The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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Song and Story

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“I can't find him anywhere,” Rosie complained.

“Hmm?” I glanced up from Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. “Find who?”

“Mark.”

“You're not still on with that, are you? Some people don't have Facebook. It's not that weird.”

“It's not just Facebook, though. There's no Twitter either, or even a LinkedIn, which is weird for a wannabe academic.”

“He might be opposed to social media on principle,” Harrison chipped in. “Some people don't like the idea of faceless corporations harvesting our data.”

“And some people just like a bit of privacy,” I added, “so random strangers can't stalk them from the comfort of their living room.”

Rosie smiled mischievously. “But he's not a stranger now...”

A knock on the door cut across my retort. “That'll be him. Harrison, where's Theo?”

“Here.” Theo strolled in, the half-eaten remains of a peanut butter and Nutella toastie in his right hand.

“How can you be hungry? We just ate!”

“It's dessert!” he protested.

I snorted and made for the door. “Any excuse. Rosie, please stop Googling Mark.”

“Ssh!”

They scuffled to clear the table and push back the furniture, and I answered the door at Mark's second knock.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He proffered a bottle of red wine that looked nearly as expensive as the whisky he'd brought the night before. “I hope you don't mind me coming straight up; the door was open downstairs.”

“The latch is broken, we've been meaning to get it fixed – wow.” I felt my eyes go wide as I accepted the wine and read the label. “Thank you...but you don't need to keep bringing stuff. Seriously, you're the one doing us a favour.”

“Nonsense, you're hosting me.” He shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of the door. “Claire, you don't happen to have a cat, do you?”

“Nope. Not allowed under our lease.”

“I suspected that was the case.” He bent to unlace his boots. “I only ask because one tried to follow me into the stairwell.”

“Grey tabby?”

“Yes.”

“It was there yesterday. Must be a stray.”

“Oh, I don't know about that; it seemed friendly enough.”

“You must have the magic touch, then – all it's done is hiss at me so far...”

We pushed back the furniture again, ordering things slightly differently to stand in for the grounds and temple of Tremorden Castle, then started off with the blocking for the Paradox Trio (not complex) and 'Away, Away' (almost non-existent).

“You really need to sing it through, though, to get the idea,” said Harrison. “It sounds a bit rubbish when you're all just saying the words.”

“One thing at a time.” I ran my hands through my hair. “OK – love duet between Frederic and Mabel, there's no point running through that, you're not in it – then another bit with the policemen – then it's the pirates again.”

Theo began to hum the melody for 'With Cat-like Tread' under his breath, a smirk of anticipation on his face.

“There's nothing breakable within kicking distance, is there?” Rosie asked, nervously glancing at the tables and shelves.

“Harrison's other leg?” suggested Theo. Harrison gave him a sharp jab with one of his crutches. “Ow!”

“Kicking distance?” Mark asked me quietly, smiling as the others bickered.

“Oh, you'll see,” I replied.

***

Saturday was the first full run through since Harrison's accident, and the cast's mood ranged from jittery to irate. There were plenty who felt that the replacement should have been selected from the remaining cast members, not “sneaked in by the back door,” as one of the policemen unflatteringly put it.

“So Rosie says this guy is really, really hot.” Ariana, who was playing Mabel, lifted a suggestive eyebrow as she scraped her black hair into a bun.

“I'm not sure that's the word I'd use.”

“He isn't hot?”

“I mean...” I arranged my makeup at the side of the sink, then hunted through my bag for my grey wig. “I don't know how to describe it.”

“Charismatic?”

“Well, yes, but more than that.” I automatically glanced around to make sure Mark was nowhere in earshot, although he was unlikely to be lurking inside the ladies' toilets in the Students' Union. “Beautiful, is probably the best way to put it – and unusual.”

“How so?”

I thought of the bright, fierce light in his eyes the night I'd walked with him towards the library, the carved symmetry of his features, the confident fluidity of his movements. Otherworldly? It seemed the wrong choice of word for someone so centred, so present; there was nothing frail or ethereal about him. “You'll see.”

She nodded, securing her hair with a white ribbon. “How's Harrison?”

“OK, I think. Feels pretty stupid.”

“He must be gutted about the show...sorry, could you unzip me?”

“Sure – and yes, he is.”

I undid the zipper on her Fairisle-print sheath dress; she stepped out of it and into Mabel's long, striped, high-waisted skirt. “How long is he in plaster for?”

“Six to eight weeks, they reckoned at the hospital. Should be off by the start of next semester.”

“Good.” She smiled as she fastened the buttons on her blouse. “Because a little bird told me Xander's thinking of doing Les Mis.”

“Seriously? Ouch!” I'd jabbed myself in the eye with a hair pin as I turned to face her. “That's...quite a project.”

“I know, but we've got enough strong voices to make it work. Theo for Marius, you for Fantine...”

“You for Cosette.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not necessarily. Put out a casting call for Les Mis and loads of people will want to audition.”

“But not many with a voice like yours.”

She shrugged, but her smile stretched a little further, dimpling one cheek. “Well. One show at a time – and anyway, I need to pick your brains, I can't sort out the last chapter of my dissertation...”

We talked Joyce and Conrad as we did our makeup, then headed back into the auditorium. Mark had arrived while we'd been changing; he was by the costume rail with Rosie and Xander, apparently oblivious to the whispering and staring from the rest of the cast.

“Oh my.” Ariana exhaled softly. “That's him, then.”

“Yup.”

“How do you know him?”

“I don't, really. I've seen him across the room at a couple of postgrad events, and I've bumped into him at Younger Hall, but until this week we'd never spoken properly.”

“I see what you mean, though. Definitely beautiful.”

He lifted his head and smiled at us; I waved, and slipped my arm through Ariana's.

“We have a problem,” Xander said as we approached. His curls were already fizzing.

I opted against several sarcastic retorts along the lines of “you astonish me”, “what else is new?” and “you should get that on a t-shirt.” Instead I uttered a calm, neutral, “Oh?”

“We didn't think about the costume. He's about six inches taller than Harrison.”

I glanced at Rosie, whose cheeks were a bright shade of pink. “We've still got a week,” she pointed out. “We can find something.”

“But what about tonight?” Xander's voice grew shrill.

“It's a rehearsal,” I pointed out with strained patience. “Nobody's watching; we'll just have to manage. By the way, Mark, this is Ariana; she's playing Mabel, so she's the one you need to kidnap at the end of Act One.”

“Hi.” Ariana reached out and shook his hand. Guiltily, I watched her swiftly-smothered reaction to his burned skin; I was weirdly glad I wasn't the only one bothered by it. “I've heard so much about you.”

Mark laughed a little. “News travels fast.”

“Not as far as the costume department,” muttered Xander, glaring sullenly at the rails of pirate outfits as though they had shrunk on purpose to spite him.

“I said we'd sort something out.” Rosie's tone was unusually tart. “Mark, come here; we'll have to pirate you up with accessories for now.”

Mark leaned against the edge of the stage while she dug around through boxes of props. She tried him first with a feathered, wide-brimmed hat, but decided it was more Three Musketeers than Pirate King. 

“Maybe this?” she said thoughtfully, approaching with a long, silky, emerald-green bandana – but as she stood on her tiptoes to fasten it around his head, Mark jerked away.

“Sorry,” he said, clearly seeing her puzzled expression. “I just don't like my head being touched.” He held his hand out for the bandana. “I can tie it.”

Rosie shrugged and started pulling products out of her makeup bag while Mark sorted out his headgear, then I stood and watched her work her magic with contouring bronzer and smudged black eyeliner.

“Hmm.” She eyed her handiwork critically. “What do you think, Claire? Too Jack Sparrow?”

“Plenty of men wore eye makeup before Johnny Depp.” I tilted my head, considering the effect of it under the stage lights. It gave Mark's features a dark, wicked, rock star edge. “I like it.”

“Five minutes,” Xander called across the auditorium. “Places in five minutes, everyone, thank you.”

Half-hearted acknowledgements were called back to him; the daughters headed to the back of the auditorium, ready to prance down the aisle during their first number, and I trooped into the wings with Theo, Mark and the rest of the pirates. The policemen, who weren't needed until Act Two, settled themselves in the chairs to watch.

“Claire, your hair's coming down,” Theo whispered.

“Shit.” I put my hand up to my head and realised that my natural strawberry-blonde tresses were escaping from under the grey wig. I glanced around but there were no mirrors back here, and Rosie was in the wings on the other side. “I mustn't have pinned it properly...if I hold the wig up, can you clip it back into place? It doesn't have to be neat, it just needs to stay put.”

“I don't know what to do with hair!” He sounded horrified by even the idea.

“I'll do it,” said Mark unexpectedly.

“Would you?” 

“Of course. Take it down; it'll be easier to start again.”

“Two minutes, people,” Xander called from the auditorium.

Hurriedly I unpinned my wig, tugging as it tangled into my hair.

“Don't panic.” Mark smiled at me as I passed him the hair grips. “We have the overture to redo it.”

He laid the pins on a small side table and gently finger-combed my hair, teasing out the worst of the knots and snarls. Around us the pirates went through the usual last minute checks on their props and costumes, occasionally glancing at Mark before pretending they were in fact looking at the curtains or the antiquated rope-and-pulley system. Mark ignored them, deftly separating my hair out into small sections, then twisting and pinning it into place.

“Were you a hairdresser in one of your previous careers?” I asked – softly, so that only he would hear me.

He laughed as the orchestra launched into the jaunty strains of 'With Cat-like Tread.' “No.”

It was the answer I'd expected, although I wouldn't have been amazed by a yes. Little would surprise me about Mark at this point. As the pirates trailed on in ones and twos, pretending to swab the decks of their ship and get it ready for Frederic's birthday celebrations while the orchestra played, I wondered where Mark had learned to style and pin up long hair. I'd never seen him wear his own dark mane any way other than loose around his face. Still, after my idiotic blunder earlier in the week, I wasn't willing to ask directly – not if he didn't volunteer the information first.

“There – now sit the wig on top.”

I obeyed, and he slid in a few more clips to keep it in place.

“Alright, that should hold.”

I poked at it gingerly; it seemed fairly secure. “Thank you.” I gave him a quick twirl as the flutes danced their way through the melody to 'Here's a First Rate Opportunity.' “How do I look?”

“Like a piratical maid of all work.”

“Good – I think.” On stage, three of the pirates were setting up an elaborate trap involving a mop, a sailcloth and a couple of barrels, but the rest were heading back into the wings. “OK, you're almost up.” I stepped aside as Theo flourished a pair of rapiers and tossed one to Mark. I was tempted to ask if he was nervous, but the effortless way he caught the blade and gave a few experimental slices told me he wasn't, not in the slightest. Theo smiled smugly, like he was in on some big secret. I knew they'd spent the morning practising the choreography for their opener, and hoped for all our sakes that they hadn't altered it too much, otherwise Xander was liable to explode. “I'd say break a leg, but I think we've already had enough of that.”

“Quite.”

The orchestra were on their last joyous, bouncing chords, and the remaining pirates exited the stage. Theo sauntered across to us.

“All set?” he whispered.

Mark nodded.

Theo grinned. “I can't wait to see their faces...”

“Please don't give Xander any heart attacks,” I begged them.

“Only the good kind,” Theo replied as the strings gave their final flourish. He raised his blade and I stepped back from them both, not wanting to get in the way – then the drumroll started, and with a raucous cheer most of the pirates leapt on stage. 

Theo and Mark waited a few beats, then entered downstage left in a flurry of blows and parries. I laughed as Theo feinted left then pretended to strike at Mark from the right, and Mark's kohl-rimmed eyes widened comically – then I gasped as he tossed his blade into the air, rolled away, and caught the rapier in his other hand without even looking to check where it was.

“Bloody hell,” murmured a familiar voice behind me.

“Harrison!” I spun round and gave him a quick one-armed hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking your advice and avoiding Xander.” He pressed his cheek to the top of my head, still facing out towards the stage. “Theo's right. I'm never getting cast again.”

“Rubbish.”

“Well, I definitely can't pull stunts like that!” He looked wistful. “I couldn't miss it, though. Not after everything you said about Mark. I suppose I came to check out the competition, but let's be realistic, he's not competition. He's on a different planet.” He smiled a little. “And I haven't even heard him sing yet.”

“You will, in a few minutes.” I snorted as Mark expertly steered Theo towards the prepared trap. The other pirates gathered around, cheering good-naturedly, knowing what was coming. Mark's magnetic presence on stage seemed to lift his fellow performers, giving them an energy and verve that I hadn't even realised was missing before. Theo gamely tripped over the mop, causing the sailcloth to fall on top of him, then he wriggled and flailed as the other pirates seized his arms and legs, stuffed him into a barrel and rolled him across the stage. “Crikey, that bit never works...”

In the wings on the other side, Rosie caught sight of us both and waved.

“Well, at least I don't have to follow that opening number.” Harrison waved back, then turned to me, eyes glinting. “You, on the other hand...”

“Quiet.” I meant it; the pirates' drinking song was wrapping up, and if Xander heard us chattering away over their dialogue, there'd be a thermonuclear explosion. I added in a whisper, “Does my wig look OK?”

“Fine. Shouldn't it?”

“It started to slip. Mark had to pin it back on.”

Harrison raised his eyebrows. “A man of many talents.”

“Well, Theo was next to useless – right, time to go.” I checked my wig one final time and bent over into my middle-aged nursery maid pose. 

“Knock 'em dead,” Harrison whispered as I bustled onto stage.

There wasn't a lot of scope for my number to go wrong; the choreography was looser and less frantic than the pirates' opener, and it wasn't a difficult song to sing. Even so, it went better than it ever had done before, with even the unnamed pirates (some of whom were not the world's strongest actors) looking involved and interested as I narrated the ridiculous tale of the inattentive nursery maid accidentally apprenticing her charge to a band of ne'er-do-well pirates. Of course, it probably didn't hurt that Mark stalked among them as I sang, glaring at those who looked inattentive and occasionally prodding them in the ribs. 

Nicely done, I thought, catching his eye and smiling, allowing myself a brief moment out of character. It was a smart use of space and movement in a potentially static, visually unappealing number, adding a layer of interest without distracting from the song. 

He returned the smile and bowed courteously as I finished my last verse, the tale told in all its silly glory. I risked a glance at Xander. For a change he was simply watching, instead of scowling and furiously scribbling notes.

I paused a moment to allow the applause to quieten down (at least, I hoped there'd be applause on the night; I wasn't sure the policemen sitting in the front row counted), then flung myself to my knees and took Theo's hand. “Oh, pardon, Frederic, pardon!”

“Rise, sweet one, I have long pardoned you...”

The scene continued smoothly – no fluffed lines, no awkward pauses, no catastrophes with props or costumes – and I rejoined Harrison in the wings to watch Mark sing the Pirate King's solo.

“Well done,” Harrison whispered. “That was really good.”

I smiled and demurred. “I don't think I can take all the credit.”

“You can for your voice, you sounded fantastic!”

“Thanks.” I slipped my arm around his waist. “Now shush, I want to watch this.”

“Me too.” 

Together we crept forward, as near the stage as we could be without being visible from the auditorium. 

The spotlight was working this evening; it followed Mark to the front of the stage as he flourished his sword and began to sing.

“Oh, better far to live and die under the grave black flag I fly...”

I couldn't help my satisfied grin at the astonished whisper that rippled through the pirates onstage, the policemen in the audience, and the daughters at the back of the auditorium. Mark's voice easily filled the space, his rich tenor echoing warmly, every syllable crisp and distinct – yet edged with a dark arrogance one rarely saw in a Pirate King. He kept the humour of the piece intact, but his eyes flared dangerously when the lyrics spoke of sinking ships to retain his crown, and you couldn't help wondering if he might just mean it – then he gave a playful wink to the audience and swaggered across the stage to duel the other pirates with one hand behind his back, all flamboyance and joy once again.

“Jesus.” Harrison's voice was full of admiration.

“I know. You should have seen Xander's face when we auditioned him.”

“What did he say?”

“'Very nice,'” I quoted.

Harrison rolled his eyes, and we both went back to watching Mark, who was now sparring with three pirates at once, ducking and lunging and feinting almost faster than the eye could follow. I couldn't help thinking of Harrison's complaint the other night about professionals leaving student productions to amateurs – but professional or not, Mark looked born to do this.

At the end of the rehearsal Xander called us all together for notes. Mercifully, they were short. There was the usual tirade against the policemen but, astonishingly, praise for the pirates.

“Really great energy, guys, just keep it tight, keep it sharp, stay focussed...Theo, fantastic, you nailed it tonight...”

I gave him a thumbs up.

“Mark...”

Mark had been leaning against a painted gravestone at the back but now stood straight, politely attentive without being over-eager.

Xander closed his notebook and tucked his pencil behind his ear. “Full dress run on Tuesday. Find a costume by then.”

***

“He probably just didn't know what to say,” Rosie reasoned as we sat in Mark's living room the next day. “Like, you're so good, feedback from someone like Xander would be meaningless.”

Mark gave her a warm smile and began to set out the armful of clothes he'd brought down. “It's kind of you to say so.”

I had a feeling he didn't especially need or want Xander's validation – but even so, the rehearsal had been terrific, in no small part thanks to Mark and the lift his talent and experience had given the whole cast. All it had needed was a word of acknowledgement. At least the rest of the cast hadn't been shy with their praise, I reflected, staring around. The little room wasn't at all what I'd pictured. It was tidy and clean, but shabby, and sparsely furnished. There was no sofa, and the wicker chairs looked like they might at one point have been garden furniture. Unlike our flat, which was overflowing with photographs and posters and fairy lights and cheap ornaments, the walls and shelves were bare, except for a faded watercolour print above the fireplace and a neatly aligned row of Philosophy volumes on the windowsill. There were no plants, no rugs, no stray shoes and jackets, no takeaway menus, no pots of pens and knick-knacks. It had the look of a cheap holiday let – a place to stay for a while, somewhere plain and bland that never really got to know the strangers spending time within its walls. I glanced back at Mark, who was still arranging clothes into neat piles on the carpet, and thought about his words the other night, when he'd said he had no family. He must have had one once, besides the cousin he'd mentioned. I remembered the lonely, hungry look on his face as he'd watched Harrison and I teasing each other, and wondered what had happened to them.

Rosie, meanwhile, had dropped to her hands and knees on the carpet, and was searching through the assortment of costume options. “I'm sorry to do it this way, but you're so tall...nothing we have is going to fit you...”

“Not to worry.” He watched her as she sorted through his things, a curious expression on his face. “How did you end up with this job?”

She gave a sunny laugh. “I know, it doesn't really go with Astrophysics, right?”

“I didn't mean...”

“I get it all the time.” She shrugged, still smiling. “I'm not most people's idea of an Astrophysicist, so if that is what you meant, it's fine.”

“It's not fine,” he said softly. “And it's not what I meant at all.”

I felt a sudden warm rush of gratitude towards Mark. It was true, people did tend to react with surprise when they learned what Rosie was studying, as though her long blonde hair and pretty face somehow precluded her from being a talented scientist. Not many of them seemed to consider that their undisguised bafflement – and in some cases outright contempt – might hurt her. 

“Well. Anyway.” Rosie shook out a white linen shirt, considered it, then laid it to one side. “I live in a house of musical theatre nuts. I can't sing, but I wanted to be involved, and I like clothes – so here I am. Ooh!” Her eyes widened into excited blue saucers. She lifted out another white shirt, this one heavy and fluid, like water spun into silk. The sleeves ballooned dramatically before being nipped back into frilled cuffs, and there were more ruffles around the collar. It looked like something David Bowie might wear. “I like this one. Claire?”

“Very piratical.” I gave Mark an amused glance. “Where's it from?”

Rosie showed me the label; I swallowed my gasp at the thought of how much it must be worth. “No, I mean, what did you buy it for? Sorry, that sounded awful!” I added as both Rosie and Mark started laughing. “It's just it doesn't seem very...” I gestured at the simply cut jeans and dark sweatshirt he was wearing. “Very you.”

“It isn't recent,” Rosie said thoughtfully. “Must be vintage – it's in gorgeous condition, though.”

“Thank you. I – the previous owner took good care of it.” He gave me one of his lazy, lopsided smiles. “I went through a glam rock phase. In fact...” He hunted through the pile of trousers and produced a pair of supple black leather leggings. “I used to wear it with these.”

“Oh, yes!” Rosie pounced on them. “Oh my God, these are perfect!” She looked up at him hopefully. “You don't have knee high boots as well, do you?”

His smile widened. “Well, now you come to mention it...”

I covered my ears against her excited squeal. 

***

The dress rehearsal on Tuesday went without a hitch – although Ariana had a sore throat, and was struggling in her upper range by the end of it. Terrified of losing another key cast member, Xander cancelled the run-through on Thursday so she could rest her voice. Mark, Theo and I met in Younger Hall at Mark's insistence, and ran through our sections one more time.

“Not that we really needed to,” commented Theo, packing away his score. “We know it back to front and sideways.”

“I'd like to hear you sing it back to front and sideways,” I teased him.

He opened his mouth, thought about it, then grinned and shook his head. “OK, you win. But you take my point.”

“I do, yes – and I agree, we don't need to be worried.”

He checked his watch. “Oh, shit, I'm late already...can you take this back to the flat?” He held out his satchel, his eyes wide and appealing.

I slung it over my arm. “Where are you going?”

He tugged his shirt sleeve. “I'm meeting Seb and Byrdie at Aikman's.”

“Oh.” I tried and failed to keep the disapproval out of my voice. “Well...don't do anything stupid.”

“When have I ever?” he asked with a smile that was equal parts angel and devil.

“I'm not going to dignify that with a response. Go on; get going.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He gave me a cheeky salute. “Bye, Mark.”

“Goodnight,” Mark called back from the piano stool. 

He'd made no move to pack his own things away, and as Theo left, he leaned forward and made a couple of notes on his score.

“Are you staying?” I asked him. I hoped not. I'd made up my mind to ask him out for a drink – no hidden agenda, I told myself, but I'd enjoyed his company the past few evenings. I wanted to get to know him away from the distractions of singing pirates and eagle-eyed flatmates. I realised with a pang that I didn't have any close friends in St Andrews my own age. Admittedly Mark was probably a little older, but still, it would make a change to talk about something other than sandwiches and Mulberry handbags.

“I was thinking about it.” He sounded apologetic. “I want to play through the new piece I've been writing. I haven't had chance yet this week.”

“Since we've kidnapped basically all your free time.” I smiled, despite feeling slightly flat. Another time, maybe. “I understand.” I shouldered Theo's satchel and my canvas tote.

“There's no need for you to leave – in fact, another pair of ears would be welcome.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.” He dug through his own leather case until he found the black manuscript book I'd seen him use in the café. “I like to play for an audience – usually, anyway. I'm vain like that.”

I laughed and sat down in the chair next to the piano. “Don't you ever think about doing it professionally?”

“Yes. I've tried it a few times, over the years.”

“And it's never quite worked out?” I hazarded. It could happen, even to the most talented performers. Luck wasn't always the lady you hoped she would be.

“It has – to a certain extent.” He smoothed out the pages of the manuscript book on the stand and stared thoughtfully over the top of the piano. The electric light flickered, etching sharp shadows into his cheekbones. “But after a while I always seem to grow restless. Ever since – well.” He smiled at me, but it felt perfunctory, automatic. “Let's just say I don't seem to be able to stay long in one place, or settle to one way of life.”

I wondered what he'd been going to say – and how in his thirty-odd years he had apparently had multiple professional stints in the performing arts, fought in a war, and obtained the multitude of degrees necessary for a postdoctoral research position.

“I'm older than I look,” he said gently, as though guessing what I was trying to puzzle out.

I tilted my head, watching him as he ran his finger along the lines of music and made changes in pencil. There were a few creases around his eyes and a little silver in the long black hair, but even under the harsh fluorescent light, I couldn't put him above thirty-five.

“Anyway, speaking of age – am I perhaps going deaf, or is Theo meeting someone named Byrdie?”

I snorted. “James Byrd. He's an old school friend of Theo's.”

“One you don't approve of?”

I gave him a sharp look. “Not exactly, no.”

“Why not?”

“Theo says it's reverse snobbery – and maybe he's right,” I admitted. “At least partly. But whenever he goes out with Byrdie and Seb, he comes back ridiculously drunk and he usually throws up everywhere – I mean, we've all done it,” I added as Mark's mouth twitched, “but this is every time. And I'm pretty sure they take harder stuff too, but Theo tends not to come home then. In some ways that's worse.”

“You worry.”

“Yes.” I looked up at him. There was no judgment in the silver eyes, but even so I felt I needed to explain. He'd asked, after all. “I know they're adults, at least legally, and I shouldn't fuss after them the way I do, but Theo...well, you can probably tell he comes from money. Old money. His family have an estate in Northumberland, he went to Harrow, he's a sweet kid but he knows nothing about the real world. And Byrdie – I met so many people like him when I was working in London.”

“People like what?”

“Upper class twits.”

Mark tipped his head back and laughed. “I think Theo might be right about you.”

“Maybe.” I blushed. “But still, they have this weird attitude – a kind of assumption that there won't be any consequences to what they do, and they can have anything they want. Entitlement, I suppose, but it's so deep seated. They act like the world will arrange itself to suit them, and that they're right about everything, and anyone who disagrees with them is just ignorant and not worth listening to. Theo's not like that, like all the time, but he's a follower rather than a leader, and...”

“And you think this Byrdie will lead him astray.”

I shrugged. “I suppose so.”

He smiled, as though the whole thing amused him. “And this attitude, this sense of entitlement – you don't think that you and Harrison and Rosie have that?”

There was no challenge there, no goading spike. “I don't think so. Not to the same extent. Harrison and I...our family have always worked for a living, and even though we're comfortable, there's never been money to chuck around. Rosie's in between. Upper middle class, if you like.”

He shook his head. “However long I spend in this country, I will never understand the obsession with class.”

“Aren't you British, then?” I looked at him curiously. Lowry sounded like an English name – North West, perhaps, although maybe I was just thinking of the artist. But now I thought about it, Mark didn't speak in Theo's clipped, deep, received pronunciation, or Rosie's well-to-do London twang, or in any regional accent I could place. He didn't sound foreign, exactly, but nor was I any longer sure he sounded English. I thought of the line in My Fair Lady, about Eliza's accent being too perfect and practised for a native.

He put down his pencil and turned to face me. “Well, alright.” There was a gentle note of challenge in his voice now. “Since we're making assumptions, why don't you have a guess? What can you deduce about me from my voice and my manner and the clothes I wear?”

The blush in my cheeks warmed and deepened. I knew very little about him so I didn't have much to go on – which, of course, was exactly his point. Still, there was nothing hostile in his face or voice. I doubted he'd take offence, whatever I said; he seemed more intrigued by what I thought than anything.

I started with his clothes. I'd only ever seen him wearing simple designs in dark fabrics, but even so, the sharp cut and tight, neat stitches of his outfit gave it away as expensive – and I knew he had a taste for Saint Laurent shirting. “I don't think money's an issue for you, but you don't like to shout about it. You can't have made a fortune in the performing arts or I'd know who you are, and last time I looked the military doesn't pay that well either, so I'm going with inherited wealth. Not British, though, you've already given that away.” I moved on to the most obvious feature about him, the thing you'd notice first if you saw him in the street. “Your hair's long, which is unusual for a guy – you must have a pretty secure sense of who you are, or else it's sentimental. Maybe a throwover from your glam rock days.” I remembered the shirt and leggings again. “And I know you keep old clothes, so that's another mark for sentimental or nostalgic.” But there had been nothing in the flat, I recalled – no photographs or trinkets or mementos, and he'd told me himself he moved around a lot. “I don't think you came to St Andrews that long ago, and I don't think you spend a lot of time in your house. Having said that, I barely ever see you out around town either. I think...” I hesitated; I really was guessing now, piecing together the cryptic remarks and the strange, aching sadness that occasionally crept across his features. “Something happened to you – maybe in the war, or maybe it was something to do with the cousin you mentioned – but something awful, that you don't want to be reminded of.” His smile had faded now, and his left eyebrow was raised in an elegant arch. I paused, trying to read him as I'd read so many witnesses and defendants in the court room, but he gave nothing away. I pressed on. “I think you keep people at a distance on purpose.” I didn't mention I'd drawn this from his complete lack of a digital footprint; I didn't want him to know we'd been combing Facebook and Twitter for more details about him. “But you still volunteered to help with the show, and you've spent every evening since then with us and seemed to enjoy it, and you were so kind in Taste when I got the call about Harrison's accident...you don't hate people. I think you try to keep to yourself, but every so often you can't help reaching out because you're lonely.” 

He turned back to the music stand.

I felt like an idiot. I hadn't needed to add the last part. My ears felt hotter than the radiator gurgling away in the corner of the practice room. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say all that. I shouldn't have -”

“Listen to this. Tell me what you think.”

He didn't look at me, but he didn't sound cold or angry either. I shut my mouth and folded my hands in my lap like a schoolgirl, and listened.

His left hand sketched a pattern of offbeat, major-key chords, and a warm, yearning melody opened up in the right hand. I closed my eyes, letting the music paint its pictures in my mind. The lower part flickered and jumped like a new-kindled fire, and there was laughter in the melody, but sorrow too, like the darkened joy of a late summer evening, when the nights were still long but autumn is drawing near, and with it the bite of frost and the damp, bitter taint of rotting leaves.

But the melody soared up through the octaves, leaving the sweet sadness behind, and now I saw smiling faces, bathed in the dancing glow of firelight. They were all male, all beautiful, and long-haired like Mark – one red-haired, several dark, one silver and one golden. One of the dark-haired ones lay cradled in the arms of the redhead, who was stroking his brow, and the firelight glinted against the golden thread braided through his hair. My heart skittered with a brief, nagging sense that I knew them – not in person, perhaps, but as one might recognise a historical figure from a portrait, or a description of a distinctive feature. Then again, to a greater or lesser degree, they all had a look of Mark – one of the dark-haired ones could easily be his twin – so perhaps that was what I was seeing. I relaxed back into the music. The faces receded as though I was watching through a camera that was panning away, upwards, past marble-white trees that seemed as tall as mountains. Their leaves and branches were silhouetted against a night sky unlike any I'd ever seen – indigo swirled with pinkish blue and silver, like satin reflecting moonlight.

The melody faded into whispered, repeated chords, then died away.

I opened my eyes. Mark was staring at the manuscript as though the notes were the text of a riddle he must solve. “What did you think?” he asked.

“Beautiful,” I replied simply. “I felt...warm, somehow. But sad.” I almost asked him about the group around the fire, but stopped myself just in time. Of course they'd existed only in my music-fuelled daydream. Instead I asked, “What was it about?”

“A world that vanished long ago.”

There it was again, that strange light in his eyes, the dark, haunted quality in his voice. I waited a few moments, but he seemed to be staring at something I couldn't see.

Eventually, softly, I called his name. “Mark?”

For another heartbeat he stared – then with a soft sigh he pulled the music from the stand. “Forgive me.”

“Don't apologise.” I admired how deeply he seemed to sink into the music, as though it was more real to him than the physical world around him. Perhaps that was how it felt to him, I thought. “Would you play something else for me?”

He smiled, and the shadows lifted from his face. “What would you like?”

“Oh, anything. Not Pirates,” I added quickly. “I think we've all had about enough of that – but something happy.”

“Hmm.” He thought for a moment, then his smile took on a mischievous quality not unlike Harrison's “I've had a ridiculous idea that'll really wind you up” grin, and proceeded to play a jaunty, syncopated arrangement of 'Jingle Bells.'

“Stop it,” I laughed. “It's too early for that!”

He gave a flourish and stopped playing. “It's the first day of Advent on Sunday. I'm not too far our of season.”

“Maybe not, but it'll soon be on in every shop from Bonkers to New Look. We'll be as sick of it as we are of Pirates.”

“True. Alright, then – what about this?”

Lightly, carefully, the fingers of his left hand picked out the tune to a simple child's carol. I'd sung it in Primary School, or I thought I had – snatches of lyrics came back to me, ragged-edged like a half-lost dream. Something about starry nights and bright hills. With his right hand he added a counter-melody, a frosted, shimmering whisper above the solemn hope of the main theme. I watched him this time, resisting the gentle tug under my ribs that invited me to close my eyes and drift into the dream-currents curling at the edges of my mind. When he played, everything else – the threadbare carpet, the strip lights, even the plastic chair I sat on – faded out of reality. There was only him and the music, beautiful, magnetic, an arm's length away and yet somehow far beyond reach.

Another fragment of the carol drifted to the surface of my memory.

“And all the angels sang for him...”

For one flickering ghost of a moment I wondered how an angel's song would compare to what this man could do, and then I gave in, closing my eyes and letting the music pull me away.