Prologue

Roderich had never been so humiliated in his entire life, that was certain, and it was high time the classmate responsible learned a bit of shame. It was too much to wish for, of course. There they were, crammed together in a stuffy basement room, the carpet a putrid blend of vomit-stain brown and rust, no windows, no ceiling fan, only their warden for company. There they were for hours after school, bound every day for the next four weeks, future punishments pending. The school was still busy gathering information about their crime, but the fact that some details remained a bit fuzzy couldn't change the fact that they were shamed. Shamed in the eyes of their teachers and their parents.

Gilbert couldn't be less bothered.

"Hey, Roddy, check it – I drew something awesome on the back of my test, and the teacher didn't even notice! Pfffffft!"

"She probably noticed and just had nothing to say." Roderich snuck a quick glance at the so-called "awesome" doodle – Gilbert couldn't draw, and whatever was on the back of that crumpled-up quiz was possibly a gigantic, livable tank, possibly some kind of air-battleship. It was manned by far too many stick figures, and it looked like a lot of thought had been put into it for some inane reason. Each little scribble-man had a specific task – some were labeled, given lists of functions. Roderich turned back to his book. It was a biography. Chopin. Roderich didn't expect Gilbert to ask about the book, let alone fathom its appeal. Lord, he'd been such a dunce going along with Gilbert's plan to begin with. Lizzie didn't know the whole story, but it was only a matter of time.

"What the hell, Roderich?" she'd smiled, uncertain. "People are saying you helped Gilbert change student records, or something."

"People? What kind of people?" he had burst out like an idiot. Always playing the fool, wasn't he? And now he was here; Gilbert's hair looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and ruffled it a bit this morning, and he was wearing one of those black and white checkerboard belts Roderich imagined "scene" or "Goth" or "hipster" kids picked up from Hot Topic. Gilbert's skin was pale enough that royal blue veins showed through by one of his temples, and his ears stuck out a bit. He needed to stop smiling. Immediately. Roderich was in no mood for nonsense.

At the front of the classroom, their warden – the English lit teacher Ms. Kirkland – thumbed through a Gothic horror anthology and giggled to herself. She was kind of an odd one, with strawberry-blonde pigtails and a face made up mostly of freckles. She had her headphones in, too, hooked into a battered iPhone that looked like it had taken a hundred or so tumbles from the top of the school. According to legend, Ms. Kirkland had once snuck some of the English honors students up onto the roof for a congratulatory picnic. She wasn't listening.

"Leave me alone or I swear I'll tell them how things really happened. Your brother should be here –"

"Shh – shut up! Not so loud!" Gilbert's whole body twitched forward as though jerking along with an electric shock; his head rocked toward Ms. Kirkland so quickly Roderich could've sworn he heard bones crack. "Luddy – Ludwig doesn't need to be a part of this. I swear, four week's detention is nothing. You think I haven't seen worse? We're damn lucky!"

"I'm not surprised that you've seen worse. I, however, have never had detention in my life, and... Let's just sit here, alright?" Roderich wanted to bury his face in his arms; he'd worn a deep navy sweater with tears up the sleeves that he just didn't have the heart to throw out. It smelled like his house, with all the fragrant candles and wood furniture polished to shine. It smelled like a safe place where only the mirrors along the wall watched you and you didn't have to talk to anybody. It was sort of like rich, hot comfort food reincarnated in sweater form.

"What do you think Alice is listening to?" When Gilbert smiled, Roderich always thought he looked kind of like a Disney villain about to begin in on his evil scheme monologue.

"Who?"

"Ms. Kirkland. I think she's probably listening to show tunes, like Sweeney Todd or Mary Poppins or something else equally British. Or maybe Ke$ha. Maybe death metal. Do you like death metal?"

Roderich ground his fingers into his eyes, pressing so deeply he could see spurts of angry red against his eyelids. "I'm missing weeks' worth of piano lessons because of this, and it will, of course, take weeks to recover the lost time. So, if you don't mind…" He was already able to pour his emotions into the pieces he'd learned; his teacher said he emoted better through the keys than his voice, which was possibly a somewhat backhanded compliment. Roderich didn't care. They were juniors now, and his technique could always, must always improve. His repertoire had to expand. Soon he'd be putting his playing up against who knows how many other people's, because if he went to a fancy music school that'd be just another step towards the concert hall.

Imagining himself in an orchestra or performing as part of a musical theater ensemble was fine, but Roderich could see himself crossing that stage solo, wearing a modest tux, eyes downcast. Dust would shiver in the spotlight. The crowd would be hushed, so still he'd be able to hear individual dresses rustle. He could imagine himself playing, just his piano, his truest voice, and all those waiting ears. He could communicate so much – he could be so much. At the very least, he could surely be more than a bitter old music teacher, coaching squirming, snot-nosed brats just learning to toot into recorders and make triangles go "ding."

"God, I thought you must play something like the piano! Violin, flute, I dunno, one of those flouncy instruments." Gilbert often sounded like he was patting himself on the back. Here, he thumped Roderich's shoulder; his hands were remarkably small and delicately shaped, up close. It was only now that Roderich noticed his clean fingernails.

"Well, congratulations, I guess. I do."

Gilbert didn't even miss a beat before demanding, "Teach me. We've got four weeks. That's enough time. I'm awesome at picking things up fast. I bet I could catch up to you!" His folders and such were actually arranged very neatly in his backpack, Roderich saw. Perhaps he was a fairly tidy person after all, despite all the unnecessary buckles on his boots. Roderich tried to think back – had he ever known Gilbert to fail a test?

"How would I teach you? We're locked in a windowless, soulless, piano-less room."

That was when Ms. Kirkland – Alice? – with the huge doe eyes and little-girly voice tapped at her iPhone and exclaimed – "And how are you today, Mr. Blue Sky?"

Gilbert and Roderich both stared at her a moment, and then glanced at each other, not quite in sync but close enough that for a moment they were almost on the same page. Roderich wet his lips and whispered, "What...?" He was thinking of the masked, ancient gods in the books Ms. Kirkland taught, thinking of the white-clad maidens who end up soaked in someone else's blood. He was thinking of how she collapsed in dizzy fits of laughter in the classroom when she talked about how all those oysters get eaten up in the Lewis Carroll poem, those dear trusting little idiots, led to a quick and convenient demise, how she asked silly riddles and clearly liked it best when nobody knew the answer. She'd crinkle up her eyes and tap her chin, tell them to remember the rhyme so they could trick someone else.

"Doing pretty well, Ma'am, and yourself?" Gilbert said. He nodded, cocky, and Ms. Kirkland giggled again. Roderich could trace her line of sight to well over their heads, dangling about where the brick wall was consumed by plaster ceiling.

She tittered, "Yes, yes, I'll be back in time for the movie. I'll pick up pizza if you're a good boy and stop pestering me about it!

Gilbert met Roderich's gaze and snickered. His eyes were usually kind of manic, for lack of a better word, but now for some reason the intensity on his face was almost hilarious. They laughed, Gilbert brazen and coarse, Roderich in a throaty, relieved chuckle. This teacher would be here every day, after all, same as them. She'd be making her way through books, perhaps texting, perhaps just lulling them into a false sense of security so she could piece together the rest of their crime. For just a moment, Roderich felt a sliver of regret surface inside him – suppose she had heard about Ludwig escaping punishment? Suppose she deemed that little morsel something worth looking into? You never know.

Gilbert had come to detention himself without any struggle, but for some reason the idea of Ludwig facing the music seemed to get him all shivery, made him slam on the breaks. His little brother was a sophomore, and a huge one at that. The football team simply wouldn't leave him alone he was so big and tough, but Gilbert still kind of babied him, it seemed. Ludwig was blonde and clean-cut; he had piercing blue eyes, somewhat shy and guarded to match his brother's crazed red ones, darting all over the place. Red eyes, yes. Roderich had assumed they were contacts at first, something intended to be edgy or hip or what have you, but apparently Gilbert was albino, at least according to him. Roderich still sometimes looked for the telltale outline of lenses along his irises, but no such luck as of yet.

He thought about apologizing for decrying Ludwig so loudly, perhaps, or maybe just for inspiring Gilbert's panic. He didn't, of course. There were other issues at hand, and anyway... It was quite plain that if he were to give the guy an inch, he'd take the whole continent. Kindness to someone like that could easily get out of hand.

"Mr. Blue Sky is her husband, I guess?" Roderich said, instead.

Gilbert was still snickering – he hissed out, "Holy shit," –and their literature professor was still talking. Now she rolled her eyes and twirled one of her long pigtails around in her hand.

"Al, stop it! Stop it! I'm in detention – I'm watching those boys, the ones that cracked the – I love you, too, Al. Good bye. Go away. Get yourself ready for your bloody movie!"

"Al," Roderich whispered, wrinkling his nose.

"Huh. I wonder if it bothers him that she talks about dismembering babies and the different effects of poisons in class."

"Love is patient; love is kind." Roderich grinned, but Gilbert just shrugged; his hoodie had stripes up the arms and a slogan on the back that didn't make any sense. Perhaps it would mean something witty or fun to people in the know, but Gilbert was often alone on campus. Like Roderich, actually. Maybe there were people who got his jokes and references around here, but then again, maybe not. Could be it was only Ludwig.

Now, when he'd be willing to talk, now was when they sat in silence. Roderich returned to his book, smoothing down the pages, imagining himself whisked back in time to the age nestled inside, or some other, any other period that would be somehow better. Roderich imagined he would've fit in far easier had he been born ages past, before cellphones and skinny jeans, back when classical music was still thought revolutionary, still intended for mass consumption. Back when people said Sir and Ma'am all the time, when it was normal to be a little formal and standoffish, concerned what to say. Gilbert took out a notebook and scribbled; his broad strokes squeaked against the paper. Roderich tried not to wonder what he was drawing. Sometimes Gilbert counted to himself, and sometimes it seemed like he was trying to turn the whole sheet of notebook paper a glossy pencil-stroke grey.

Finally, he announced, "There! Look – my plan is pretty much perfect, right?" Gilbert's voice was too loud after a period of near-silence; it was like a splatter of ice water down Roderich's back. He winced and turned to face him and his pretty much perfect plan.

"You drew a keyboard. Does it even have the right amount of keys?"

"Obviously I drew a keyboard. Now, show me middle C. Then you can teach me songs."