Chapter 5
Noel groaned, a sound torn between desperate desire and sick, suffocating terror. He caught Silas by the waist, pulling the boy against his chest, drinking in the kiss with a ravenous, starving intensity. He loved him. God help him, he loved this boy more than his own salvation. If Silas wanted to take his breath, his blood, his sanity, Noel would give it to him on a silver tray.
He tasted the warmth of Silas’s mouth, feeling Silas’s pyjama buttons pressing into his chest. Silas leaned into him, his weight entirely surrendered, but his fingers remained locked around Noel’s neck, the thumb still tapping that erratic, syncopated rhythm against Noel’s collarbone.
*Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.*
When Silas finally broke the kiss, his breathing was slightly ragged. His cheeks were flushed pink, his dark hair falling across his forehead in disarray. He looked down at Noel, who remained kneeling on the floor, panting, his lips swollen and red.
"Bed," Silas whispered.
The command was soft, but absolute.
Noel swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Yes. Bed."
He climbed onto the mattress, his limbs feeling heavy, waterlogged by adrenaline and guilt. He pulled the heavy duvet over both of them, tucking the edges around Silas’s shoulders to seal out the draft.
Silas curled onto his right side, tucking his hands beneath his chin. Within three minutes, his breathing slowed into the deep, rhythmic cadence of sleep.
Noel lay beside him on his back, staring up at the dark wooden canopy.
Outside, the wind screamed across the cliffs, throwing spatterings of sea spray against the glass like handfuls of salt.
Noel reached up with trembling fingers, touching his own throat where Silas’s thumb had rested.
*Press. Release. Press-press.*
Why had he done that?
A muscle memory? An involuntary spasm of the digital flexors provoked by emotional stimulation? Dr. Thorne had mentioned that physical intimacy often triggered autonomic overflow in patients with bilateral temporal lesions. The brain sought familiar neuromuscular pathways when overwhelmed by sensory input.
*It was just a spasm,* Noel told himself, turning onto his side to watch the peaceful, sleeping curve of Silas’s jaw. *He was just holding me. He doesn't know.*
Yet as Noel closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids did not bring sleep. It brought the wet smell of pine needles, the blinding glare of high beams reflecting off wet macadam, and the sound of Silas screaming in the passenger seat as the steering wheel spun uselessly beneath Noel’s white-knuckled hands.
***
The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway was chiming the three-quarter hour when Noel woke.
Seven forty-five.
He turned his head toward the other side of the bed.
The sheets were cold. The pillow was indented, but empty.
Noel shot upright, the duvet tumbling from his chest. "Silas?"
The bedroom door stood ajar, a sliver of grey morning light cutting across the braided rug. Foxglove Manor was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic groan of the wind through the eaves.
Panic, sudden and icy, seized Noel by the throat. Silas never got out of bed alone. If he woke in the dark, he would sit frozen, staring at the floorboards until Noel came to guide him, terrified of the vertigo that haunted his inner ear.
Noel threw on his robe and hurried into the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold oak boards.
"Silas!"
He checked the bathroom. Empty. The porcelain tub was dry, the lavender soap sitting undisturbed in its dish.
He rushed down the grand staircase, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Had Silas wandered outside? The cliffs were less than two hundred yards from the terrace; in the morning fog, a man with damaged spatial perception could walk off the edge into the surf without ever realizing the grass had ended.
"Silas!"
Then, as he reached the foot of the stairs, a sound cut through the silence of the ground floor.
*Plink.*
It came from the music room.
Noel stopped, clutching the polished mahogany banister, his knuckles white.
*Plink. Plink.*
A two-beat pause.
*Plink-plink. Plink.*
Noel let out a shuddering breath, the cold terror in his gut dissolving into a wave of profound bewilderment. He walked down the corridor, the draft from the garden door chilling his ankles, and pushed open the heavy oak door of the music room.
The morning light was exactly as Silas had predicted: a pale, silvery beam slicing through the sea fog, striking the curved side of the Steinway and illuminating the thousands of dust motes dancing in the air.
Silas was sitting on the piano bench.
He was fully dressed. He had managed to put on his charcoal wool trousers and his dark green cable-knit sweater—though he had missed the middle button on the inner shirt, leaving the collar crooked.
Beside him on the bench lay Noel’s black moleskin notebook.
Silas had his hands resting on the keyboard. His left hand—the hand with the surgical pins, the hand that was supposed to lack fine motor coordination—was pressed flat against the fallboard, anchoring his posture. His right hand was hovering over the middle register.
He did not look startled when Noel entered. He merely turned his head, his dark eyes catching the pale morning sun.
"Eight," Silas said.
Noel stood in the doorway, staring at him. He glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
The hands pointed precisely to eight o’clock.
"How did you..." Noel began, his voice trailing off. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure as the caregiver, the master of this house. "Silas, you shouldn't get dressed by yourself. You could have caught your foot in the trouser leg and fallen."
Silas didn't apologize. He reached out with his left hand, picked up the black notebook, and held it out toward Noel.
Along with the notebook, he was holding Noel’s mechanical pencil.
"Repertoire," Silas said.
Noel blinked. "Repertoire?"
He had spent six months trying to get Silas to say that word. During the first year of recovery, Silas had referred to sheet music only as *the paper with the lines*. Repertoire was a conservatory word. A professional word.
Noel felt a wild, desperate flutter of hope spark in his chest. Was this it? Was the veil finally tearing? Was the genius locked inside that damaged skull finally finding the key to the door?
"Yes," Noel said eagerly, rushing across the room. He took the notebook and pencil from Silas’s hands, dropping them onto the edge of the music stand. "Yes, of course! Repertoire. We can do whatever you want, Silas. We don't have to do the scalar drills today."
He darted to the tall walnut cabinet against the wall, throwing open the glass doors. Inside were stacks of cloth-bound scores: Chopin’s *Etudes*, the complete Beethoven sonatas, Debussy’s *Preludes*, the Ravel concerto they had rehearsed together in Paris before the world ended.
"Look," Noel said, pulling out a faded blue volume of Bach’s *Well-Tempered Clavier*. He brought it to the piano, setting it on the brass music rack. "The Prelude in C major. Simple. Linear. Dr. Thorne said counterpoint is excellent for synaptogenesis. Your hands know this, darling. You used to play it backstage as a warm-up before every recital."
