At age seven, Merton Graves's grandmother commented on his good hands and gave him two choices: piano or violin. Later on, he picked up the cello and found his heart in an instrument. Of course, learning the other string instrument helped. After all, to those who didn't know, a cello acted as nothing more than an upside down big brother of the violin, right?
He lived on the streets and made the starving artist cliché damn near reality. At eighteen, he worked as a dishwasher at a shabby pub called Patches. A true artist starved for the good of his art. This was all really, really stupid, but he'd play this thing until he went to the grave. The double shifts kept him above the poverty line; he worked a lot to be headed nowhere. After shift, even an exhausting one, he donned casual clothes and parked his butt on the street corner and went to town on Posey.
Posey was the name of his cello. He had another one called George, but George rarely wanted to come out and play, and Posey sounded better because she got more attention.
This thin man in torn and ripped robes kept marking his territory. Graffiti artists had a similar problem. Merton had never tried his hand at this, but he'd witnessed good art erased on by an amateur. A quiet fellow with a battered case and not much else, Merton stood his ground and kept playing nonstop for the next hour. His foot acted as his metronome.
Once in a while, though this was probably more for giggles from the gathering crowd than anything else, the wizard flicked a Knut into the case. There was Muggle money in there, too, and the Muggles who passed with their shopping parcels most likely thought this bloke was a nutter.
The man disappeared for about fifteen minutes. Still, Merton played on. The man left his large yellow umbrella by the cello case, and if he wasn't coming back, Merton claimed that thing as his own. Every once in a while, he checked the time. At eleven past six, the man came back with a stocky, dark-haired bass player, and this homely wizard made himself at home!
"Left-handed or right-handed?" The bass player spoke during a rest as his friend continued his pacing and disappearing nonchalant act. Although he was obviously skilled, the bass player had plugged into no electrical outlet and played the instrument fine. There were no amps. Ignoring him, Merton switched the position of the cello and transferred the bow. The bass player introduced himself as Donaghan Tremlett of the Weird Sisters. He'd quit playing first. "Bastard's ambidextrous. Do you see this shit Myron?"
"I see it," said Myron.
The fellow called Myron tossed a drawstring purple pouch into the cello case and offered Merton a hand. Merton, who regretted not taking a break when this man had left, couldn't move because his hands were severely cramped. He'd taken little rests here and there, though he'd kept his hands in play. Myron took the instrument and leaned it against the brick wall of the Muggle establishment. He pulled Merton to his feet.
"Weird Sisters, mate," said Donaghan, sounding certain. Merton didn't buy this until Donaghan flexed his fingers and revealed his tattooed calf; there was a combined treble and bass chef there. Donaghan, laughing with his whole body, turned to Myron. "He's mute. This is excellent."
"He's not mute," said Myron as he packed up the cello and locked the case. Myron spoke softly for a musician who shattered notes onstage. "Come. We're drinking."
Merton stood there, silent, sure he was dreaming.
"We. You, him, and me. We're drinking." Myron steered Merton back towards Patches. He radiated confidence and got two waitresses phone numbers right after they got served at a table. He read off the digits to them, smirking. "Anyone know how to use a telephone? She's pretty."
Donaghan ate with his hands, keeping his eye on the instruments in the corner. Which one?"
Myron jabbed at her with his thumb. "Nine o'clock."
"Yeah, she's mine, mate. Thanks very much." After downing his drink in one, Donaghan snatched the napkin with the scribbled numbers on it and rushed off to chat up the waitress called Sarah with the excuse that his tankard had a mysterious malfunction: the thing was empty.
"He's always doing that," said Myron, frowning. He thanked the other waitress for the fish and chips, although he seemed to have lost interest in her. Merton, seeing the man's tattoo sleeves under his tattered robes, decided this wasn't an intricate prank. "What of do you do for a living?"
A line cook came by and sapped any hope of a cool story. Interrupting the chitchat, the line cook asked if Merton wanted his Saturday morning shift. Merton needed the money, so he said yes. Dejected, he winced when he turned back to the lead singer of the Weird Sisters. What an embarrassment!
"I work here," he muttered as he accepted another cherry-flavored fizzy drink.
Myron actually laughed as he spun his beer bottle cap like a top. He flicked it with his finger and lowered his tone. "Mate, I used to be the drowned rat at the Leaky Cauldron, and I pulled shifts at Flourish and Blotts to afford art supplies. Found a rat in the basin once. Squealed like a little girl. There's no shame in this game."
"Really?" Merton's eyes widened in surprise. "You?"
Myron grinned as he gave his sandwich to the frightened waiter and showed her it was raw. She acted mortified, but he merely asked for it to be sent back. As they waited for the food, Myron explained the Weird Sisters had formed when he was in school. There were currently seven members. Five of them, including Myron, were schoolboy friends.
"Gideon said we needed another sound, suggested a violinist," said Myron. The flushed, nervous waitress came out with two plates and offered one to Merton; she called him Seth. She kept their drinks filled. Myron, grinning, split open a half chicken with a knife and told him to tuck in. "Who's Seth? My other waitress seems taken by this Seth. What's the use of being a famous musician if I can't get a date?"
"I'm Seth Turner. It's my given name." Merton returned Myron's knowing smile.
"Seth Turner is a brilliant cellist. He's my cellist." Myron gave him a high-five. Merton, stuck somewhere between disbelief and laughter, clasped his hand. Checking to make sure the coast was clear, Myron took out his wand and conjured a roll of parchment. It was a lengthy contract. Nobody had to make a decision now, but this was an opportunity to get out of the gutter. "Ever heard of us?"
"The Weird Sisters? Are you kidding me?" Merton took the contract.
"Ever heard us play?"
"I'm a dishwasher. So, no, I haven't. I can't afford to go sir see a show, and I work on the weekends. I thought you'd be more hairy." Merton grinned.
"That's stage presence," said Myron.
"I listen to you lot on the WWN. You need to fix that bridge on 'Good Night'. The feedback loop?"
"Damn it. I keep telling these people. Donaghan!" Myron pounded his fist on the wooden table. Merton, thinking he'd angered the lead singer and ruined his chance at a good shot, slouched in his chair. Donaghan came over with two tankards in his hands. "Feedback loop on the second verse. That's you."
"It ain't. Here." Donaghan pointed out his waitress and frowned when Myron flicked flecks of breaded food at him. He set the tankards on the table, muttering that he guessed he wasn't going home with the girl. Myron gave him a look that clearly said so. "The feedback loop. It's there. Let's fix it."
A feedback loop usually bounced off an echo in speakers. It was a problem, although in most cases it wasn't much of a problem, and it certainly never hindered the music so much that it bothered the crowd. As there were no speakers in the magical world, Merton didn't know how this got captured in the recording. A trained ear, a trained musician's ear would've caught this. It couldn't be an acoustic guitar. It might be a keyboard, but the keyboard might suffer some serious damage.
"No. It's not that it shouldn't be there. I just want to hear you acknowledge it." Myron drummed his fingers on the table. What was the point of taking it out if nobody said it was wrong? He nodded at Merton. "Good ear."
"Er, thanks." Merton might've learned music at his grandmother's knee, but he knew a thing or two.
"Seth Turner sounds boring as a stage name," said Donaghan. He acted like one of the originals of the group. If this was so, Merton assumed the bass guitarist was one of Myron's best mates. It was something to come from within the inner circle.
"Merton Graves works." The sides of Myron's mouth twitched; he insisted Merton be both. A man didn't have to lose his soul to play on a stage. "Where'd you get it?"
Merton hesitated. The story was a boring one. "I stole it off the gravestone of a Merton Collins."
Donaghan sounded impressed. "Stole a name off a dead man, did you, Seth? He ain't missing it."
"Merton. Listen, we've been around for a bit. Seven or eight years? Been playing for a decade. People come and people go." Myron clapped his hands together and sounded strangely businesslike. Donaghan and Myron saw this as a lucrative career, and it wasn't about the girls. "We had a string instrument man. Two of them."
Merton asked the obvious question. There were five others in this group, and he understood he wasn't officially in the in crowd or the inner circle. "What happened?"
"One had a nasty affair with Miss Warbeck," said Donaghan, checking Myron's fixed expression before he answered. The names stayed out of the confession. This one Merton had read about in Witch Weekly. "The other one drank himself out. Drugs. The hard stuff."
"No drama and no drugs. No excessive drinking." Myron gave Merton his warning, and although he didn't say it, Merton felt this was the only one he'd get. If two violinists had already crossed the line, his patience wore thin with string men. "Are we cool?"
"Yeah. Yes, sir." Merton stopped with Donaghan gave a shaky chuckle and clapped his old friend on the back.
"Not a sir. I've learned stuff along the way." Myron examined the stripped chicken bones. He paid for the meal in Sickles and Galleons and did not realize this until they got outside. Donaghan had the instruments."Damn."
"Leave it. She might want to find her rich man," suggested Donaghan.
He sighed when Merton went to go clear up his mistake. Merton blocked the table from the waitress when he went back in. He bumped into her on purpose at the swinging doors leading into the kitchens. And three tall glasses splashed her blouse. When her back was turned, he cast a Currency Charm and changed the coins into Muggle money.
"Oh, no! Sarah, did I do that? Damn." Merton stripped off his coat and handed it to her. After he rushed into the kitchen and served her table, Sarah the waitress asked after Donaghan and slipped Merton a note scribbled on the back of a receipt. He thanked her and delivered the message. "From Sarah."
"Oooh, nice one. Can we keep him, Myron? He's a good owl. Yes." Donaghan patted Merton on the cheek like a caring grandmother. All three of them laughed.
"Not a dog." Myron pulled Merton back animatedly and groaned when Donaghan vowed to marry this girl. He reached into his robes and handed Merton two tickets. Donaghan, burdened by the cargo, breathed heavily as he followed them down the street, asked Merton to spell sweet Sarah's name. "He goes through girls like the seasons. If you're friends with this Sarah, tell her to walk away. Walk the other way."
Merton considered this the best night of his life. By sheer luck, he got heard by the right ears, and they seemed to get along well. The tickets held what Myron called "secret seats", though Merton wouldn't care if he got glued against a wall or got caught in the nosebleed section. He got free a ticket to see the Weird Sisters!
He'd received a backstage pass to the Thames Theatre. He attended all practice sessions with the band; these made his day over the next six months. Kirley Duke, lead guitarist, acted as the prankster of the group. Gideon Crumb, the red-haired burly Scot, grumbled a lot like a protective father, but he reminded Merton of a frightening teddy bear in disguise. When Orsino, bald and observant, only spoke when there was something to say.
If there was an official leader, it wasn't Myron, as Merton had assumed when they'd first met. It was Gideon. This was simply a lax jam session -they had a goal in mind. When they weren't onstage though, they donned casual clothing and acted like a bunch of blokes. Herman Wintrigham, the lute player, rejoiced when he learned there was yet another string man in the gang.
Orsino sat on a large instrument case and pounded it with his hands, keeping the beat and nodding his head.
"Kirley for the win. Ripped through the bridge!" shouted Donaghan.
Donaghan hadn't played his part because they'd needed an ear. He had tag-teamed with Myron on this task. Kirley, grinned, for he knew he'd done it successfully both times. It was no easy feat to master and play a feedback loop. He gave Kirley a high-five. They all muttered congratulations. Donaghan cleared his throat. The Weird Sisters were a family, a brotherhood, and they shared everything.
"So, er, I got news today." Donaghan handed Kirley a beer after casting a Chilling Charm on it. "Last night after the show, really, but I needed a moment. Sarah and I, we ..."
"Wait. Wait a moment. This bastard said 'we.'" Orsino rubbed his hands together in glee. "I didn't know that word was in your vocabulary, Donaghan. Continue."
Donaghan, shaking his long hair laughed and fell silent. This was serious.
Myron broke the news. "He's going to be a daddy."
Congratulations and abuse went all round, and Gideon conjured glasses of drink after he went over to the sideboard. Band members came and went, though the Weird Sisters had been round long enough to enjoy capital. They had a private flat on Oxford Street, a studio, to craft music. The place was in Myron Wagtail's name. The press milled around sometimes, and although they knew the general area, the place was Unplottable.
That had been Heathcote and Herman's brain child; it went down in the books as a stroke of genius. There were Silencing and Soundproofing Charms around the parameter to not disturb the Muggle families on either side of this place. Merton could've pinched himself the first time he'd walked into this studio flat. The sitting room with its oversized furniture proved to be nothing special, but the rest of it look like a place dedicated to art.
Merton had put in his two weeks' notice at Patches; there were three days left. Although he was still muddling through the music and making mistakes, he'd been taken into the group. Even though he played the fetching boy at the bottom of the heap, he felt fond of this lot. He hadn't realized Sarah was pregnant, though, and they were friends. She'd left the pub quite suddenly, though, and currently worked as a teller at a bank.
"Oh." The pieces of the puzzle fell into place for him.
"You're keeping it?" asked Heathcote shrewdly, pulling up a chair.
Herman walked over to the window sill and flicked a beetle off the screen of the open window.
"Yeah, yeah. It's time to grow up, gentlemen. Donaghan's a big boy with big boy responsibilities. In fact, I'll do you one better because we're ... we're getting married." Donaghan turned beet red when the group exploded and gave another round of congratulations. By the looks he caught on everyone else's faces, none of them had heard this nugget of news. "Yeah, yeah, we went home and celebrated. It was great."
Gideon walked back over to his bagpipes. "The engagement or the sex?"
Myron spat, spraying Orsino with drink. "Whoa, Papa Bear! Whoa."
"It's Donaghan, lads," said Gideon, shrugging it off like it was nothing. Donaghan agreed. Gideon, thirty-four, was the eldest in the gang; he was married to a publicist, their advertising agent who handed all the behind-the-scenes stuff. She was called Portia; Gideon was called Papa Bear because he took care of everyone. "Right. Well, we've got rehearsal before heading to Hogwarts. "The first Weird Sisters bastard."
"Donaghan, I'm not really surprised that's you, mate. No offense." Heathcote grabbed his guitar and finished his drink. Merton, smiling, picked up his bow and set to work. It was Christmas Eve.
After practice ended two hours later, they decided to grab a bite to eat. Gideon made dinner. What use was it having a fully stocked kitchen if they weren't ever going to use it? He needed onions and sausages, so Merton offered to go shopping with Donaghan. They returned from a nearby shop, laden with bags, and spotted Sarah, who ran from a peck of owls. A photographer Apparated a few feet away. Though they didn't know the exact location of the jam studio, they got the general idea of the place.
"Oh, my God. Are you kidding me? Leave me alone!" Sarah turned around. Donaghan and Merton rushed over to her.
"It's all right. It's all right." Donaghan took her in his arms and shielded her.
"She's a damn bank teller. Have you lost your minds?" Merton waved the owls away, although they kept coming back until their letters got dropped at Sarah's and Donaghan's feet. He sighed when a woman with blonde curls and long nails came closer.
"Rita Skeeter." The Daily Prophet reporter offered Sarah a hand as she said she was a special correspondent. Sarah froze. Rita, completely at her ease, filled them in. Sarah turned, and Donaghan draped his traveling cloak over her. Rita laughed derisively. The cameras flashed. "Oh, there's no hiding that, dear. Is that a ring?"
"No." Sarah lied. As Sarah shifted the basket on her arm, she acted as though she wanted to be anywhere but here.
"Okay. This is how this goes." Donaghan sounded annoyed, though he still smiled warmly at the press. "You speak to me. Not her."
Rita begged for crumbs. "Well, we know she works like a goblin. What's Sarah's name? Come on, Donaghan, fans will love this bit."
"How do you know I'm called Sarah? And I'm not a goblin!" Sarah, furious and frightened, stood her ground.
"No, I don't imagine you speak a word of Gobbledegook," said Rita seriously. "You're lovely. Look at those legs. Of course, you're no goblin, dear. Not a drop of magical blood in the family?"
"Hey. Watch it. No, Sarah. Sarah." Donaghan took her by the wrist after addressing Rita Skeeter. Donaghan was a lovable people person without having trying to be one. Sarah stopped struggling. Merton, who suffered from stage fright and liked his place in the back, admired this. "I'm Muggle-born, Miss Skeeter, in case you've forgotten. What the hell does that matter?"
"Apologies," said Rita, though her voice lacked sincerity.
Donaghan checked Sarah's expression before he answered. "It's Sarah Miller. That's all you get. Merry Christmas."
"Will you be at Hogwarts with Miss Miller tomorrow night?" Rita always tried to get in the last word.
"Merry Christmas," said Donaghan and Merton together. They walked beside Sarah. Donaghan collected the owls with a wave of his wand. When the paparazzi Disapparated, Rita Skeeter among them, they headed back into the studio flat.
"Thanks, Seth," muttered Sarah, shaking a little.
"No problem," said Merton. He walked past her to dump his stash in the kitchen.
Donaghan chucked the owls into the fire without reading one of them and strode into the kitchen. When he started dancing around the place and banging on the range with a plastic spatula and a wooden spoon. Orsino Apparated next to him and physically lifted him off the ground, saving the appliances from his off-beat.
Sarah giggled. She was still getting used to the magical world, and she really hadn't hung around anyone but them. Donaghan counted her lucky. Who else got eight rocker friends and got to crash here during jam sessions? Donaghan, still dancing, went over to Sarah as Gideon took his spot. She admired the clothes horse as the clothes layered themselves on it.
"Seth. Here." Sarah offered him the basket. "For you."
"Peppermint bark brownies. Thanks, Sarah." Merton devoured these the couple years he'd worked at Patches. She beamed at him.
"Ooooh. What's this?" Myron rushed downstairs with the other members and snatched a couple brownies. With his mouth full of brownie, he said, "What's up, Sarah? Rumor has it she's going to be a they."
Although Sarah could come and go as she pleased, she hadn't been around in a while. Things were busy at the bank, and they'd been practicing a lot for the Hogwarts show. Donaghan, grinning, gestured at his fiancée. Sarah was off on Christmas Day and Boxing Day, as they were federal holidays.
"Seth? Is that a tattoo?" Sarah spotted the combined treble and bass chef on Merton's left wrist.
"Who's this Seth?" Myron and Gideon asked together, chortling.
"You don't know?" Sarah, confused, looked around the group.
"They know," said Merton, reddening. He raised his left hand and showed her his new mark. "All of us has this. Donaghan's is on his calf."
""Mate, trust me, she knows." Donaghan winked at Sarah. She rolled her eyes and burst out laughing when Gideon flipped him off. The tattoo, as any self-respecting Weird Sisters fan knew, had been drawn by Gideon.
"We have to update that shot with Merton's hand," said Myron. Gideon, turning around and supervising the sharp knives, nodded. "People. Our Christmas is on Boxing Day. Bring food and drink."
"And chocolate," grumbled Gideon.
Merton lifted the brownies. On second thought, he lifted these, thinking they wouldn't survive to see Boxing Day. Merton had thought this was the Christmas lunch, but Gideon said it was just breakfast for dinner as he prepped for Christmas. They usually held Christmas on Christmas, but you didn't exactly say no to Professor Albus Dumbledore. Myron, the moment he'd heard Hogwarts Castle hosted the Triwizard Tournament, had followed Professor Dumbledore around London for a day or two; he'd asked to be placed on the ticket.
Professor Dumbledore had said no.
"Really?" Gideon asked as they packed.
"Yeah. Then he Apparated right in of me as I turned onto Oxford Street." Myron filled two thermoses, with his lemon and honey tea; this stuff saved his voice. "He said he wanted to see my face. Seemed to think it was funny. Who knew the headmaster had a sense of humor?"
"You would've been pissed," Herman sniggered. He imitated Myron's soft, sensible tone. "Professor. No, wait, Professor. Seriously? Professor!"
"That's totally how that went down, eh?" Kirley snorted at Myron's odd expression. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, playing at the Yule Ball.
The new year came with new responsibilities. When word got around that Merton had a sat of pipes and could sing well, Myron snatched him up so fast he might have been a Snitch. Gideon accused him of not being as forthcoming as he ought to have been, though this was all in good fun. Merton, wanting everything out on the table, admitted he played not only the cello, but the piano and the violin, too. Myron was the lead singer.
Why would they need another? Merton liked writing music; someone else put words to them. A quiet man, he'd dated here and there, although he'd never really hit it off with a girl. In the band, he was the cello. It wasn't exactly the coolest instrument. In the beginning of February, he started getting his feet wet and showing his music to Myron. Myron gave him singing lessons after jam sessions.
"Donaghan missed practice." Merton cleaned the cello and tapped his foot to the beat.
"Yeah. He's with Sarah." Myron raised his hand when Merton looked up, worried. "They are fine. He asked for a couple nights off."
"If we're not on tour till May, what're we going to do?"
"Write an album." Myron shrugged, reading over a piece of sheet music on parchment. He explained they worked in cycles; in the springtime, often before this, they went into hiding because the heart needed to pump new blood to survive. They released a new album every eighteen months. "You're really dedicated."
"To what?" Merton set the cello aside after cleaning his case.
"The art." Myron sat on a bench and hummed a few bars before crossing stuff out. "You know that piece you played the night you auditioned? That piece from Les Miserables?"
"Yeah." Slightly shocked he'd remember the title of the production, Merton picked up his violin when he'd finished with Posey when started polishing it. The fact that Myron had called his street session as an audition was laughable. Merton equated it to one getting his arm stretched on a rack. "I played 'Master of the House'."
Myron nodded, lost in his thoughts for a moment. "Play it for me."
Merton had played a lot of the classics whilst he hung out on the streets, for his grandmother had told him people liked the familiar. They liked what was pleasurable to the ear. This is why most catchy tunes followed the same catchy tune. They followed the same three or four chord progression. Listeners, the usual crowd, didn't care if they heard the same thing over and over again.
"All right." Merton sped up the polishing of the violin. He grabbed the bow and danced around as he got into the music. As a once starving artist not so long ago, he took any request without thinking about it. He got by.
Myron, enjoying it, laughed heartily and clapped his hands when Merton danced on the bottom steps of the staircase. Lost in the music, Merton forgot himself. There was a difference between playing for passersby on the street and standing among seven other practiced musicians. Magical or Muggle, it all boiled down to the same thing. Merton didn't doubt his ability, but his confidence broke somewhere along the way.
Finished with the jaunty song, Merton bowed, grinning. He missed the impromptu concerts, sometimes playing in the rain with nothing more than the clothes on his back because he'd forgotten laundry that day. Myron complimented his footwork, regretting that the cello kept him in a chair.
Myron sat down on the seat in the windowsill.
Merton set the violin next to the closed cello case and smirked at him when he sat down. They stared at each other for a long moment until Merton broke his gaze. He cleared his throat loudly, said something about incorporating the violin into the show, and dropped the suggestion as soon as the thought turned into words.
"Why not?" Myron tapped his foot again, despite the fact there was no beat. He'd have to bring it up to the band, of course, for the violin offered a different range. It wouldn't always fit. Merton nodded. Before he could reply, Myron kissed him!
Merton, shocked, backed off and stared at the opposite wall.
"Sorry." Myron crossed his legs and waded through an uncomfortable silence. Probably thinking someone had to say something, he said, unabashed, "You never dated. You keep to yourself… and I assumed … I was wrong."
"Been on a few dates." Merton got up and went to support the wall. He needed distance, so he pretended to straighten something on the wall. "No. You're not."
Myron scratched his chin. Thinking they were just going to leave it there, Merton went to pack his violin after he took his time polishing it. He had so many questions. Surely, he thought, there was no way the public could know the lead singer- the lead singer- of the Weird Sisters batted for the other team. Or maybe they did, and this gave the band a whole new meaning.
The band had to know; they kept no secrets from each other. Myron had grown up with three or four of these blokes as close friends. There were shots of him in publications like Witch Weekly and even the New York Ghost! Or maybe, maybe he was sleep deprived, and he'd imagined the whole thing. Slowly, as his mind raced, he approached Myron and stood in front of him.
He looked him right in the eye. "When did you know?"
"When did I know you were gay? When you politely turned down that French girl in Paris in that dress." Myron laughed when Merton shook his head, although they both understood Myron wasn't laughing at him. Myron closed the distance between them and considered the weighty question. "I suppose I've always known I went the other way. I design the stage costumes. Mum said I painted my fingernails black once. I don't know."
The sides of Merton's mouth twitched.
"I bet that French girl is still confused," said Myron. He picked up his sheet music. He didn't act flamboyant. Until this revelation, he hadn't let his guard down, and he acted awfully chatty with the girls at the pubs or the restaurants after shows. He studied Merton's face. "You're nineteen. You've never been kissed before, have you, Seth?"
"No." Merton flushed. He guessed that was no slip of the tongue. "You talk to girls all the time!"
"Yeah. I talk. I'm … I was Donaghan's wingman. He let me go after he found Sarah." Myron feigned disappointment. "They know. We don't talk about it. Your eyes? They're beautiful."
"Thank you." Merton took the compliment. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-six next month."
"March seventeenth. St. Patrick's Day." Merton knew the birthdays of every man in this lot. He'd read them in gossip magazines. He'd been quite the fan before joining the band. He stopped himself from switching into total nerd mode; he knew, for instance, that Kirley Duke wore his lucky, mismatched, striped socks during performances. He turned to leave.
Myron waited a minute or so. "It takes practice."
Merton apologized for missing the simple notes in the singing lessons.
"No. Life." Myron rattled on about some lesson his father gave him. Merton stopped; this man had a brilliant, insightful mind. He walked over, shaking, and locked lips with him. Myron, taking this as a yes, kissed him back. He lowered his voice, although nobody else was there. "If everything in life is a lesson, why is life itself not one? You're getting better."
"What does this mean?"
"No idea."
"Are you always this deep?"
"Not knowing something isn't deep. However, admitting that you don't know something? We don't know everything." Myron kissed him a third time, stroking his face. "You can tell me to shut up. Donaghan tells me that all the time, and Gideon has this hourglass. You know, those plastic trinkets in Muggle board games? It works."
"You talk a lot." Merton laughed when Myron shut up and stared at his watch for ten minutes. They wrote a song together, nonsense, really, about an hourglass. Merton liked the sound of Myron's laugh.
In the early hours of the ninth of March, Donaghan's son, Jericho Tremlett, came into the world. He clung to it hours later. Devastated, Donaghan asked this to stay out of the papers and the press. Merton, who had arrived with a small baby gift, sat in the waiting room huddled with the other band members. They looked odd dressed in their stage clothes, but Myron had shut down the show when he'd received an owl at intermission. Donaghan was his brother; he went where he was needed.
"Damn it." Myron looked up when Donhaghan, dressed in protective clothing, tapped on the waiting room doors. Gideon got up. "No. I've got it."
"Lad," Gideon, tired, wanted to argue.
"He's got it, Papa Bear," muttered Orsino, picking up a deck of Muggle playing cards as the Saint Catherine's Hospital requested a Doctor Rochester over the intercom.
Myron nodded. He cracked his neck and readied himself. Merton, sitting closest to the doors, got a perfect view. He couldn't look away, though part of him wanted to. The moment Myron passed through the doors, Donaghan collapsed into his arms Merton registered something in Myron's face he never seen before. Was it panic or loss? Gideon Crumb, shoving skinny Kirley out of the way, bouldered through the doors. When the doors opened, Donaghan, grasping for air, reminded Merton of a wounded animal left on the side of the road.
"Donaghan," grumbled Gideon, burying Donaghan's face in his chest. The doors closed and Gideon steered them away down the corridor.
Kirley cried silently by Gideon's empty chair. Herman struck up a prayer asking God to take Jericho. Merton did not know how many of them followed faith, though it was obvious Herman did. Orsino furious, smashed his house of cards, and cards flew everywhere. He left. Others in the waiting room, Muggles, stared after him, shocked at his behavior. Heathcote, the rhythm guitarist, followed him.
Sarah. Someone needed to ask after Sarah. Merton felt for Donaghan as much as anyone, although he didn't know what it was to lose a child, but Sarah was his friend. He looked around at his friends, all trapped in their grief and shock, and got to his feet. Determined, he went towards the waiting room doors. He jumped back, scared when Gideon blocked his way. He'd come back.
"What're you doing, lad?" Gideon placed a hand on Merton's shoulder and towered over him.
"Sarah." Merton allowed himself to steered back to his chair by the bagpiper.
"Sarah's fine. Exhausted, obviously. Who wouldn't be after going through an ordeal like that? Laboring for two days?" Gideon shook his head sadly and clapped his hands together; he was the bearer of bad news. He leaned on the arm of Merton's chair. "Lads, Jericho's … he didn't make it. Got strangled by the cord, they say. He's a tiny thing."
"You saw him?" Kirley wiped his eyes hastily with the sleeve of his robes.
"Yeah. Looks like his dad. I held him for a moment." Gideon gave a watery laugh and sobered up, cutting this short. Papa Bear shed no tears in public. "Myron and his parents are with him. Saying goodbye."
Kirley and Herman spoke up together. "We want to see him!"
"Myron's godfather," said Merton. He shrugged when Kirley asked how he knew this. Myron had told Merton a couple nights ago as they laid in bed reading Shakespeare. As they hadn't yet gone and made their relationship public, he chose not to divulge how he knew this. "He's not ours."
"You're right." Herman said he needed a smoke. The other band members traipsed outside with him. It was raining. Herman passed his smokes around, his hand shaking slightly. "Donaghan."
"He's a good man," said Gideon. "Who could've predicted that? Donaghan's a man. I'll be God damned."
Six months later, on a cold autumn afternoon, Donaghan sat in the graveyard with his band. He'd married Sarah Miller an hour earlier. It was raining, though not all of them held umbrellas. Donaghan knelt on the damp earth and gestured to a stone bench for Sarah.
"Your mother's beautiful. And she was stupid enough to say yes to this idiot." Donaghan didn't look up to see who sniggered, though he flipped Myron off first. "Myron's an idiot. He murdered the first verse of 'Catriona'. On my wedding day."
"Guilty." Myron chuckled when Sarah gave him a thumbs-up. "Merton saved me in second part."
"On my wedding day! Ain't got no sense." Driving the point home, Donaghan went to sit by his wife. "It got split into a beautiful duet, though. Never heard it sung between two blokes before. Once you had enough drink in your system, if you closed your eyes and imagined Seth as a girl, it was all right."
They burst out laughing. Merton and Myron shared a brief look and looked hurriedly away from each other. "Catriona" was a song written for Kirley's mother, who bore the name of the song. Merton, not knowing what to do, conjured his cello and sat down on the opposite stone bench.
"We do actually have something for you, the three of you," said Merton.
Myron rested his hand on Merton's shoulder and held the large yellow umbrella in his other hand. It was in the bidding for the new album, though they'd kept it from Donaghan and Sarah. Gideon, donned in full Highland dress, conjured his bagpipes after kissing Sarah's hand. He joined Myron and Merton and tore through intro. Taking a deep breath, smiling when Myron gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, he got lost in the Weird Sisters' first released duet, "Mile to Jericho".
