had its own color, and color and shape were inexorably linked in his compositions. The various tones, harmonies, and pitches wove through his mind in endless patterns. As he wrote his compositions, guided by what colors and shapes fit together, he saw the music as moving paintings.
Since losing the use of his right hand, he still saw a shadow of those patterns, felt the intense yellow of major C, the pink of the E note, the rich brown of G…but the colors were pallid now, faded, like bright linens left too long in the sun.
He played another chord. Then it happened again—his fourth and fifth fingers faltered as if the strength had suddenly drained from them. Sebastian kept his hand on the keys and tried to repeat the octave. The two fingers resisted control, curling toward his palm instead of obeying his internal command. The muscles of his forearms snarled and contracted clear up to his shoulder.
Sebastian swore and slammed his hand flat on the keyboard. The crash caused several patrons to glance up.
He twisted his neck from side to side and shook his arm to ease the tension. Forcing the thin remnants of color away, he rose from the piano stool and went to the taproom, where Darius sat. He slumped down at the table across from his brother, clots of smoke stinging his eyes.
Darius slid a tankard of ale across to him. Sebastian grabbed it with his left hand and took a swallow, then wiped his mouth.
“Didn’t you once play here regularly?” Darius asked. “Annoyed Alexander to no end, if I recall correctly.”
“Indeed. Probably one of the reasons I did it.”
Amusement flashed across Darius’s expression. “Does Pater know you still come here?”
“No. He’s occupied with his own work these days.” Sebastian realized only then the truth of the remark. “For the first time since his wife left, the old bird is out and about again. Has a new position with the Home Office. Spends time at his club, the theater, balls. And he seems to have earned himself a bit of attention from the ladies.”
“Good.” Darius swallowed some ale and leaned back, his gaze narrowing on Sebastian. “And you?”
“Me?”
“You’re not quite well, are you?”
Dammit. Sebastian curled his right hand into a fist. Of course he shouldn’t have expected to hide anything from Darius. For all of his brother’s impassivity, Darius was like a hawk who, with one sweep of his keen eyes, missed nothing. Not unlike Rushton.
“I’m fine,” Sebastian said. Ridiculous word. Fine. Thin and watery, ashen blue.
His brother’s attention remained steady, unwavering. “Why did you resign the Weimar position?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Sebastian flexed his fingers. “They wanted to amend one of my compositions.”
“You would not dishonor your patrons or Monsieur Liszt by resigning over such a trivial matter. Especially after the debacle of our parents’ divorce.”
Wary, Sebastian reached for his ale. He knew his brothers. Knew their temperaments, their idiosyncrasies. Darius was the practical, level-headed twin who could sense both deception and danger like a bloodhound following a scent to ground. And when he came upon it, he would stare the threat down, his calculating brain assessing risks and tactics with military precision before he made his move.
A reluctant smile tugged at Sebastian’s mouth. Their brother Nicholas would react in the opposite manner, plunging headlong into the fray with neither evaluation nor decorum. Even as boys, the twins had complemented each other with an accuracy that mimicked the riposte and parry action of a fencing match.
“You’ve not spoken with Rushton recently?” he asked.
Darius shook his head. “Last time I did, I asked about the countess. A mistake, obviously. Rushton ordered me never to speak of her again and left the room.” He paused, then rerouted the conversation neatly back to Sebastian. “I heard that the grand duchess still wishes to fund a tour of the Continent for you.”
Sharp longing twisted through Sebastian. He shook his head.
“Appears as if it would do you some good,” Darius remarked. “And the payment is substantial.”
“No.” Not long ago he’d have grabbed the opportunity and not looked back.
“Then what?” Impatience wove through Darius’s usually placid tone. “You’ve no intention of reviving your career? You’re not even teaching anymore. What do you intend to do?”
“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”
“Why?”
Rushton’s ultimatum crashed through Sebastian’s mind—marry or risk his allowance and possibly even his inheritance. Rushton didn’t know about Sebastian’s medical debts, or his attempt to restore his funds by helping Darius.
Yet Darius’s promise of compensation for the cipher machine specifications hinged on one uncertain