#con dolore

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The Skull held onto sanity by the tips of his fingers just long enough that he was granted a day of freedom. The boss was stingy with granting him time to himself—perhaps he suspected that The Skull might rebel if he had a second to think. He needn’t have worried; The Skull had already figured out how wretched his situation was, and his loyalty remained unshakable. Either way, the boss had a hangover that day and couldn’t formulate marching orders, so he waved The Skull away with a flick of his metal claws.

“Attend to me for dinner,” the boss grumbled. “Until then, I don’t care what you do.”

A careful, guarded flower of hope grew within The Skull. The Jack had been quiet that day, suspiciously so. He went to investigate and found the thick metal door they’d installed to his room was barred, and Hare was sitting on the floor across from it.

“I starved him out,” Hare croaked, not looking up. “I didn’t give him any coal last night, and he finally stopped laughing. I wanted him to rest. It’s got to hurt him, laughing so much. I just wanted him to rest.”

The Skull said nothing, and he walked away. He retrieved his bass from his room, checking he’d packed everything he needed. Then he grabbed the straps of the canvas carrying case and hauled it with him out of the manor, taking long, purposeful strides.

-

The was a small park in town, not a terribly far distance from the estate. It had a bench, which was all The Skull really needed. With great care, he laid the case down and opened it, checking everything over once again. He pulled the bass from the canvas and sat on the bench, leaning the neck of it against his shoulder, bow in the opposite hand—and for a moment he did nothing but look around, casting his optics over the fading greenery and empty grass, listening to how distant the noise of town seemed. Peaceful. He wasn’t used to peaceful.

Don’t get suckered in, The Skull thought, clicking off his optics and exhaling a dark plume of smoke. It won’t last. But he waited just another moment, resting, despite himself.

Then he began to play.

Nothing dramatic, nothing fancy. He played notes as they came to mind, scales, portions of pieces that were particularly pleasant or soothing. The hard tips of his fingers moved with delicate precision over the strings; the wrist of his bow hand was loose, fluid and so unlike his usual curt motions. The Skull kept his optics on, but they were dim, unfocused—a dangerous vulnerability, but an unconscious one. The stress, the weight, the hell of his day-to-day life could flake and wash away on these tides.

The Skull, drifting on the waves of music, didn’t notice he had an audience until he paused to decide on a longer piece to play. He had a few memorized that he pondered over, when a leaf blowing by caused his optics to refocus. The Skull slightly lifted his head, broken from his trance, and in glancing around he saw the curly haired boy sitting on the grass only a stone’s throw away, knees up to his chest, watching him.

The reverie shattered. The Skull scolded himself as his brows lowered. How had he been so careless? This kid could have thrown a rock at him and he wouldn’t have even ducked. He quickly slid a hand over his pocket on the bow hand side, making sure nothing was missing. He glared at the child, hoping it would be enough to scare him off. The kid certainly noticed but wasn’t deterred. He got up and crossed the path, though The Skull could see the hesitance in his steps.

“Nice music, mister,” the boy said. He dug in his pockets and drew out a single penny. These were the days when a penny still meant something, at least to the poor, and The Skull stared at the child as he held it out to him, wondering if he was really this stupid.

“I’m not busking,” The Skull said gruffly.

The boy’s hand faltered. “I just mean to say thanks—you play real good. I never heard that kind of music that wasn’t off a record before.”

The Skull continued to stare at the boy. He was slowly crumbling under his gaze, expression dropping—but before he gave up, The Skull put down his bow and extended his palm to take the penny. The boy’s eyes lit up, though The Skull remained stoic as he took the penny and slipped it into his pocket.

“My Ma says you always oughta thank musicians,” the boy said brightly. “’Cause—”

“Not everyone takes kindly to being stared at,” The Skull said. “Or taking money outta the blue.” Silently, he processed the word that had slipped so easily from the boy’s mouth. ‘Musician.’

The boy’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Oh. Okay. Um, sorry.” He shuffled a little bit, glancing down. “Should I oughta go? Are you gonna play some more?”

“I ain’t here to babysit.”

The boy flushed a little and turned to walk away, hands in his pockets. But he turned back for one more comment. “I get a penny every week, if you do come back. If you want.”

The Skull paused. “Keep your pennies,” he said. “But I might be back.”

Why did I say that? The Skull wondered, annoyed with himself as he watched the kid scuffing his shoes as he walked away. There was no reliable time frame for when he might next have the chance to come down here.

Yet…

-

A penny would hardly cover the cost of some sheet music, but The Skull had squirreled away the odd bit of change, collected over the course of years. He hadn’t brought any of it with him that day at the park, and so purchasing the new music had to be relegated to another day. About two weeks later, he spied an opening—an errand downtown with enough time given for him to make a detour. He pocketed his savings before leaving the manor, and once he retrieved the unmarked parcel for his boss, he broke from his usual efficient path through the city toward a music shop. The Skull ducked into an alley around the corner from the shop and jammed a makeshift filter into his throat, above where the furnace was likely to ignite it. Then he approached the store, parcel still under his arm, and clamped shut his throat vents before entering. There was rarely a lot of time to spare with shopkeepers unused to his smoky presence.

As he expected, the shopkeeper jerked upright with raised eyebrows at his stature and appearance. The Skull calmly removed his hat, feigning a polite and sociable attitude. He glanced around, pointedly eyeing the shelf of music books on one wall, before moving any farther into the store.

“Hello, sir,” The Skull forced himself to say evenly. “I’m looking for sheet music—something for double bass. Do you have that?” He felt like he was supplicating and it rubbed raw against his Core.

The shopkeeper relaxed marginally, though one eyebrow remained raised. “I should have something,” he said slowly. “What kind of music? Classical, jazz, old-timey, what?”

“Classical, preferably,” The Skull said. Truthfully, his repertoire was a little heavy in that genre—though The Smokin’ Blokes later on leaned toward a more popular sound, the boss only listened to classical music and much of The Skull’s practice material was pulled from there. Though… “But a newer composition.”

The shopkeeper’s eyebrows lowered as a thin plume of smoke escaped The Skull’s mouth.

Hurry up, The Skull thought. I can’t keep this smoke down forever.

Without saying anything, the shopkeeper pulled out a large book and quickly leafed through it. After a moment he paused, nodded, and walked over to the shelves of sheets. “This’ll do ya,” he said, pulling out a booklet. “Guy who conducts in Boston wrote this, but he’s foreign, I think. Koussevitzky.”

“How much?” The Skull said.

Having doled out the payment, The Skull forced himself to walk calmly out the door rather than bolting. He kept the papers under his coat, pressed to his side, until he got back to Becile Manor and slipped them into a hiding place behind one of the paintings. There they sat, itching in the corner of The Skull’s mind while the days passed…

-

“All of you, I want you out of here for the next three hours,” the boss had said.

“What about Jacky?” Hare had asked. Some of his spirit had returned in the months since The Jack’s accident, rankling against the boss’s callous dismissal of the issue.

“Put him on a leash. Or don’t. Lose him for all I care. Now, out!”

Hare didn’t put a leash on The Jack, though he kept one hand tight around the ‘bot’s arm, bound as it was to his side. They trotted off, Hare’s mumbling to The Jack fading as they drew away.

The Skull should have gone, too. He knew he should have. He should have grabbed his bass and went back to the park.

But the thought of getting to sit alone with his music, down in the soundproofed room in the basement, was too great. Though he loathed to admit it, he didn’t want that kid to see him learning, or practicing. The Skull wanted to perform.

So, he snuck down into the basement and sealed the door to their first music room behind him. Even back then, before Hare blew out his eye and voice, this room was only used to play when the boss grew tired of hearing them play upstairs. Lessons were done in the parlors-- the boss wouldn’t make their teachers come down here into the soot.

The Skull got lost in his playing. The novelty of the new piece sparkled within his chest, and he let his fingers fly along the strings.

He had not been built with an internal clock. By the time he stopped to check his pocket watch, it had stopped ticking. The Skull frowned; the closest working clock was just past the top of the stairs that led into the basement. The boss would be suspicious if The Skull reappeared much later than that three hour mark and furious if he found him home before.

He should have snuck out the back way, slipped out through the exterior cellar doors and listened for the hourly bells ringing in the distance.

But the music sparkled, glittered in his mind, and it tore his sense from him.

The Skull climbed the cellar stairs into the house as quietly as he was able, pausing at the door and leaning the side of his head against it. To his chagrin, he had not latched the door behind him, and it swung open, just enough for him to see through the crack. He froze at the sound of voices.

“And if Mother asks you directly, you won’t tell her?” someone asked.

“I doubt I’ll have to,” the boss said. “She’s never been a gullible woman.”

The boss was talking to a man in the front room, just in front of the doors. The man’s voice was unfamiliar, but as he turned his head, The Skull could see the profile of his face. His features were sharper than they had been as a child, the heavy glasses weighing on his nose, but Ignatius was still recognizable.

The Skull leaned slightly forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the clock.

“I know that,” Ignatius said. “But if she won’t ask you for help with these medical bills herself--”

“And you won’t let her die. Yes. I understand--”

And then the boss paused. He lifted his head, and he sniffed the air.

That was it, then. The Skull was caught. He silently clamped down on his dismay and fear, crushing them. Acceptance was the only appropriate response. Quietly, he pulled away from the door and descended the stairs the way he had come. He returned to his bass and shook out the canvas case, laying it out alongside. He lifted the bass into it and knelt, slipping the bow into its pocket, before reaching to take the zipper. That’s where he was when his boss’s voice fell on him, making his fingers flinch by just the slimmest of hairs.

“The Skull.”

Thadeus Becile had not lost much of his imposing stature with age.

“I’m cleaning up, sir,” The Skull said, not lifting his head.

“I’m disappointed in you,” the boss said flatly. “You know better than to disobey.”

The Skull took the zipper pull and shut the case. He stood, but before he turned to face the boss, his gaze caught on the sheet music still sitting on the stand.

The boss noticed. “The music-- give it to me.”

The Skull did not hesitate in holding out the papers, knowing already that they were lost to him. They crinkled in his boss’s metal claws as the brass hands swept them away, and he looked over the notes without interest. “What is this.”

“A concerto for double bass, sir. Koussevitzky.”

“I’ve never heard of him. Is he contemporary?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“No?” The boss lifted a brow. “Then what brought you to this particular piece?” The Skull found himself pinned under glass, something inside him squirming. Open-ended questions were a trap; there was no right answer.

“I thought it looked interesting.” There was no point in lying. Not to him. The boss could flay people with his eyes, could hook a weakness and pull it out with painful, slow surety, like a worm from flesh. “I wanted to try it.”

The boss snorted. “Not much point in it now, is there?” He let the damning words hang for a moment, then: “Burn it.”

His boss jabbed the papers back at him and The Skull took them, beginning to fold them up and put them into his vest pocket. “Yes, sir,” he said, with every intention of burning them in the fireplace.

The boss’s head tilted, giving him a look of disgusted exasperation. The Skull froze questioningly, then understood. He crumpled the papers into a tight ball and lifted it, pushing it into his mouth and down the hatch into his furnace. Scraps of burnt paper tickled the back of his teeth, fluttering in their death throes.

-

It would be years before The Skull stepped into that room again. When he finally pulled his bass from its dusty case, he found that he’d forgotten to loosen the strings. Time and tension had snapped its neck.

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