, and turned on the light. It seemed particularly harsh in the cold darkness, and it made him shiver and rub the goose bumps on his arms as he crossed to the refrigerator.
He found a covered bowl of baby artichokes, marinated in olive oil and garlic. It was next to a plate of prosciutto and cheese. Pecorino, he remembered. Oddly, being able to recall the name of that hard white cheese made him feel better.
He blessed Chiara, or whoever had left the food for him to find. He carried the food to the island, then opened cupboards until he found a plate and a water glass. There was a jug of red wine tucked under the rack of utensils, but he thought he had probably had enough at lunch the day before—even though he had tossed it all up in the street.
He remembered that with perfect clarity, and it made his cheeks burn. He wished Chiara hadn't been there.
He pulled a stool close to the counter and opened the Brahms biography. He was flipping through the pages, his mouth full of prosciutto and cheese, when the kitchen door opened. Kristian looked up, and saw Max McDonald with a coffee cup in his hand. “Kris!” Max exclaimed. “You're supposed to be sleeping.”
“I was. I did.” Kristian speared an artichoke with his fork and held it up. “Hungry? These are delicious.”
“I know. We had them last night. I just came in for some coffee. My job to watch Frederica tonight.”
“Not much happening there, I'm pretty sure.”
Max gave Kristian an odd look. “No. There's not. Why are you so sure?”
Kristian, all at once, wasn't sure of anything. He put down his fork, the pale green artichoke still attached, and stared at his plate. Did he even like artichokes?
Max was beside him, without Kristian being aware he had moved. He put a steadying hand on Kristian's shoulder. “Time lag?”
Kristian shook his head. “I don't think so.” He gripped the counter with both hands, shaken by a sudden panic. “It's not that; it's—Max, I think it's the time line. It's changed.”
Max's freckled forehead crinkled. “The time line? But they say that can't be.”
Kristian clung to the counter as if it could keep him in the right time, the right place. “They say a lot of things, Max. I don't think they have any idea what can or can't be.”
“You may be right, Kris. But if the time line had changed—how would you know? Wouldn't you just remember it differently?”
“Yeah. That's the theory.” Kristian let go of the edge of the counter, grateful that the room stayed the same around him, that Max still stood at his shoulder, that the Brahms biography lay where he had left it, open to “Mentors and Mysteries.”
“Why are you worried about this?” Max asked. He leaned forward to look at the book. “Is there something in here?”
“There is. Something that bothers me.” Kristian touched the book with his fingers, turned it over to look at the back, checked the cracked spine. Everything seemed to be as he remembered it, but . . . “Max, I'm really worried. This is worse than just Frederica.”
“What is it?”
“It's just all—wrong.” Kristian looked up at Max. “Trust me on this. We'd better get Elliott out of bed, and Chiara. I have something to tell you, and we need to take some action. Before it's too late.”
 
It took a long time to explain to Max and Elliott about Clara Schumann and what Frederica had done. They sat around the desk in the transfer room, watching the clock tick away the small hours of the night. The building was eerily silent. Frederica barely seemed to breathe, and Kristian saw everyone glance at her from time to time. It was like sitting in a room with a corpse.
Kristian told Max and Elliott what he had told Chiara. They stared at him in disbelief, and he told them again. Even as he repeated his recitation, he understood how bizarre it was. He wasn't surprised by their wary looks. “I know you think I'm crazy,” he said. “I know how it sounds. But she did it. She moved into Clara Schumann's body, and she didn't come out again.”
Max, with something like disgust on his face, stared across the room at Frederica, lying so still and silent beneath her web of wires and cords.
Elliott, surprisingly, was less shocked. “I should have figured this out,” he said glumly.
“I don't know how you could,” Kristian told him. “I was there. I saw it. I still had trouble believing it.”
Max shook his head. “I can't figure it out. Even if it's true, what's her purpose? What can she do? Stay inside the zone forever?”
“She doesn't have to,” Elliott said. “She's taken someone else's place, and that person isn't constrained by the transfer.”
“It's so—so medieval,” Max muttered.
“Medieval?” Elliott said. His bare scalp wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, medieval. It's possession. Like, evil spirits.”
“It must feel that way to Clara,” Kristian said. “She has no context. No way to understand what's happened to her.”
Max was shaking his head. “You don't believe me,” Kristian said.
“I don't know what to believe, Kris. I believe
you
believe, if that's any help.”
Kristian spread his hands. “It's what I saw, Max. I don't blame you for being skeptical.”
Chiara had hastily thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweater, but she hadn't stopped for shoes. Kristian looked down at her small, neat feet. Her toenails were painted blue, and somehow he liked that odd detail. It helped anchor him in the proper century. Clara would never think of having blue toenails.
Chiara had been frowning, trying to follow their swift conversation. When they paused, she said, “What are we going to do? I think perhaps we should hurry, before Dr. Braunstein wakes up.”
Kristian said, “There's only one thing we can do. I have to go back. I have to try to persuade her.”
“I'm worried about you,” Max said. “I'm not sure it's safe.”
Kristian straightened, making an effort to look alert and capable. “Look, I know I keep . . . sort of blanking out—but I'll be okay. I'm fine when I'm under the cap. I can rest afterward, when I . . . if I can—” He broke off. He looked down at Chiara's delicate blue toenails again, and gripped the seat of the chair beneath him.
Chiara was shaking her head. “I wish there were someone else who could go.”
“Braunstein's no good,” Elliott said sourly. “She's terrified, and the screwup last time was the end for her. She's afraid she'll blow her mind.”
“She just might,” Max said in an unconcerned fashion.
“We can't wait for someone else to come,” Kristian said.
“Maybe it should be one of us,” Max said tentatively, looking at Elliott.
“We're needed on this end,” Elliott said flatly. “And I haven't been mapped.”
“There must be many people who would like to transfer,” Chiara said.
“They're not here.” Elliott heaved a mournful sigh.
“I am here,” Chiara said.
“We haven't mapped you, either.”
“I want to do it,” Kristian repeated. “I
have
to do it.”
Chiara said, “Because you think a—a book has changed?”
“Chiara,” he said, “it's not the book. It's a life that's changed. A woman's life.”
“We could call Gregson,” Max offered, a bit lamely. No one answered him.
Kristian settled it, in the end, by standing up, carefully sliding his folding chair away from the desk, and walking across the room to the second transfer cot. “Let's do it,” he said, hoping his voice sounded firm. “I can go now, and be back before anyone else is up.”
He lost the next few minutes, but he found himself under the blanket on the transfer cot, with Elliott fixing the transfer cap onto his head. He must have convinced them. Even with the worry about time lag, it was a relief to see Max attaching the various monitors.
Chiara had pulled a chair up next to Kristian. Her face was grave.
He tried to smile at her. “See you later,” he said.
“Kristian. Be careful.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Max put in, “Now more than ever, Kris. If Frederica could do . . . what you say she did—she could do anything. We have no way of helping you if she tries to harm you.”
“I know.” He closed his eyes, and it was a relief to shut out the harsh light. “I'm on my own. But I can handle it.”
He felt Chiara's hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own. It felt good. It was that anchor again—
she
was his anchor—and he couldn't help hoping she would stay right there the whole time he was gone. He pressed her fingers, and murmured her name.
He hoped he had said the right one.
 
Frederica could hardly wait until it was time for bed on their last night in Castagno. Hannes had been oddly quiet through the evening. She stood alone in the salon and watched through the French windows as he paced the garden, smoking. When darkness enfolded the village and the stars began to wink into existence above the hills, he came in, but he busied himself with his manuscript pages, ordering and reordering them. He collected the pens and extra nibs, capped the inkwell, and packed everything away in his case. When he went to the fortepiano and closed the lid over the keyboard, it felt like a gesture of finality, a real sign that they were leaving Casa Agosto.
Before she left for the evening, Nuncia lumbered up the stairs to help Frederica pack her valise and her portmanteau. They folded the dresses, the extra corset, the chemises and other undergarments. Frederica went through the drawers of the dresser to make certain she hadn't missed anything. She found, tucked into a corner, a little paper packet of some brownish powder and a flat spoon for measuring it out.
She paused, the packet in her hand. What was this? It looked like some sort of medicine. Did Clara need medicine?
Hannes came in to pack his own things, and found her gazing at the packet. He said heavily, “I hope you've been careful, Clara.”
She could only hold the packet to her breast, nodding. It was pretense. She had no idea what he meant or what the powder was for. Mystified, she stowed the packet under a chemise.
They spoke German, and Nuncia paid no attention to them. She was busy settling two hats in the hatbox, one nestled inside the other. She shook out the veil of the black traveling bonnet and set it on the bureau, ready for the morning
Frederica walked downstairs with Nuncia, leaving Hannes to his own packing. Nuncia bid Frederica good night, promising to come early to prepare a light breakfast before they had to leave. Frederica forced herself to smile patiently as Nuncia bundled her things into a carpetbag and let herself out through the garden gate.
Frederica stood at the French windows, watching the cook ford the little pools of lamplight that spilled out into the street. By the time she disappeared at the turning of the lane, Hannes had come back downstairs and settled into the wing chair. Frederica pulled the curtains closed, and turned to him. “Are you ready for bed?”
He had a glass of wine at his elbow. He turned his gaze up to her, and she tried to find affection in his eyes, the warmth she had seen before. She couldn't. The blue of his eyes had cooled, darkened. Something in them made her stomach tighten. He said, “Clara. We must talk a bit.”
Frederica didn't want to talk. She wanted to go up the staircase, shed the weight of all these clothes, the restrictions of corset and underskirts and combs and thick cotton stockings. She wanted to tumble into bed beside Hannes, to cover his body with hers, to feel his skin and muscle against her own, taste the wine on his lips. Her body throbbed with wanting him.
She made herself stand demurely beside his chair.
He held out his hand to her. When she took it, the touch of his fingers sent tingles of excitement up her arm. He pulled her toward him, and she settled onto his knee, delighted by the gesture, encouraged. She felt as she had at the very first, delicate and light and desirable. She put an arm around his neck, and leaned against his shoulder. “What do you want to talk about, dearest Hannes?”

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