A/N There's a midi file of Paganini's No. 24 available online (which is mentioned in this chapter). It's available at Karadar's Classical Music Dictionary as a free MP3, which I strongly suggest you listen to just for a feel of what I'm talking about. It really is an amazing piece of music—perfect to listen to while reading this chapter. You might also want to read his bio so that you understand a little better. Who knows? Maybe it'll be a Jeopardy question and you'll win! The link is karadar . com/dictionary/paganini .html

Take out the spaces and check out the song.

Giver20

I had never felt better in my life. Note by beautiful note—indeed minute by minute—I had passed an invisible threshold of a lifetime spent in a cellar to an existence worthy of human companionship. Every so often I felt people stare at me but I ignored their curiosity. They could see me on the outside, and if they saw me from within I didn't give a damn. Music filled me. Music, I knew, would pour from my overflowing soul.

By the end of the evening I felt warm with beer, food, and company. My tongue was thoroughly loosened and I wanted nothing more than speak and be spoken to. However, for all of my energy, my uncle appeared exhausted. I didn't understand how he could be tired since he'd spent the better part of two days sleeping, but I didn't question him.

"We should continue toward Paris late tonight," he said.

The crowds had thinned considerably until only a dozen people remained. The musicians milled around at the front of the pub, conversing with patrons. Once or twice I caught the bassist's eye and he nodded to acknowledge me. It only increased the ball of energy I felt building within me, this nod from a fellow musician.

"Speak with him if you like," The Shadow said casually.

"Wh-who? Me?"

He laughed and filled his pipe with tobacco. "Yes, Erik. He would be flattered. I'm certain of it."

But my legs turned to lead and I felt my throat go dry. It was easy to merely sit in the crowd. As long as there were shadows and voices to cover my own whispered words I was content. My tongue would not work properly, however, if I approached the musicians. They would ridicule me first for my appearance and then for my stupidity.

I sank into my chair and cast my gaze on the table.

"Oh." He tsked me. "Stand up."

I started to shake my head but he stood first and started to make his way through the crowd. With no other choice than to sit alone, I scrambled after him and found myself suddenly at the edge of their makeshift stage.

"We have enjoyed your performance…"

Once I realized my heart still continued to beat, I glanced around the stage. The violinist—the sole woman in their band of musicians—stood very close to an older man. She looked him in the eye and smiled as he dropped several coins into her violin case. To me she looked like a Basset Hound, her long features and heavy-lidded eyes accentuated by her pin-straight hair.

"My nephew, forgive him…"

The tallest of the musicians mopped his balding pate with a handkerchief, then proceeded to blow his nose. He glanced at me then looked away in search of his drink.

"He's a nice boy. Deserves better."

"Is it…contagious?" I heard the bassist ask.

Gooseflesh rose along my arms as they discussed my affliction, my wretched appearance. I held my breath, and felt cold replace the warmth I'd earlier discovered inside of me.

"No, no, of course not. His father…honestly, need I say more?"

My jaw clamped tightly and I stared at my feet, wishing I were closer to the ground. Small…like a cockroach scurrying unnoticed. That was what I wanted to be. It was, I realized, how I had felt for most of my life. I'd always hated it—but now I longed for the comfort of anonymity.

My uncle placed his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer.

"This is Erik. He has taught himself to play the violin."

The man stared at me, his hardened gaze seemed to bore through me. I felt invisible beneath his gaze, not anonymous and comfortable. It was as though he looked at me and saw nothing. I wanted to step back and return to my room but The Shadow held fast to my arm.

"He's a musical genius," The Shadow said. "I've never seen a boy learn music so swiftly."

"He's what? Sixteen, seventeen years of age?"

"Thirteen," he corrected. "And picked up a violin for the first time only this summer."

The bassist snorted. "There isn't much of a crowd, but I'm certain they would appreciate a bit of genius." He whistled and the woman turned to face him. "Give your violin to Mozart."

"He prefers Paganini."

"Sold his soul to the devil, eh?"

"He need not sell his soul to anyone. No one could pay enough for such remarkable genius."

The Shadow's words were met with mocking laughter. He looked at me and winked, reassuring me that their laughter was not in jest of something I had done. It would be years before I studied music on my own and learned that Paganini was a wiry, long-haired fellow who played with such passion that his eyes rolled back in his head. Women fainted and men would weep when they heard him play. It was as though he had sold his soul to the devil.

The violinist eyed me from afar and made no attempt to offer her instrument. "Does he have mange?"

Another blow to my existence. Her words made me flinch. The remaining patrons felt much too close, as though they stood on top of me.

"His only affliction is cruel parents and inconsiderate strangers. Give him your violin," The Shadow said, his voice so commanding I would not have known he spoke had I not seen the words leave his mouth.

The woman hesitated. I didn't want the violin or the bow. I didn't want to stand on their stage or become part of their spectacle. Darkness had never seemed so pleasant—or so far away.

"What shall he play?" the bassist questioned.

"If he is truly Paganini then it is only fair that he play Number twenty-four in A Minor." The woman smirked as though she'd found a way to retain her violin.

"Do you remember it, Erik?" The Shadow asked me.

I nodded, the notes filling my head one by one. I'd heard a rather lackluster rendition of the caprice months before. The violinist who'd attempted the song had destroyed the variation, his fingers too still to do the piece justice.

"You know it well enough to play it? Or have you not yet acquired the skill?"

To hell with feeling awkward. Shame was rapidly replaced by my stubbornness which refused to bow down.

"I could play it backwards," I replied.

The Shadow smiled. "For your encore." He looked to the woman. "Let him play."

She took one last, longing glance at her beloved violin before she extended her arm and handed me the instrument. My hands shook as I accepted it from her, watching as she recoiled from me as though she feared I would harm her.

"He doesn't know it," the man who had sung with the musicians taunted as he crossed his arms.

Ignoring his words, I took a deep breath and positioned the violin beneath my chin. The room and the people within it disappeared as I placed the bow to the string. It was as though I no longer existed in a mortal body. Greater than flesh and blood, I didn't play the violin or merely imitate what I had crudely heard once before. I was sound, I was string, and I was wood. Tempo became my heartbeat, melody my blood, and themes my bones. The instrument and I were one, perfectly blended, free of barriers and ridicule. I forgot myself, forgot the room, forgot the pain that had nailed me to the earth.

Lost—or perhaps at last found—I allowed the music to guide me, lead me to the very core of my existence. I felt as though I had played the piece from the moment I took my first breath, though in the same moment my heart beat as though if I neglected one note I would destroy the world.

When at last the music ended and I felt the room and smelled the ale again, I reluctantly opened my eyes. Each fear that had abandoned me once again came home to roost in my heart. Fearfully I swallowed and stared at the ground.

"I'll be damned," the singer said. "He can play like all hell."

"No, not like hell," my uncle corrected. "Like an angel."

Embarrassed, I started to hand the violin back to the owner, but she stepped back from me. I couldn't tell if I disgusted or intrigued her as she shook her head.

"Keep it," she said. "I have no desire to play it any longer."