Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s decided, then!”

“Well, we’ve decided,” said Frank, lounging against the sofa of his cramped flat. Thursday evenings meant lazy, casual meetings for the Royal College of Music Students’ Union; and even though it was summer term, several other SU members lounged about the living room for a communal meal. “Who’s to say whether the director will sign off on our idea?”

“Come on, there’s no way Lawls could say no!” Art insisted.

“Musicians especially have suffered long enough with lockdowns. Now that transmission is under control, we ought to celebrate — safely.”

“Exac—thank you, Ivar! Always the voice of reason,” said Art, raising a glass to his bespectacled friend. “A small concourse at A-Flem would abide by all the COVID mandates; besides, it’s been months since we’ve last had a spike in cases.”

Herb emerged from the kitchen with a fresh bottle of wine. “So, who wants to propose the idea to the director?” he asked, topping off Ivar’s glass. “I nominate anyone except me — Lawls hates me.”

“I say Frank goes,” said Art, also accepting a refill.

“Who, me?” Frank baulked. “You’re far more convincing.”

“Yeah, but Lawls has a soft spot for you,” Herb countered. “And the concourse was your idea in the first place.”

“Besides, if you’re aiming for that master’s, it can’t hurt to spearhead this kind of project,” added Ivar.

“Facts are facts,” Art shrugged.

And so Frank found himself standing in the director’s office the very next afternoon. The office was even more cramped than his flat, made positively claustrophobic by the director’s pedestal desk. It wasn’t a particularly big desk; the director’s office was simply so remarkably small, and as a result the desk took up nearly one third of the space. Something about its simplicity consumed Frank as he stared at its unadorned wooden surfaces.

“Frank?” The director had stopped talking and was watching Frank, anticipant. Tearing his eyes away from the desk, Frank tried to regain the thread of conversation, but couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I was wondering what your contingency plan was, should case numbers arise again,” said the director.

“Right, uh— that’s why we thought to make use of Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall,” Frank explained. “Hosting the concourse on campus would negate any potential sunken costs, and also limit our potential exposure when preparing for the event. Making it a matinee would reduce attendance, as well.”

“A Commemoration Concourse,” mused the director, pondering the concept. “Well, I think it is a wonderful idea! Have you given any thought as to what pieces you will perform?”

“Ah…” said Frank, at a loss for words. Despite their enthusiasm, the SU friends had failed to consider many of the more detailed aspects of their proposal.

The director observed Frank a moment before leaning forward earnestly. “Might I suggest Herbert Howells’ Elegy?” he prompted.

“Howells wrote an elegy? I thought he just composed Anglican church music. Lots of organ pieces.” Frank mimicked the motions of playing the organ poorly; he was mildly adept at the piano, but the massive instrument that lurked at the back of the historic concert hall was a different beast entirely.

“That is what he is best known for, yes,” said the director. “But one of Howells’ earliest works was an orchestral piece, written to honour a close friend fallen in World War I.”

“Don’t you think that might be a bit… insensitive? Likening the current crisis, unfortunate as it is, to the complete and total destruction of war?”

“I believe it would be cathartic — the actualisation of a nation’s endured traumas, the memorialisation of nearly one hundred thirty thousand souls; a symbol of Britain’s indefatigable strength, celebrated by one of her very own composers.”

“Any elegy is still an elegy, I suppose,” shrugged Frank. “But why Howells? Elgar, Kelly, even RCM’s own Stanford all wrote elegies in the shadow of the Great War.”

“Ah, but Howells’ Elegy,” said the director, sounding word after word as though each were its own precious pearl, “opens with a solo viola. It is in time joined by the orchestra, and yet interweaves with a string quartet throughout. Is there anything more soulful, more compelling than a solo viola?”

“A solo cello?”

“Come now, where is your loyalty to your instrument?” said Lawls with a soft chuckle.

Frank shrugged. “In other words, Howells’ Elegy is not only thematically appropriate, but also the perfect vehicle to highlight the seniors of the Students’ Union,” he summarised.

“Precisely!” the director enthused. “But it is merely a suggestion; you need not take it as demand.”

“I’ll bring it up with the others.”

“And in the meantime, I shall have a chat with our Director of Programmes on your behalf. Now if you would kindly get out of my office!” he said, dismissing Frank with a congenial wave.

The chat between Lawls and the Director of Programmes must have gone well, because the very next week a marginally larger congregation of the RCM Students’ Union had gathered in the SU office for a planning session. Ben was back from visiting his family in Brisbane, though the timing of his return was more unintentional than anything else, and he was determined to let everyone know his discontent at being left out.

“I can’t believe you proposed a concert and didn’t even mention it to me!” he whinged, leaning across to where Art’s long legs lay propped up on the conference table and halfheartedly tying the laces together, for sheer want of something to do with his hands. “I feel a bit mugged off, if I’m being honest!”

“The concourse is still a long way off, and we haven’t even begun auditions,” said Herb. “And for God’s sake, Art, get your shoes off the new table before you scuff it and Mary screams at you again.”

“What the president doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” frowned Art, but he nevertheless acquiesced, stretching his limbs out across Herb’s narrow lap instead.

“And you’ve gone and left me clean out of the mix!” Ben continued, fingers now drumming out runs along the tabletop. “Why did you have to go and choose an orchestral piece, rather than a piano concerto or something?”

The group’s eyes turned to Frank, who found sudden attraction in his fingernails. “Lawls was as insistent as his mild-mannered personality ever allows him to be,” he said by way of an excuse.

“Britten’s Notturno,” Herb interjected, clapping his hands and turning to Ben. “Propose that and there’s no way anyone can accuse us of favouritism if we put you on the programme.”

An expression of sceptical musing took over Ben’s face as he pondered this suggestion. “It’d be a beast to get ready in time.”

“When was the concourse date again?” Art asked.

“The twenty-first of September,” replied Herb.

“Just after the start of term,” said Art, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll reach out to see who in the orchestra will be available for rehearsals, and we can always supplement with other musicians if needed. I don’t think it will take much to get others interested; there were some Academy girls I was chatting up the other day who were desperate for any opportunity to perform.”

Frank chuckled. “Were they desperate to perform, or just desperate to faff around with you?”

“I’d like to think both,” said Art with an unabashed grin.

“I can pull the marketing materials together,” offered Ivar in an attempt to ensure the conversation didn’t drift too far from their purpose.

“Ah yes, our resident artist and wordsmith,” said Herb. “I certainly wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

“Do you think we could get our hands on some personalised masks?” said Ben, growing enthusiastic in spite of himself. “Something with the RCM logo?”

And so the friends threw themselves wholeheartedly into the various tasks associated with planning a concourse. Soon a presentable programme had been organised; and while it was nothing grand in scale, its significance was no less ambitious for its small size. The following weeks were a rush of preparations, rehearsals, promotions, and hours upon hours of practice (though the latter was always the case). Frank most of all found himself locked up in practice rooms, the predictable nervousness of an approaching solo already burgeoning behind his solar plexus.

The friends’ plans seemed to defy the constraints of time, careening through the days at full-speed with little chance for rest, leaving Frank to feel adrift in the whirl of activity. All at once the SU friends stood in front of RCM the evening before the concourse, exhausted from having spent hours arranging chairs and music stands and pianos and banners.

“Ta ra, lads,” called Art as his Uber pulled up. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early!”

“Not too early, I hope,” Herb called back.

“It will most definitely be too early,” Frank mumbled.

Ben glanced up from his phone and started to run after Art. “Oi, I just missed my bus!” he shouted. “Will you drop me off on the way?”

“Come on, then, get in!” Art waved to him, and their Uber sped off. When they were gone, Herb bent over the cycle rack, cursing quietly as he tried to unlock his bike in the dark.

“Where did Ivar bugger off to?” asked Frank, looking about and not finding the enigmatic composition student.

“He’s at the printer’s, picking up the programmes,” said Herb distractedly. Finally the lock opened with a satisfying click, and Herb rolled his bicycle towards the street. “He told us to head home without him.”

“I kind of feel like walking,” said Frank. “Do you mind? Everything’s just… going so fast, you know?”

Herb looked at him curiously but — being the incomparable friend that he was — ultimately agreed. They set off, pushing their bicycles as they shuffled past the Imperial College and along narrow alleys in silence, each consumed by their own thoughts. Frank looked with unseeing eyes at the countless cars flashing by on their own individual tasks, at the Tesco and its absurdly large digital billboard beyond, at the overground hurtling along its tracks. The nearer they drew to the flat, the harder it became for him to will his feet to move.

And so they continued far past their destination, walking until Herb diverted into Gwendwr Gardens without a word. The pair descended into the sunken park to take a seat on one of the benches, but when Frank reached for his phone out of habit, Herb plucked it from his hands. Frank glanced up, only to find himself under his friend’s quintessential, intense scrutiny. Several moments passed before Herb spoke.

“You are good enough,” he said. It was more than a mere statement.

Frank’s chest constricted; whether it was painful or pleasurable he couldn’t say, but the gratitude was intense. His dearest friend always knew what words would alleviate the turmoil in his heart.

“My brain vacillates wildly between obscene confidence and utter despondency,” Frank confessed, momentarily overtaken by Ivar’s propensity for the verbose. “All these years of performing, and you think I’d be able to handle a mere recital.”

“We are the grey rocks of RCM,” said Herb, stretching his petit frame out and tilting his head back to stare at the overcast night sky. “We’re not flashy like Art or Ben, or tortured artists like Ivar; our ordinariness sometimes causes others to overlook what is extraordinary in us — but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“Ivar’s been doing alright, what with the therapy and medication and all.”

“That’s beside the point,” Herb frowned. “And while I would never begrudge him his genius, or Art and Ben their charisma, I know you are equally deserving of recognition.”

“And you’ve top marks — the best of us, really.”

“And you’re Lawls’ favourite,” countered Herb, fixing Frank under his gaze again. “Why else would he approve the concourse, and suggest a piece so clearly suited to feature your talents?”

“Pity?”

“I highly doubt someone with as much influence in the musical community as Lawls would give you this great of an opportunity out of pity,” said Herb with a lopsided grin. He turned back to the night sky, folding his hands behind his head, and paused a beat before speaking again.

“I don’t know what will happen once we’re gone from RCM, and part of me can’t help but feel anxious every time I think about it — God knows I’ll have to make some serious coin to help my family out — but another part of me knows we’ll be fine. Because you and I... well, there’s nobody like us. And anyone who has the audacity to doubt that will be proven wrong tomorrow.”

Herb threw his arm around Frank’s shoulder then, and they allowed the last few moments of peace preceding the chaos to transpire before making their way back home.

Come the following morning, Art burst into the flat even as Frank, Herb, and Ivar sat down to breakfast.

“I told you he’d be too early,” Frank mumbled as Art strode over to the table.

“Come on, no time for dilly-dallying!” he said, taking a slice of toast straight from Herb’s plate and shoving it in his mouth. “Ben is already on his way to pick up the masks — I told him he was cutting it close—”

“It was actually me who told him that,” murmured Ivar.

“—and we can’t leave all the work to him! There’s still loads left to do at A-Flem.”

Frank made as if to stand up, but Art’s hand immediately went to his shoulder, sitting him back down again. “We can’t have our delicate prima donna exerting himself unnecessarily,” he said.

“I need a distraction,” Frank insisted. “I want to help.”

“You do look rather pale,” said Herb, peering into Frank’s face.

“And we know how anxious you get about performing,” Ivar added. “We’ll take care of everything; just practise until you feel a bit reassured, then head over.”

“If I wait until I feel reassured, I’ll never make it,” Frank muttered, but his friends paid him little mind. They bustled about, gathering instruments and music and paraphernalia, or — in Art’s case — downing Ivar’s abandoned cup of cold tea, then crowded towards the entrance and shoved through it with a chorus of goodbyes.

Once Herb pulled the door closed behind himself, Frank turned to his instrument. He ran through passage after passage, flipping back and forth between pages, though he couldn’t help but think it was all in vain; each and every note felt overly rehearsed, suspended between the desperate need for final details to be perfected and the understanding that they never would be.

Frank needed the magic of an audience’s simultaneous discovery to reinstill a sense of wonder back into the music.

After a particularly frustrating bar, Frank paused a moment to glance at his phone, then cursed loudly. He was late for dress rehearsal! How had the time passed so quickly? He swiftly packed his viola away and dashed to the closet to throw on his tails, but when he dug through the drawers to find his lucky cravat-style tie, there was no hint of the cobalt floral silk. After a few moments of frantic searching, he resigned himself; there simply wasn’t enough time — he had no choice but to make a tie-less fashion statement.

His prized Bam case in hand, Frank flew down the steps of his flat, only to discover his bicycle chain was broken yet again. Today of all days! With a few additional muttered curses, Frank gave up and instead dashed down the street to Earl’s Court tube station. He slapped his Oyster card against the turnstile, raced down the steps, and leapt onto a train just as its doors were closing. There were plenty of seats available, it being early Thursday afternoon, but Frank couldn’t bring himself to sit down. He bounced on the balls of his feet, counting down the seconds until South Kensington station, the grip of his case slipping in his sweaty hand.

No sooner had the tube pulled into the station than Frank was bounding up the stairs and sprinting through the streets, past the Natural History Museum and the Imperial College and around the corner onto Prince Consort Road. His mask was suffocating and his suit stifling in the heat (as the weather had been unusually sweltering all throughout the summer) but he didn’t slow until he stumbled on the second step of the RCM entrance, nearly sprawling on his face.

Breathless, he paced through the foyer and down into the concert hall, where the orchestra sat for its final rehearsal. The conductor immediately called a halt, and the eyes of every single musician turned to stare at Frank.

“So kind of you to join us,” said Professor Henn, who — as the most illustrious member of the RCM teaching faculty — had been granted the role of conductor as a matter of course. His condescension was acute. “At least you’ve brought your viola this time.”

Frank hung his head; every musician had that story, but it had been Frank’s great misfortune to forget his instrument when participating in St Martin’s chamber music competition, under the supervision of Professor Henn himself. The quartet was nearly halfway across the country before Frank realised his viola was still at home. The professor clearly had no intention of allowing that incident to pass unremarked.

Frank muttered something about losing track of time and his bicycle’s broken chain as a pathetic excuse, but the professor gave no quarter.

“Consider yourself too good for a tie as well, I see,” he interrupted, clucking disapprovingly. “Well, what do you expect — an invitation? Go get ready. We will wait for you.”

Swallowing his unadulterated terror, Frank scurried off to the storage room. He pulled his instrument and music out of his case before tossing wallet, keys and phone inside. When he tucked the case against the wall just beside the piano, however, it blended in with all the countless other cases. He took one of the old chairs that had been relegated to the back rooms when A-Flem was remodelled and placed it possessively over his case.

The entire orchestra was indeed waiting when Frank rushed back into the hall. No one had moved a millimetre; they still sat bolt upright and at attention as Professor affected a casual demeanour, leaning against the railing of the conducting podium with arms folded across his chest, baton sticking upright like an implement of destruction.

Frank affixed his shoulder rest to his viola even as he mounted the few short steps to the stage, nearly tripping again. His heart thundered momentarily, both for the safety of his instrument as well as his own physical being.

“Bar 86, where the inner pedal point transitions across sections — do not let the C get lost or muddled,” said the professor, turning at once to the orchestra without a further word. The instant his baton was lifted, the orchestra was at the ready. Frank was left scrambling to spread his music on the stand and find his place.

The remainder of the rehearsal was equally chaotic. Professor Henn did not let up for a single instant — which was not entirely unjustified, as the orchestra and their conductor’s time together had been limited by public safety mandates; nor were any of the musicians willing to sacrifice the quality of such a significant performance. Even as the rehearsal came to a conclusion, the professor left them with several details to refine before the orchestra was dismissed with a breath of relief and subdued chatter.

“Bad luck,” said Art, sneaking up behind Frank and throwing his arm over the hapless violist’s shoulder. “Of all the days to piss off Atilla the Henn!”

“I have to admit,” Ivar added, “I was a bit relieved it finally wasn’t me Professor Henn was angry with, but that was rough to watch.”

“Henn is peevish, sure, but he means well,” argued Herb. “He just wants this concourse to go perfectly. If it fails, it reflects poorly on all of us, and pays poor tribute to the lives lost.”

“Ah, come off it, you only say that because you’re his pet!” said Ben. “You’ve never been at the receiving end of one of his fits — in that moment, you are certain it will be the end of you!”

Even as the orchestra dispersed and several chamber groups moved to the courtyard to continue their rehearsal, the five friends stowed their instruments temporarily in the storage room and drifted into the entrance hall, where they greeted arriving guests with programmes and hand sanitiser, alongside other members of the SU. Ben enthusiastically distributed the RCM masks.

When at last the audience had taken their seats and the lights were dimmed, it was with patience that the RCM musicians lurked in the wings or adjacent halls, cheering on their friends and classmates as the lengthy programme dragged on. Guest performers from neighbouring universities likewise lingered after their own performances to listen to later groups, prompting Art and Herb to disappear at some point with the intention of playing wingman for each other.

Frank was too consumed by anxiety for their lewd games. He and Ivar watched as group after group took the stage, performing Elgar and Holst and Vaughan Williams and Bax — all in deference to the might of British composition, as Professor Lawls had suggested. Resounding applause, the likes of which was rarely heard except when watching the most renowned performances on YouTube, rose up after each and every performance. Truly the classical community had suffered greatly during the pandemic, and rejoiced in the elation of music which uplifted their spirits once more.

Eventually Art and Herb reappeared, and none were louder than the four friends when Ben took the stage to perform his piano solo. Britten’s complex notations, given the breath of life by Ben’s flittering hands, held the entire audience spellbound from opening B2 to final double bar. Despite his mounting anxiety, Frank couldn’t help but feel entranced.

But it was over far too quickly for Frank’s liking, as then it came time for the grand finale. Instruments in hand, the RCM orchestra emerged from the hall’s side door, marched up the steps of the stage, and took their places. As soloist and conductor, Frank and Professor Hann lingered in the hallway beyond to make their entrance separately. They waited as the orchestra settled in and a hush fell over the concert hall. Frank’s breath caught in his chest; there was no going back, no escape.

He turned to Professor Henn, who wore an uncharacteristic — albeit faint — smile. “Aren’t you going to take your mask off?” the professor asked.

“I’ll take it off when I get up there,” Frank whispered in reply.

“Do as you please, then.” Professor Henn shrugged and stared straight ahead. Frank knew this was the professor’s signal for him to enter the hall, but his body was stuck in place with the need to expel all its contents. After a few moments’ panic, he finally exhaled sharply and stepped from the darkness of the hall into the stage light. Wild applause erupted, and Frank willed himself not to trip up the stairs; this time, he succeeded.

He shook the concertmaster’s hand before stripping off his mask and placing it on the stand. Even as he raised his viola to his shoulder, Frank could feel Professor Henn’s presence beside him, feel the suspense as the orchestra prepared, feel the tension that ensnared the audience — hear a single, stifled cough. A swift glance was all that passed between Frank and the professor.

In the anticipant silence, a single note drifted into existence. It unspooled, a thread of melody floating on languid air currents, dark and brooding — the lament for a young man gone to war, never to return.

The orchestra swelled to the rafters in response. Its sound was gentle at first, then louder, sending the viola adrift upon unfathomable waves of grief and mourning, guided by the quartet. With ear bent to the emotion flowing from his instrument, each draw of Frank’s bow across the string elicited a new colour: a rich gold or chilling azure, sharp crimson or abyssal green.

Both craft and sea became one: the journey itself, a shared transcendence. Frank no longer performed with his friends and peers before an audience of Londoners. Together, they were all a single experience, a single voyage of emotion, a single soul.

As the finale neared, tensions heightened. The spotlights dimmed until the orchestra appeared indistinct and only Frank was illuminated upon the stage. Yet he was entirely unaware; eyes closed, he had been swallowed whole by a mountainous swell of the sea, and now floated breathlessly, weightlessly until the very last note faded into the fathomless depths.

Applause did not come.

Frank opened his eyes with a frown. The orchestra’s rendition of Elegy had been transformative, certainly, but it was unsettling for the breath of catharsis to extend so long before an ovation.

Black nothingness stretched out over the house seats. No audience sat there. Frank looked to the conductor’s podium and to Professor Henn, who had likewise vanished. There was no mask on his stand. Hearing the shuffling of papers behind him, Frank turned and spied a piano. In place of the full, reassuring strength of an orchestra sat a single accompanist.

Frank looked from his instrument in one hand to his bow in the other, mystified. Nothing was different. He checked his suit — still sharp from the cleaners, the tag he hadn’t noticed until the fourth bar of his solo still digging into his right shoulder blade.

Was this some kind of prank, some candid camera setup to get a laugh and a cheer, further lifting the spirit of England’s classical music fans?

“Thank you, we have heard enough,” spoke a voice from the dark audience. “You may leave.”

Chapter Text

“Thank you, we have heard enough. You may leave.”

These words were said with such finality that Frank could not argue, could not question. He turned in incremental hesitations and walked offstage, remembering at the last minute to thank his accompanist (...if the young man seated at the piano had indeed been his accompanist).

As Frank stumbled down the stairs and stood stupefied in the hallway beyond, another girl brushed past him to take the stage. The disembodied voices’ greetings, the girl’s response, the melody of her playing: it was all muddled and incomprehensible in Frank’s ear. He felt as though his brain were the gears of a watch spaced just slightly too far apart, clacking against each other but never fully catching.

At a loss for what to do, Frank turned toward the storage room, but everything was just slightly off. Despite the lengthening shadows of early evening, the lights in the hallway still hadn’t been turned on, causing him to stumble on the uneven wood flooring — the flooring he thought had been replaced in the renovations. When he went to open the storage room, he nearly fell into the door because the handle was a knob instead of what he had been sure was a lever. He shook his head as if to clear it; maybe his time away from campus during the pandemic had warped his memory. He felt entirely disoriented.

A swarm of musicians swirled around Frank, tuning and warming up and darting about, their conversations only serving to disorient him further:

“—to know why the Examination Room is unavailable?”

“It’s far preferable to the old examinations; I heard the students used to perform in Albert Hall, in front of the whole assembly of students!”

“How awful! Dare to think what—”

“—spied Mr Ireland in the hall! Can you imagine?”

“He’s handsome, to be sure, but I shan’t be happy unless I’m assigned Mr Dunhill. He’s undeniably—”

Frank dodged scales that flittered in his overstimulated brain, desperately relieved to find his case precisely where he had left it, shoved against the wall and under the chair — only it wasn’t his prized Bam case; it was something much, much older. Frank would have assumed he was mistaken had his name not been clearly visible, scrawled in white ink right on top: F. P. Warren.

The writing was his own tidy script.

He opened the case hesitantly…

His phone. Where was it? And his wallet! Frank was sure he had thrown both inside before performing like always, but they were gone. Gone! Nothing but green felt lining within. Frantic, he tore the room apart, searching under the piano and in corners and between cases, only to find nothing.

He approached one of the musicians. “Hey, sorry, have you seen my iPhone?” he asked, polite as could be, but the girl just shot him an uncomfortable look and continued to warm up. When Frank looked about, not a single person seemed to be disturbed by the situation. Why did he not recognise anyone?

Feeling as though he were committing some cardinal sin — he still couldn’t explain the viola case that wasn’t his, but had his name — Frank packed his instrument away and stole furtively toward the entrance hall. Just waiting for someone to leap out at any moment and scold him for not wearing a mask, he approached the front desk and the equally maskless steward who stood behind it.

“Sorry, has anyone turned in a leather wallet or a phone? Blue case, lock screen of Lionel Tertis?” he asked. The steward wasn’t the same man as when he had arrived that afternoon, but then again the staff was always alternating shifts.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the steward.

“A wallet or phone,” Frank repeated.

“I’m afraid not,” said the steward. “I have been returned no wallets or… phones today.”

“Okay, thanks anyway,” said Frank, patting his pockets in the unlikely chance he had put his belongings there in a fit of absentmindedness. Finding nothing, he turned toward the entrance.

He exited onto Prince Consort Road, only to stop dead in his tracks. If this was a prank, it had just reached the level of absurd. Or maybe he had just stumbled on a Model T convention; why else would there be a few of the black, turn-of-the-last-century vehicles puttering down the street? Was that a horse and carriage—?

Royal Albert Hall was right there, round, grand and reassuring — but where was the crosswalk that led to it? The street signs—?! What the genuine fu—

“Well?” An expectant young man ran up to Frank, grabbing his arm and giving it a shake like they were the best of friends. “You practised to the extent you drove me from my wits; surely the Bowen was a success?”

Frank could make neither head nor tail of these words. He stared in open-mouthed confusion at the man, who looked vaguely familiar and yet entirely unplaceable. He was tiny with a shock of black hair, and like Frank he was also dressed in a suit… but so was every other male in sight. Maybe there was a concert at Royal Albert later tonight. It was a bit early in the day for the full getup, but Frank could think of no other explanation.

“Well?” the man prompted again, enthusiasm written clearly on his face.

“Sorry, do I know you?” Frank asked distractedly. He was too busy staring at the women wearing strange dresses (Flapper? Empire waist? He was a student of music, not fashion!) to pay the man any attention.

“Come on, Francis, you act as though the audition has addled your mind! And where on Earth is your hat?”

His preoccupation suddenly shattered, Frank whipped around to fix the man with a glare. “What did you call me?”

“Did you munge it? I’m certain it could not possibly have gone so atrociously!” the man babbled on, oblivious to Frank’s distress. “Professor Stanford all but assured me of your passing; as peevish as the old blighter is, he’s good for his word.”

“How do you know my real name is Francis?”

“Why, you introduced yourself to Blissy and his family as such!” said the man, brow furrowed.

Frank turned on his heel, completely overwhelmed, and started marching off toward Queen’s Gate. He needed to be home. Right now.

“What about your bicycle?” came a call from behind him. Frank froze, though his brain didn’t fully register the man’s words; he was more concerned with how his bike was sitting broken at home, and how his wallet was gone — whether stolen or lost he didn’t know. Either way, it meant he was down an Oyster card and all his cash. He had only one choice; it wasn’t like he could call an Uber without a phone or a way to pay the driver.

Ignoring the young man, Frank walked on, weaving through backstreets and alleys, footpaths and byways, making for his shared flat in Earl’s Court. His keys were still missing, but with luck either Herb or Ivar would already be home to let him in. Maybe some crucial part of his memory had disintegrated under the stress of performing, and he had simply forgotten his flatmates’ returning home without him.

Despite the blazing heat, Frank walked with hurried steps, hoping to shake the stranger. At first there was no indication of being followed, but soon the whirr of spokes could be heard from behind. Frank spun around only to come face to face with the young man, who pushed two bicycles alongside him.

“Why are you following me?” Frank demanded, his tone not altogether friendly.

“Home is the same general direction you’re bound,” he shrugged in response. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I presumed we would return together whenever you’re finished.”

Frank clutched his viola tighter to his chest and stuck to fairly busy thoroughfares, but soon his mind was too overcome by a host of other issues to be concerned with his bothersome new companion. All the streets he walked along were those he was familiar with, but the buildings were somehow simultaneously both newer and older, the signs somehow missing or different, the sky somehow smoggier.

No.

It wasn’t possi— No.

Just last week he had sat down to watch The Outlander on Netflix.

Doctor Who. About Time. When We First Met. The world was full of such stories, with protagonists in varying states of denial.

But it was fiction. It wasn’t possible.

Surely he was panicking unnecessarily. Frank walked for more than a quarter hour and all the streets were the same. But all the lane divisions were nonexistent, the traffic signs missing, the electric streetlights nowhere to be seen. The digital billboard next to Tesco was gone. Tesco itself was gone.

Suddenly, there it was: his flat. Not precisely as he remembered it, but undeniably the same.

As Frank reached toward the handle, something made him reconsider; he knocked instead. There was no answer. He knocked again.

“Just a moment!” came a voice from within, and a matronly woman opened the door, dressed in the same strange way as all the other women Frank had seen since the concourse. “May I help you?” she asked.

“I, uh—” said Frank. He was entirely lost. This was clearly his home, and yet it wasn’t, nor was his school any longer his school. He was deprived of his wallet and phone; all he knew himself to possess was the suit on his back and the viola in his hands. The rest of the world was incoherent to him.

He stumbled backwards. “Sorry for bothering you,” he mumbled.

“Are you all right, lad? You don’t look so well,” the kindly woman said.

“Yeah, I’m— I’m sorry.” Frank’s knees gave out beneath him and he fell to a seat on the front steps of the flat, in a daze. He felt more than saw or heard his strange new companion apologising to the woman. There was a closing of the front door and the metallic ring of bicycles being leaned against a fence, then suddenly the young man crouched in front of him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“I don’t know, man, I just don’t know,” said Frank.

“Let’s get you home. You can rest there, and perhaps recover your wits with some spirits,” he said with a wink. He stood and offered a hand to Frank, who — after more than a few seconds of conflicted contemplation — accepted.

What else was he supposed to do? Where else was he supposed to go? This strange man who knew his real name was the single link to reality, his lone life raft. Worst come to worst, he could crash on a sofa for a night and figure things out in the morning.

“We’re home!” the young man called as he threw open the door to a low, three-storey terrace house. From the narrow Holland Park street, he had bypassed the latched gate and manicured garden without so much as a second thought, stowing his bicycle neatly against the fence and encouraging Frank to do the same.

“Bublum!” came a welcoming shout as they stepped into the entryway, warmly lit against the deep gloam of twilight. A second young man, only slightly older than the first, darted out from a side room and leapt to greet the new arrivals.

“Blissy! I thought you to be at Pembroke!” The two embraced and cavorted about the cramped hall, the thin rug slipping and sliding beneath their feet. At last, Frank’s companion broke away and said, “Ah, I would like to introduce Francis! I wrote to you of him — the violist from Warwickshire!”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance!” said the man called Blissy with a toothy smile, taking Frank’s hand into his own and shaking it energetically. “Bublum has written nothing save your praises. I pray your examination went well?”

“I, uh—” said Frank, incapable of words. This young man not only knew his real name, but also his hometown. Frank felt like he was watching a foreign movie with the subtitles misaligned.

“He is sure to start at College with flying colours,” interrupted the man Frank assumed was Bublum, strange as that name was.

“You've only just started yourself!” laughed Blissy. “How can you be so sure?”

“Professor Stanford looks favourably upon me, and even more favourably upon those who bear the markings of becoming not only a great musician, but a great composer also.”

“Stanford?” exclaimed Blissy. “I didn’t think that stodgy old bastard looked favourably on anyone!”

“Regardless, it’s thanks to the scholarship board’s discerning eye that you have yet another boarder — at least for the time being,” said Bublum.

“And for that companionship, I am thankful!” Blissy threw his arm about Frank and led him toward the drawing room. “Still, a whiskey for the poor fellow who has faced the Devil this day!”

Warring factions in Frank’s mind battled over this proposal. On one hand, he knew it was beyond stupid to drink in unfamiliar circumstances with unfamiliar people. On the other hand, he had never longed more desperately for a drink in his life.

His poorer judgement won out.

“I wouldn’t say no to a drink,” he said.

“Oh, my soon-to-be-dear friend, it was not a question,” said Blissy, shoving aside one half of the dining room doors. What lay beyond called for Frank to feign nonchalance; he had visited the homes of some of his more prosperous friends over the years, but most of those grand interiors had only attempted to imitate the splendour in front of him now. Ostentatious Morris & Co. wallpaper was broken by palm fronds and a mahogany china cabinet, from every shelf of which glittered plate and pitcher, bowl and glass.

“Bad luck, the cook has retired for the day,” Blissy added, already at the liquor cabinet, pouring three crystal tumblers of whiskey. “Our household no longer retains anyone other than dailies; my father never really enjoyed all the fuss of servants as my mother did. Still, I worry about him, especially with both of my brothers off at King’s College, and am thankful you boys are here to keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll see what can be found in the kitchen,” Bublum volunteered, disappearing through a second door.

“So, when is it that you came under my father’s roof?” Blissy said, handing a tumbler to Frank and motioning for him to take a seat.

Frank wished he had anything to say besides “I, uh—” but he didn’t.

That didn’t seem to perturb Blissy, however, who continued to babble on as if he expected no response. “Bublum told me you hail from Leamington Spa; wonderful place! I’ve cut it there more than a few times for the bathhouses — top-hole lawn tennis!”

Frank just blinked in response to this onslaught before suddenly realising he still had an untouched glass of whiskey in hand. He took a sip, struggled not to cough it all back up, then nearly found himself facedown on the embroidered tablecloth when Blissy gave him several well-meaning wallops on the back.

Bublum re-entered just then from the kitchen, carrying a bowl. “There was a serving of bouillabaisse left covered on the counter,” he said. “Edith must have been thinking of you, Francis.”

“She is exceptionally fond of you, I have heard,” said Blissy with a cheeky wink. Frank downed the rest of his drink in one go and stood up abruptly.

“I think I need to sleep,” he said. Both Bublum and Blissy fell silent for once, though it was but momentarily.

“Very well,” said Blissy, sitting back in his chair. “I’m certain your day must have been terribly trying. Still, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Never fear; whatever transpired today is surely exaggerated in your mind,” said Bublum. “I will visit College on the morrow and see what I might sniff out.”

The two continued to recline at the dining room table. Neither made a move to show Frank where he would sleep, prompting him to ask, “Sorry, but where is your sofa?”

“What on Earth do you require a sofa for?” was Blissy’s response.

“...To sleep?”

“Whatever for, when you’ve your own bedroom?” said Bublum.

Frank tried to rearrange his face and make it appear as if this was not new information to him. “Would you be so kind as to show me where it is again?”

A less than subtle glance was exchanged between the two men before Bublum rose and beckoned for Frank to follow him. They returned to the main entryway and ascended the steps on the opposite wall, stopping in front of the second door along a hallway there.

“Blimey, you’re really off your chump after that examination, friend,” Bublum said as he opened the door. “You’ve been with us more than half a year, but forgot your own bedroom? A good rest will do you well. I hope you feel much improved in the morning.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, stepping into the room.

“Good night.”

“Goodnight.” Bublum shut the door and could be heard shuffling back down the hallway.

Frank’s chest seared to find himself suddenly alone in such inexplicable circumstances. Reality fell heavily about him, dragging his limbs and heart down with it. Overcome with exhaustion, he took a cursory look about the bedroom — noting the wooden desk and dresser, the fireplace that lay cold, the utilitarian music stand — but he had eyes only for the wrought iron bed frame and mattress pushed against one wall.

He gently set his viola on the floor beside the music stand and kicked off his brogues. The trousers of his concert wear had apparently been long enough to conceal the shoes’ modernity, or maybe they were similar enough to evade notice. Similar enough to what, though? Frank didn’t even know what era he was in; sometime after 1894, considering how the RCM was located at its second site, same as its modern premises.

Being a Students’ Union member and memorising endless facts for prospective student tours had finally proven useful for something other than padding résumés.

Frank’s schooling had also given him a sufficient literary education — enough Shaw and Kipling and Saki — to linguistically pass undetected, or so he hoped. Jamie’s Scottish tendency for the mystical might have helped him accept Claire’s wild story in Outlander, but the scientific-minded Edwardian Londoners would most certainly deem him well and truly mad. Frank had heard enough unsettling stories about mental institutions throughout the ages to know it would be best to keep mum and figure out how to get back on his own.

But how? Frank fought off the fog of enervation as he lay spread-eagle on the bed and stared up at the ceiling moulding. He briefly considered simply not going back, given the pandemic that awaited him; as cautious as England had become, the threat of variants was omnipresent and unignorable. But then he thought of the Spanish flu that swept the world shortly following the turn of the century (as well as the distinct lack of internet before the ’90s) and immediately reconsidered.

He wracked his rapidly fading consciousness for any frame of reference: Back to the Future, 30 Going on 30, Idiocracy… How did all those characters return to their own times?

There was overwhelmingly an initial attempt to recreate the events leading up to the... transportation, although these inevitably failed. Barring a life lesson learned or a 1982 DeLorean, however, Frank didn’t see any alternative.

Even as his mind grew hazy, Frank cast about for ways in which he might replicate what had happened, or even just figure out the specific date…

Chapter Text

Bublum’s knock at the door sent Frank bolt upright the following morning. “Feeling any better, Francis?” said the muffled voice. “Come downstairs; it’s time for breakfast.”

Frank shoved the heel of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed. He had known from the start it was no dream — his overwhelmed senses had told him it was all real — but still, some small modicum of hope had been dashed when he woke up once more to a situation unchanged. Frank stumbled down the stairs and into the dining room, only to be greeted by a third man who joined Bublum and Blissy at the table, halfway hidden behind a newspaper.

“Good morning, Francis!” said the man in a startling American accent. “How are you feeling? I hear you had a rather eventful day yesterday!”

“I’m feeling rather improved, thank you, sir,” Frank lied.

“Splendid!” The man folded the newspaper and dropped it on the table, taking a slice of toast from a plate and cramming it in his mouth as he rose from the table. “Your timing is most unfortunate, however; I must be off,” he said, sputtering crumbs. “I hope your constitution continues to improve, my lad.”

“Thank you, sir,” Frank repeated.

“Cheerio, Mr Bliss!” said Bublum, taking up the newspaper in the man’s wake.

“Don’t forget to come home as early as possible tonight, father!” Blissy called as the man exited into the hallway. “I return to Pembroke tomorrow!”

“Yes, I shan’t miss the party!” came the reply and the sound of the front door closing. Frank recalled vague remarks being made with regard to lodging with Blissy and his family, and drew the hazy conclusion that Mr Bliss must be the house’s proprietor. As two middle-aged women emerged from the kitchen, however, something far more significant dominated his distracted mind: breakfast.

“Good morning, Edith,” said Bublum as the older of the two women set a plate down in front of him.

“Good morning, sir,” she replied. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“I think coffee all around, dear Mrs Riddell,” said Blissy, shovelling a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. The second woman stepped forward, having already poured three cups of the fragrant liquid. Frank’s heart eased at the mere scent; though his entirely un-British preference had resulted in many a well-earned ribbings, it now brought him comfort indescribable.

If he were to be sent through the chaotic fabric of time, at least he had been afforded the blessing of existing when coffee was in vogue.

“Cream or sugar, sir?” Mrs Riddell asked.

“Yes,” Frank replied.

“Peg pardon?”

“Ah, that is— both, please. Two sugars.”

“Two sugars for the sweetest lodging guest,” said Edith, sending both Bublum and Blissy’s eyes wide and glancing between each other, but Frank paid them absolutely no mind, preoccupied as he was with the meal.

There was something comforting about a stout, predictable full English breakfast; for nearly two centuries it had been a cornerstone morning routine for many throughout the Isles, and Frank was now more than ever thankful for some semblance of normalcy. He dug into his rashers and potatoes, brown roll and eggs with relish, oblivious to the gossip that waved back and forth between Bublum and Blissy.

During a lull, Bublum set the newspaper down abruptly, turned to Frank and declared, “Are you perhaps wearing the same clothes as yesterday?”

Frank froze. “I had nothing else to wear.”

“The maid said your clothes were freshly laundered but two days ago,” said Blissy.

“Let’s have a peep after breakfast,” suggested Bublum.

“I would greatly appreciate that,” said Frank, once again losing focus of the conversation, having at last taken note of the newspaper. Of course! How could he have forgotten the most clichéd method of ascertaining the date? “Might I have a look, if you’ve finished with the paper?”

“Certainly,” said Bublum, sliding the newspaper over. Frank glossed over a massive headline about scorching heat waves in search of the real news:

Precisely one hundred and ten years in the past.

The deranged part of Frank’s brain wondered why it hadn’t been a tidy century, but the rest focused on the fact that he had been sent back one hundred and ten years into the past. The absolute absurdity of it all! One hundred and ten years! With tremendous effort, he returned his attention to the conversation at hand.

“Shame you won’t be staying in London longer,” Bublum was saying.

“It’s no more than a brief visit,” Blissy replied. “I’ve obligations back at Pembroke.”

“By ‘obligations’ do you perhaps mean ‘girls’?”

Blissy gave a cheeky wink in response to this accusation. “Don’t you know it!”

“You are positively incorrigible,” said Bublum, shaking his head in mock concern.

“On my word, I will introduce you to a nice young Pembroke girl the next time I visit,” Blissy appeased his friend before diverting attention from his wayward behaviour. “Say, what are your plans then, before our little soirée this evening?”

“I had half a mind to haunt the campus for any whiff of news concerning the results of Francis’ examination,” said Bublum as both he and Blissy turned their attention to Frank. “I daren’t think they’d be so cruel as to withdraw the scholarship, no matter how poor your performance, my friend. But you seem terribly out of sorts and perhaps some reassurance might restore your spirits.”

“Take me with you!” Frank interjected, struck by sudden inspiration; if he was going to try and recreate the circumstances of his transportation, he might as well start at RCM.

Bublum appeared somewhat taken aback by Frank’s enthusiasm, but he smiled and nodded, and when Edith came to take away their plates, showed him the laundry. After a brief inquiry — during which Mrs Riddell confirmed that Frank’s clothing had indeed been cleaned — a rather confused Bublum returned back upstairs with Frank in tow.

Opening the top drawer of the dresser, Bublum exclaimed, “Why, you juggins! Everything is here! Now wash up and get changed; I will meet you downstairs in a jiffy.”

Left to wonder what on Earth a “juggins” was, Frank stared at the drawer filled with unfamiliar clothing, overwhelmed. All at once, a sharp urge of the intestinal kind, brought on by coffee, cut through the fog in his mind. Frank looked around for a door; Bublum had commanded him to wash up, indicating there was someplace to do so.

Just beside the wardrobe, camouflaged by wallpaper, was what Frank sought: the bathroom. With heretofore unknown sense of relief, he concluded his business, then stripped and gave his entire body a quick rinse.

For a moment, he stood leaning against the washbasin, gazing into the mirror. His sunken, hazel eyes stared back at him, his narrow face somehow narrower, his dirty blonde hair somehow dirtier, his chest as skinny and bony as ever. He flicked his slightly pointed ears out of irritation; one hundred and ten years of time travel, and he still looked so generic there was no chance of being picked out of a police lineup. With a sigh, he exited the bathroom.

Standing once more in front of the wardrobe, confronted almost exclusively with suits of a wide variety, Frank felt entirely lost. He fingered the fabric of several sleeves. It was time to make an educated guess: surely summer meant lighter fabrics, both in terms of thickness and colour. Frank withdrew one of everything: shirt and waistcoat, white linen trousers and jacket—

A suit usually meant a tie. Frank ruffled through a drawer dedicated entirely to the strips of fabric, tossing aside the long thin bow ties (as he didn’t know how to tie one) but froze when he reached near the bottom. There, nestled amidst a wild array of shapes and colours, was a swatch of floral blue fabric: the cravat he had intended to wear to the Concourse.

The tie he had not worn.

If he wanted to replicate events exactly, perhaps he wasn’t supposed to wear a tie.

Turning from the wardrobe, Frank shoved his feet into a pair of shoes — which fit surprisingly well — and spent an inordinate amount of time lacing them up. When at last he felt like he was as ready as possible, Frank picked up his viola and marched out of the room and down the stairs, only to find Bublum waiting at the bottom.

“You’ve forgotten your hat,” he said. It was not a question. Without missing a beat, Frank turned right around again and, taking note of Bublum’s straw boater hat, marched back upstairs to find his own in a box on top of the wardrobe. He caught a glance of himself in a mirror; he looked like he was auditioning for The Music Man.

Bublum was already outside on his bicycle. “And you intend to bring your viola?” He asked.

“In case I’m given an opportunity to redeem myself,” said Frank. It seemed like the most logical explanation. What he couldn’t concoct, however, was an excuse for taking the underground to campus. He vaguely recalled a history professor mentioning it had been operational in 1911, and he was desperate to recreate events as closely as possible. But Bublum was already pedalling off, and Frank still had no money for fare. He strapped his instrument across his chest, picked up the bike Bublum had made him ride from his flat in Barons Court to the Bliss home in Barnes the previous evening, and rode after the enigmatic musician.

The sun blazed down, and Frank was boiling in his suit as he pedalled along the streets, dodging dapper pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages. Motorised vehicles with advertisements for Nestlé’s milk and Tennent’s lager beer and Lipton’s tea painted on their sides puttered slowly through the masses. It was peculiar how one hundred and ten years had changed so much, and yet so little.

“Come on, then,” Bublum said, leaning his bicycle against the side of the RCM building and ascending the steps, turning at once toward the professors’ offices.

“I, uh— was thinking to look around the campus a bit,” said Frank.

Bublum shot him a strange look, but merely shrugged and continued down the hallway. “As you like,” he said over his shoulder.

Frank watched him go, then descended into the concert hall. There were a few students about, but none came into the dim hall, which was lit only by the natural light that streamed in through the high windows. Frank approached the stage, past chairs that would in the future be relegated to storage and back-end practice rooms, and mounted the steps.

There was a gentle clunk of case against wood flooring as he set his instrument down and opened it with a snap of metal clasps. Frank briefly contemplated getting ready in the storage room, where more than a century later the very same piano would still be gathering dust, but there were already too many dissimilarities to the routine of that day. It was the music, he was sure, that had transported him — the music, or nothing at all.

Frank put bow to string and drew out the first note of Elegy, which floated hauntingly upon the empty air of the hall. There was no breathless anticipation to ease, no melancholy souls to soothe; instead, it was desperation that overwhelmed the music, lending itself to no lesser power of emotion.

Frank did not consciously remind himself to close his eyes — indeed, he could not bear to keep them open — nor did he dare stop midway; he played until the very final note was swallowed up by the oppressive silence.

He took several shallow breaths and opened his eyes.

The old chairs were still aligned in front of him like a military company.

Frantically trying to keep the panic at bay, Frank racked his memory for ideas. Bublum had mentioned Bowen when they first met; maybe playing the composer’s concerto would have the reverse effect and send him back in time. Or perhaps a sonata — but which? The first, second? Or the phantasy? No, that hadn’t been written until later. Probably.

Might as well go in order, Frank thought as he struggled to recall the opening notes of York Bowen’s viola concerto. The allegro assai — surely that would be the movement to play for an exam!

He shut his eyes and gave his best attempt.

Nothing.

The second movement likewise had no effect, as did the third, though in truth Frank had forgotten large passages of the work. With the concerto concluded, he began to worry Bublum would seek him out and interrupt his experiment, and so rushed on to the first sonata.

As Frank navigated its complex and emotive phrases, heartbreaking and heartwarming in equal parts, he felt the weight upon his shoulders dissipate, felt his spirit lift alongside the rise and fall of dynamics. Pressure built behind the inside corner of his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose — he willed himself not to cry; he could afford no distractions.

Determined to play the entire piece through, Frank transitioned smoothly from the first movement to the second, but scarcely had he gotten through the first few bars when the piano accompaniment began to play behind him, causing him to jump.

Frank didn’t open his eyes for fear of breaking whatever mysterious force drove the transportation. He imagined himself back at A-Flem, rehearsing for a new post-pandemic performance with Ben (that incredible pianist!) accompanying him. Surely in the wake of the historic Commemorative Concourse, all of RCM would be racing to capitalise on the classical music scene’s rejuvenation, and Bowen would be the two friends’ contribution.

Frank dug into the final chord before lifting the bow with aplomb, ecstatic to be back in the present. But when he opened his eyes, his audience was still the same old, regimented chairs.

Startled, Frank turned around to stare at the piano. An older, portly gentleman with an incredible moustache and spectacles perched precariously upon his nose rose from the bench, clapping softly with a mild smile upon his face. “Marvellous!” he exclaimed. “Positively divine! Long has it been since last I heard such profound tones from a violist.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, trying not to allow his disappointment in finding himself still in the past taint his gratitude for being complimented so resoundingly.

“Yet I do not think you are one of our own. Who are you, and what brings you to this fine concert hall of the Royal College?”

“I, uh—” One part of his brain reprimanded himself for being so ineloquent while the other contemplated what version of the many truths he ought to tell the man. “I played here yesterday. I found it a rather upsetting experience, and couldn’t let it pass unremedied.” There was no untruth.

The man chuckled gently. “Stanford’s examinations have a tendency to discourage many a budding musician. Do not take it too much to heart. What is your name, young man?”

“Francis Warren.” Frank didn’t know what compelled him to say his real name.

“Our Bublum’s friend! The fellow who delayed his entrance due to extenuating circumstances.”

“That’s correct, sir.” Perhaps being slightly less than truthful would not be amiss.

“Hearing Stanford talk after auditions this past spring, I would have thought there was not a single prospective musician worth taking on at RCM; I see now how misguided my assumptions were! I do not wish to be overly hasty, but considering what I have heard just now, I believe you have the potential to do for our school what Tertis has done for the Royal Academy of Music.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, blushing.

“Ah, but how rude of me!” said the man. “I am Hubert Parry, director of the RCM. You may henceforth call me professor, for if I understand correctly, you are soon to begin your studies with us."

“Thank you, professor.” From near graduate student back to first year — the abrupt regression was almost as severe as his regression into the past. Not that it mattered; undaunted by the day’s failures, he didn’t intend on spending much time in either position.

“I think you might comfortably consider yourself redeemed, young Francis,” said the professor. “Return home and await with anticipation word from our registrar. Quite frankly, we need the hall for rehearsal soon — go on, now, shoo!”

“Yes, professor. Thank you again,” said Frank, hesitating momentarily before packing up his viola and fleeing the concert hall that was no longer Amaryllis Fleming.

Chapter Text

Frank ran into Bublum just outside the hall, but he was not alone. A tall — or perhaps it was only Bublum’s tiny stature that made it appear so — bespectacled young man with a sharply protruding nose was with him, both hair and clothes in a rather dishevelled state. The two were so deep in hushed conversation that at first neither noticed as Frank approached. He drew so close he could almost make out their topic of discussion before Bublum turned suddenly.

“Francis! Impeccable timing,” he said. “Come meet Barty. He’s a fair chap to show you the ropes of RCM, though you’re not likely to share many lessons — his area of study is that which seeks dominion over poor mortal musicians.”

“Composition?” Frank hazarded.

“None other,” said Barty, his voice so quiet Frank had to lean in to catch his answer.

“Though it’s a terrible waste; he’s a voice that puts angels to shame,” Bublum added. Frank was struck that someone so soft-spoken could produce enough sound to truly sing. He stuck out a hand to shake as Bublum continued, “Barty and I are dear old friends. Indeed, he is the very reason I study here, and I do believe he is the only Gloucestershire boy so consumed by literature and Vaughan Williams as I.”

“I can carry a tune, though I would not consider myself a singer,” said Barty, ducking his head in humility. “It is true that I desperately adore literature, however.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Frank, though an odd mood struck him; he wondered how many more people he would meet — and how many more names he would feign to remember — before returning home.

“Say, why don’t you join us this evening?” Bublum suggested to Barty. “Blissy’s hosting a soirée — you remember Blissy, don’t you?”

“The Pembroke fellow?”

“The very same,” said Bublum. “There are sure to be a great many RCM students; it would be a splendid opportunity to mingle with your peers outside of lessons and such.”

"I’d rather not,” said Barty. “It sounds like torture.”

"We might be able to discuss your… housing situation,” said Bublum, obfuscating his meaning with a quick glance to Frank. Barty hesitated a moment, scuffing his foot against the mosaic floor of the entrance hall.

“I don’t suppose I have much say in the matter,” he conceded.

Bublum did not contradict him. “And you, Frank? Did you manage to redeem yourself?”

“I don’t rightly know,” said Frank. “I suppose so.”

“Terribly unconvincing,” said Bublum cheerfully, throwing an arm about both Frank and Barty’s shoulders. “Right! Well, let’s get back before Blissy pitches a fit — you know how he adores being doted upon.”

They exited the college, but as Frank and Bublum mounted their bicycles, Barty said, “I came on foot.”

“It is too blasted hot to walk as far as Barnes,” Bublum complained. “Come on, then, hop on!” And with Barty perched precariously on the seat and Bublum balancing on the pedals like schoolboys, the trio made their way back toward Bayswater and the Bliss home as midday turned to late afternoon.

They were greeted with a raucous commotion from within even as they abandoned their bikes in the garden. The event was already in full swing, and had transformed from a small soirée into a veritable festival. Several groups and pairs conversed in the dining room, but the noise only grew as Bublum led the guests toward the drawing room at the rear of the house.

They were greeted by the sight of nearly a score of guests clustered here and there in the modestly decorated room, the buzz of conversation nearly deafening. In one corner, a young man plunked away at a piano, surrounded by a gaggle of adoring listeners, almost entirely female.

“Quite a rag you’re hosting!” Bublum laughed to Blissy as the man’s tall figure emerged from the crowd, bearing flutes of fizz for each of them.

“Who am I to turn a friend away, when it has been so long since last I visited London?”

“A friend — or a girl,” said Bublum. “Or many of them!”

“You cannot possibly lay the blame on me when it is you who attends a school where the student body is dominated by beautiful, talented women!” Blissy countered. “But first, dear Bublum, you absolutely must meet one Mr George Butterworth — fabulous organist, like yourself — have you met him? — Yes? — Of course you have, he’s enrolled at the College, I clear forgot! — You know, he’s been setting works to Housman’s poems...”

As Blissy led Bublum toward the piano, Barty dashed off toward a corner. Frank could just barely hear him mutter, “It is, as I thought, a bad idea.”

Finding himself lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces, Frank attempted to follow Barty, but quickly lost sight of the fellow as more guests filed into the already cramped drawing room. Giving up, Frank retreated to the wall and shoved himself between a bookcase and a table bearing a cylinder phonograph. He only recognised the latter from his music history lessons, and bent close to observe it, fascinated.

“Intriguing, is it not?” said a young woman on the other side of the table. “Of course, it will never replace the soul of living, breathing musicians, but it’s a wonder what modern technology is capable of.”

“Agreed,” said Frank. Not even in a century of astounding technological advancements would anything surpass the euphoric joy of feeling a performance with all its faults and inconsistencies, the imperfection of humanity paradoxically proving to be the most crucial attribute of true music.

“How do you know Arthur?” the woman inquired.

Frank turned his attention to her. Something about her dark, wavy hair and the way it was pulled back was faintly reminiscent — though of what, he couldn’t be sure. He also wasn’t sure who Arthur was. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Blissy, the man whose home you stand in this very minute.”

“Oh— Blissy!" Frank exclaimed. "I’m a boarder here, for the time being.”

“Are you a student at RCM as well, then?” the woman asked. “Like Bublum?”

“Prospective,” Frank answered. “And you?”

“I accompanied the Union secretary this evening. She and I are friends from when we studied there together.”

Frank’s mental image of a secretary was some significantly older, stodgy and harried office worker, but this woman was scarcely in her mid-twenties. Brushing his confusion aside, he asked, “What department?”

“Viola,” she answered.

Suddenly everything clicked in Frank’s mind: the vaguely familiar face, her association with RCM… but he wanted to be sure. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Clarke.”

“Rebecca?”

“Are we acquainted?” she asked.

Frank froze, trying to remember how widespread the legendary violist’s renown would be in 1911. He desperately wished for his cell phone and a quick Google search. “I, uh— heard your name mentioned in passing,” he hedged. “My focus is also viola performance.”

“A man of taste, I see.” Miss Clarke smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet you…”

“Warren. Francis.” Frank extended his hand; it seemed like the right thing to do. Not since arriving in the past — or perhaps since his very birth — had he been so enthusiastic to meet someone.

“Warren,” said Miss Clarke, an odd smile twisting the corner of her lips as she took his hand gently. “That will be easy to remember. Like a rabbit warren.”

"I hadn't thought of that,” Bublum chimed in, materialising as if from nowhere. “Hullo, I think we’ve found our new B: bunny!”

“Bunny Warren!” echoed Blissy, appearing behind Bublum. “Perfectly suitable for so endearing a young man.”

“I—” Frank started, his brows knitting together, but he didn’t know what to say in counter, and Blissy was paying him no attention as it was.

“Terribly sorry to intrude, Miss Clarke,” Blissy continued, “but the charming Miss Scott is looking for you. She wishes to take her leave.”

“I see,” said Miss Clarke, giving one last fleeting smile to Frank and the others. “It was a lovely evening. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Thank you for gracing us with your elegant presence,” Blissy called after her as she slipped between the other guests, and a last glimpse of her face revealed lips pursed together in amused annoyance.

“You are perfectly incorrigible,” said Bublum, shaking his head at Blissy, but Frank merely stared after the woman. It was the first time he had truly contemplated the prospects and possibilities of existing in turn-of-the-century London. Eager as he was to get back to Spotify and air conditioners and 3 a.m. kebabs, he had failed to acknowledge he was currently in the midst of the British classical music renaissance, the birth of its pastoral school — and the emergence of the viola as a solo instrument.

His reverie was broken by frantic waving from Bublum, who had noticed Barty passing in search of snacks. The reticent young man approached cautiously as Bublum said, “Blissy, you remember my good friend Bartholomew?"

“Oh yes, capital singer!” exclaimed Blissy. “How goes it? Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, thank you very much,” said Barty.

“Say, Barty is a bit on the doss at present,” murmured Bublum, his voice unusually low. “Do you think you could spare him a room a while, until he finds his footing?”

“I don’t see why not, we’ve rooms a-plenty,” shrugged Blissy. “I’ll have to discuss it with father, but he’s certain to be amicable.”

“There, that’s settled, then,” smiled Bublum, clapping Barty on the shoulder and knocking him forward a step.

“Now you absolutely must come and meet Mr Butterworth, top-hole fellow…” Blissy insisted, ushering the group into the press of guests filtering in and out. More entered as others departed, and they stood about conversing, eating and drinking, and occasionally revelling in a performance or two. Mrs Riddell bustled about, distributing every morsel that emerged from the kitchen as quickly as possible, but no sooner had she set a dish down than it was cleaned of all its contents.

Frank slowly eased into the chaos, and eventually found himself enjoying the chatter and bustle; he even allowed Bublum to browbeat him into playing a short piece on piano. But as early evening drew into night, guests began to disperse little by little, and gradually it was only the residents of the cosy home that remained behind.

Mr Bliss had returned home unnoticed in the mayhem, and together he and the four boys sat at the table, enjoying a moment of quietude. It was not a group that was capable of remaining silent for long, however.

“Father, Bublum’s friend Barty is in need of a place to stay,” said Blissy before so much as three minutes had elapsed after the final guest’s departure.

“Is that so?” mused Mr Bliss.

“I won’t be long, sir,” Barty interjected. “And I can pay my way.”

Mr Bliss didn’t speak for a time, and a strange look passed across his face as he gazed off at nothing. “I do think my dear Agnes — God rest her soul — would have loved to see a home so full.” He then cracked a smile and looked up at Barty. “We can discuss payment later. You may take the room next to Bublum, and move in whenever you see fit to fetch your things.”

“...I haven’t got any things,” said Barty quietly. The entire company fell speechless a moment, glancing from one to the other until Blissy leapt to his feet.

“In that case, welcome to the Bliss Family Boarding House!” he veritably shouted. “I will show you to your rooms right away.” Exhausted, the other members of the house followed one by one and retired for the evening.

In a flurry of activity the following morning, breakfast was consumed swiftly and Blissy ran all about the house gathering his effects — even though he had only been in town for two days — before racing off to the train station. Just as quickly as he had come, he was gone, and the house felt all the more hushed for his sudden absence. Frank oddly found himself missing a man he had scarcely met.

The four remaining occupants let out a collective breath and set about their daily duties. Mr Bliss went to his work and the three students were left to their studies… except Frank didn’t precisely know what his daily duties or studies were. And so he turned to the one activity he knew would always occupy his time: practicing.

Upstairs in his private room, he pulled his viola from its case and cycled through several pieces he knew by heart, but swiftly ran out of material. After a time, a cabinet beside the music stand with peculiarly shallow drawers caught his eye, and he approached to examine it. He found a massive stash of sheet music stowed within, and rifling through it he discovered a great deal of music unfamiliar to him, which he felt compelled to test.

Soon, a melody drifted up from downstairs to mingle with his own playings as Bublum sat before the piano. Frank was certain Barty was likewise at his desk, poring over composition manuscripts; he could practically feel the intensity from two rooms over. A peaceful tranquility fell over the house, relaying a comfort and ease Frank had not felt in a long time.

Astounding how he could focus so intensely without the distraction of his phone or laptop! All hours of the morning passed unnoticed, and it wasn’t until Mrs Riddell knocked politely at his door that Frank realised it was lunchtime.

Bublum and Barty were already seated when Frank entered the dining room. He took a seat beside Bublum, and Edith was just bringing out their salads when Mrs Riddell entered with a tray. “Telegram for Mr Bunny, sir.” She stood at his elbow for quite some time before Frank realised she was speaking to him.

He hadn’t thought the “Bunny” nickname genuine until that moment.

He reached out and took the tiny letter from the tray. He had only the vaguest idea of how telegrams worked, but here he sat in the year 1911 with one in his very hands. He opened the envelope and slipped the paper out, unfolding it.

“Well, what is it?” Bublum asked, his voice intense with anticipation.

Frank flipped the paper over then back again before reading, “MR WARREN CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR FULL ACCEPTANCE SEE REGISTRAR FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS RCM.”

Bublum immediately leapt to his feet and danced around the dining room, recruiting both Frank and Barty in his celebratory gambol; he was perhaps the most enthusiastic of the three. “Just as I thought! Did I not say? Maybe I should make a visit to Kempton Park today...”

Frank humoured Bublum’s enthusiasm; if not to maintain the facade that he was not some maniacal time traveller from the future, then for the fact that attending RCM might afford him more opportunities to attempt a return. Intriguing as his life had become, and endearing as his newfound companions were, Frank still desperately missed his friends from back home, his approaching master’s studies, and the convenience of Uber Eats.

Chapter Text

Frank and Bublum were seated for breakfast the next morning when a terrible thumping was heard in the stair, as if somebody had taken a tumble down its slippery wooden steps. Seconds later, the door to the dining room was flung open. Barty stood there in the entryway, shoulders thrown back, defiant and bold.

“This term, I shall compose… an opera,” he declared loudly, as if he expected this pronouncement to alter the very passage of time and all Earth’s events.

“You’ve recovered your spirits somewhat, then,” Bublum remarked, scarcely looking up from the newspaper. Frank, wholly taken aback by this new inception of the previously reserved young man, turned his attention between the nonchalant Bublum and the chaotic Barty in turn. The latter ignored them both as he took a seat at the table, still dressed in his sleeping gown.

“I am several sheets in already; sleep would not come to me,” he said, piling his plate high with food yet consuming none of it. His eyes were wide and never settled on anything for more than a split second, his hands darting this way and that with nervous energy. “I cannot help but feel this pertinacious obligation to set the inestimable Yeats’ short plays into a cycle, but I am equally intrigued by Riders to the Sea — and as I cannot possibly choose between the two, I shall pursue both!”

“Synge?” mused Bublum, folding the newspaper and fixing Barty with a piercing look. “That might finally increase your estimation in Stanford’s eyes.”

“It is not the play’s Irishness that compels me; it is the unadulterated desperation of throwing oneself against the unyielding and interminable power of nature, the hopelessness man wields against unrelenting destiny! Who cannot help but sympathise — no, empathise with such anguish? Stanford shall at last acknowledge my talent belongs to the echelons alongside Brahms or Schubert!”

Frank listened in fascination as Barty continued to chatter on about the way in which he wished to put into melody the themes of Yeats and Synge, gesticulating enthusiastically with a slice of toast in hand. Following Blissy’s soirée, he had retreated within the sanctuary of his room, emerging not once over the course of the weekend, only to reappear as one unrecognisable.

“Shouldn’t we be off?” he exclaimed suddenly, leaping from his seat. His breakfast still lay scattered across the table, untouched.

“I suppose it is time to be on our way,” said Bublum, laying his napkin gracefully on the table and rising. “Have you had your fill, Bunny?”

“I haven’t much of an appetite,” said Frank, now accustomed to the absurd nickname. He stood and followed Bublum from the dining room, Barty bounding far ahead. Each gathered their materials — Frank his viola, Bublum and Barty their composition papers — and were soon astride their bicycles, making toward the RCM. As Barty pushed ahead, robustly whistling Coleridge-Taylor’s Hiawatha Overture, Bublum fell back to ride beside Frank.

“You must forgive Barty,” he said. “He always takes the end of summer holiday in Gloucestershire terribly hard, but the prospect of a new term soon has him merry as a grig — though we’ll see how long it lasts this time.”

“What need is there for forgiveness?” said Frank. Barty’s erratic behaviour put him in mind of Ivar, who had long ago found a successful combination of therapy and medication to make his bipolar disorder more manageable, but had struggled immensely his first year at RCM. “I have a friend in a similar way; if anything, it allowed him to run intellectual circles around us.”

Bublum eyed him curiously. “Not all are so accommodating as you,” he said. “Least of all Stanford.”

“If I am assigned one-on-ones with that old buffer again this term, I swear I shall go mad!” Barty shouted from ahead. “Well and truly mad!”

“Best not take that bet to Kempton Park!” Bublum laughed.

With similar light banter the friends made their way to RCM. Already a large number of students were swarming at the entrance, but when Frank went to follow a trio of girls, Bublum grabbed him by the back of his jacket.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” he exclaimed. “You can’t go in that entrance!”

“Why not?” Frank asked.

“That’s the girls’ entrance,” said Barty, aghast. Frank’s mouth fell open slightly; he had explained the history of RCM’s gender segregation on countless tours in his own time, but somehow the fact had entirely slipped his mind when it came to practice. It was one thing to have cognisant awareness of a fact, another to experience it firsthand.

Ignorant to the true cause of his friend’s faux pas, Barty did not spare another moment in bounding up the steps of the left-hand door. Bublum gave Frank a sympathetic pat on the back then followed, and with one last sheepish look about, Frank also mounted the steps. When he ducked into the vestibule, Barty and Bublum were standing before a podium, scribbling furiously in a ledger. Bublum flicked several pages over before exclaiming, “Look, Bunny, here’s your name!”

“It’s been there since last term, before you requested a leave of absence,” Barty added. “They couldn’t be buggered to reset the type.”

Frank drew near, scanning a long list to find what was unmistakably his name:

There was no other name even remotely similar.

Above was Walters, T. Glyn.

Below was Watson, Albert V.

Only when Bublum shoved a pen into his hand was Frank’s daze broken. He listlessly signed his name then allowed himself to be led into the main hall, where a great many greetings were being exchanged.

“Oh, there’s Ireland!” Bublum said, waving to a stout young man, perhaps a few years older than the three, who strode in their direction.

“Hullo, boys, spend a good summer?” he asked, the deep richness of his voice an accurate reflection of his open, kindly face.

“Well enough, thanks,” said Bublum. “Ireland, I’d like you to meet Francis Warren, our Bunny. Bunny, this is Joseph Ireland; choral department, baritone. Right block of a fellow if you’re ever in a pinch, although it’s his last year and we shall miss him terribly.”

“Oh, aye, though you lot will never be rid of me! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bunny,” said Ireland, shaking Frank’s hand as the three drifted towards the front foyer. “Say, Barty, what’s the new gas this term?”

“An opera,” Barty enthused, launching into another disquisition on his musical intentions, but no sooner had they entered the concert hall than a shout went up.

“Oi!” cried a tall young man from clear across the hall, waving a programme in the air. His accent was thickly Australian, and his dark hair was swept neatly to one side. “Bublum, Barty! Ireland! I’ve reserved us a place at the front!”

The friends hustled down the main aisle — girls seated to the right, boys to the left — until they drew near a small group of Collegians gathered just before the stage.

“I’ve never known you to be so late to a Director’s Address, Bublum!” laughed the student who had called out to them. “Have difficulty finding Barty again?”

“We would have been far later, had I not insisted we leave at a reasonable hour,” Barty countered.

“And you must be Bunny,” said the Australian, extending his hand to Frank. “I’ve heard a great deal about you; but never fear, I don’t believe Bublum is capable of saying a single ill word against anyone!”

“This is Benjee — so called as not to get confused with Blissy, on account of both their first names being Arthur,” Bublum explained.

“Benjee is our resident pianist and most sought-after accompanist,” Barty added.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Frank, but Benjee was already turning to the others to make further introductions.

“Here we have John Snowden and Cedric Sharpe, incomparable violoncellists both,” he said, indicating two fair-headed young men, then a third just beside them. “And that fellow over there is Eugene Goossens, leader of the orchestra. Best keep yourself in his good graces!”

“Welcome to the College,” said Eugene, rising to shake. Even as Frank clasped hands with the young man, he couldn’t help but fixate on his nose — the sharpness of which put even Barty’s to shame.

“It’s your good fortune you wound up here, and not the Academy!” said the fairer of the cellists with a laugh. “Call me Snowden; everybody does.”

“And I go by Cedric, as not to be confused with that insufferable nit Cecil Sharp,” said the other, motioning for Frank to take a seat beside him. Just as the group settled in, however, Ireland asked them to shift inward another chair in order to accommodate yet another arrival. The man took his seat in a huff, with nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment to Ireland and Goossens.

“All right, Kirby?” asked Bublum of the stern-faced man with curly hair, who merely nodded once more in response. The atmosphere amongst the group of Collegians grew rather strained.

“Percival Kirby,” Barty whispered to Frank, quietly enough not to be overheard. “Several years our senior; he started at RCM a great deal older than most students, and so he already had an astoundingly high estimation of himself — bit pettish, to be honest. But to add insult to injury, Bublum beat him out for the Director’s History Essay Prize last term.”

“Bublum, the history essay prize?” Frank declared, his eyebrows darting upward. “You don’t say!” He glanced over to Bublum, who feigned ignorance.

“Don’t let Bublum’s summertime larkings fool you,” said Benjee. “He’s an insufferable swot all throughout term!”

Bublum looked as though he wished to defend himself, but even in that moment the entire hall grew hushed when a portly gentleman Frank recognised as Director Parry ambled across the stage to stand before a podium. He cleared his throat several times and held his hands up for quiet, and though the volume in the hall did lower, whispers still rippled throughout the student body. Nevertheless, the director pressed on:

“When people have been enjoying long holidays—as you have just been doing—the things which happened just before them generally seem to be a long way off,” he began, sonorous voice carrying easily over the murmurs of his audience. “You will possibly remember dimly that in the course of last term there was a Coronation, and also a Union Party with its thrilling Toy Symphony, and a Patron’s Fund Concert, in which everything had been heard before, (which is not usually the case with our young composers’ productions), and a few trifling events of the kind, in which for a time you were more or less interested…”

As he rambled on, Frank was inundated with a disorienting whirl of emotions. Of course, even in this strange alternate timeline, he would not have experienced any of the events the director mentioned — not having been a student yet.

But more so, a certain panic began to set in at the notion that none of these events were holdovers into the modern era. The coronation of King George V was something that belonged in history books, not the Director’s Address. Union Party, Patron’s Fund Concert? These things did not exist in any RCM season schedule. It was illogical, Frank knew, and yet the director’s words somehow caused him to feel further from his own time, more disconnected from his own reality.

The sniggers of students around him caused Frank’s rising alarm to shatter quite abruptly. In a surprising turn of events, a great many audience members had at long last turned their attention forward.

“—to get away from the College and its claims,” the director continued, “and to think for a while of another Institution which probably enjoys similar advantages: as one of the things which appeals to me most today is the attainment by our amiable rival, the Royal Academy of Music, of fine and commodious new quarters. Perhaps you may be a little surprised at my devoting attention to—”

Even as the director spoke, Benjee delicately extricated the thick-lensed glasses from Barty’s face and, placing them on the tip of his nose in the very same style, began to mock the director’s mannerisms in a frighteningly accurate pantomime.

“Bully for the Academy!” Snowden whispered, with a chuckle at Benjee’s antics. “Sir Parry praises them more soundly than ever he has us!” But Bublum cut them off with a strong shushing, so intently focused on the director’s speech was he:

“—motives to the actions of rivals. The essence of our relations with the Academy is friendly rivalry. The rivalry is in itself quite invaluable, because it keeps us both up to the mark. But if it had been mere rivalry, without the opportunities of personal contact, one can imagine—”

Frank inhaled deeply, relief seeping from his heart through his limbs to his fingers and toes. He had been entirely wrong; there were undeniable differences (and not small ones!), but this was most certainly the RCM he was familiar with… down to its longstanding rivalry with the Royal Academy of Music. He felt again — in that very moment, one hundred and ten years in the past — the joyous senses of belonging he had experienced time and time again at the College in his own era.

He allowed the director’s words to wash over him, basking in their comforting drone (for Sir Parry showed no intention of concluding his address any time soon). Benjee struck up his pantomime again, this time joined by Barty; the two comically exchanged Barty’s spectacles and amusing facial expressions, much to Bublum’s chagrin.

“—make them interesting. So we may really be thankful that the College is not perfect yet, and that there still are things to be done; such as saving pupils from the effects of being too appropriately youthful, and professors from being driven to despair by absentees, and pianofortes from being rendered useless through half-a-dozen people wanting to practise on them at the same time.”

“That is you lot!” Bublum hissed, only to find himself the newest recipient of Barty’s glasses.

“Hush, I think he’s nearly finished!” Ireland whispered.

Sure enough, with a few additional remonstrations, and the appeal to “look for fine qualities wherever they may be found, in Art and Poetry, and in friends and relations, as well as in rivals and competitors,” and “to grow a few of them one’s self,” the director stepped back from the podium to tepid applause and the deafening scrape of chairs upon wood flooring. Conversation broke out at once as the student body began to drift toward the exit.

“Too appropriately youthful?” said Benjee incredulously. “Bah!”

“Fancy a fag?” Snowden offered, extricating a cigarette case from his pocket. Both Cedric and Barty made as if to reach for one — Kirby had disappeared already — but Bublum snatched the case away.

“We have Music Class,” he said. “If you hook it now, you’ll be caught. And it was not two minutes ago that Professor Perry was lecturing us about absenteeism.”

“Kirby is excused from Music Class,” complained Barty, clearly desperate to evade lessons and begin work on his magnum opus. “Why is it that we must sit through veritable torture, when he has no such obligation? ’Tis an intolerable inequity!”

As Barty continued to wax poetic lamentations, a young woman approached the group. She marched with determined steps straight for them, forging a path against the pressing flow of students. Bublum quickly shoved the cigarette case back into Snowden’s pocket.

“Miss Scott,” Bublum greeted the woman politely when she drew near. “It is good to see you looking so well. Blissy sends his regards.”

“I thank you kindly,” said Miss Scott. She was not overly agreeable, but nor was she rude; she was merely business-like, her tone clipped but not unpleasant. Her name stirred some memory in Frank’s brain, but the past few days had been so overwhelming he could not quite place it. “Mr Warren, if you would be so good as to follow me; the registrar is waiting for you.”

“Me?” Frank asked, temporarily stunned.

“You are Mr Warren, are you not?”

“Why, yes, of course—”

“As I thought; it is my business to know each and every student enrolled at the College,” she said, turning and marching off without a glance back to see whether Frank followed. The heels of her black leather pumps clacked against the wood flooring, giving warning for Collegians to part and make way for her; but no sooner had she passed than they filled back in behind her, leaving Frank to scramble to keep up.

“You intend to sign up for the Union, do you not?” Miss Scott half demanded over her shoulder as they exited into the foyer beyond the concert hall. She turned sharply to the left and continued down the corridor, though it was far easier for Frank to follow now that the student body had fanned out.

“I, uh—” Frank’s ineloquence relapsed quite severely in that moment. He was— no, had been— no, was going to be the SU vice-president… one hundred and ten years in the future. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been enthusiastic to participate in academic politic; but these were not ordinary circumstances. What purpose was there in engaging in Student Union activities, when he had no intention of remaining in the past for a single moment longer than necessary?

Miss Scott marched on, oblivious to Frank’s internal struggle. “We experienced near perfect enrollment this past Fresher’s Week,” she said, “and I would not see you deprived of the same opportunity offered the others.”

“You attended Blissy’s soirée the other evening, did you not?” Frank said, suddenly recalling where he had heard her name, and grasping at any chance to divert the topic of conversation. “You accompanied Miss Clarke.”

“That’s correct. I understand you have several commonalities with Miss Clarke; and if you join the Union, you shall be the first invited to our Meetings at Members’ Houses, where Miss Clarke frequently performs.”

This woman was incorrigible, Frank thought, but he was brought up short when Miss Scott stopped quite suddenly before a wide door upon which hung a sign that said “Registrar.” She knocked sharply three times, to Frank said, “Welcome to RCM,” and without a further word marched off down the hall.

Even as Frank stared after her, he heard a voice from within call, “Enter!”

Frank swung the door inward only to nearly slam it against a desk, so cramped was the registrar’s office interior. Despite every window being thrown open to entice any wayward late summer breeze, the room was sweltering. In its midst stood the registrar; his tidy, monocled appearance in direct contrast to the papers and accounts that were aflutter in his arms.

“Ah, Mr Warren!” he said, looking up from the scarcely contained chaos. He went to shake Frank’s hand but realised his hands were occupied, and so dumped the materials unceremoniously onto the desk. “I am Mr. Pownall, the registrar — as I am sure you deduced from the sign on my door. Perhaps you recall our meeting at scholarship auditions?”

“A pleasure, sir,” said Frank, shaking the man’s hand. Of course he didn’t remember.

“You must be here for your schedule! Drat, where was it?” Mr. Pownall began shuffling the disarray of papers about on his desk, first to one corner and then the other, sometimes placing files on the two bookshelves between which said desk was wedged. As he searched, he asked offhandedly, “I suppose you have squared away your parents’ estate, then?”

Frank inhaled sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Pownall looked up suddenly to scrutinise Frank’s expression. “I hope I have not spoken out of turn, but is that not why you delayed your entrance to the College? It is no easy tribulation to lose one’s parents, especially as an only son.”

The pandemonium in Frank’s mind grew wild; it was true his parents had passed away, but that was nearly five years prior to the event, when he was just beginning the audition process for RCM. Each new piece of this strange time conundrum left him feeling increasingly bewildered.

“Yes, I suppose it is — no easy tribulation, and I suppose I have — squared away their estate,” he said at last, not a little bit distractedly, but Mr Pownall was not listening.

“Ah hah!” he exclaimed, raising a paper in the air. “Your schedule, young master Bunny! In addition to all the required courses, you will note one-on-ones with our most esteemed Professor Stanford. Best not be late; you’ve the unenviable position of last lesson in the day, when he is most peevish.”

Frank blinked at the sheet of paper several times. “It says here my second area of study is pianoforte.”

Mr Pownall took the paper back and inspected it carefully. “Yes, everything seems to be in order! I must admit your skills of counterpoint were somewhat lacking in that regard during your audition, but rest assured; with the guidance of RCM’s knowledgeable faculty, you will soon overcome any such shortcomings.”

He then lowered his voice quite conspiratorially and — with a nearly indiscernible twinkle in his eye — added, “To be quite frank, I do think even Stanford would have happily accepted you based purely upon your skill with the viola! But such are the rules; each student must have a second area of study.”

“I see,” said Frank, panic once again surging. He didn’t know with what skills Past Francis had auditioned, but to classify Modern Day Frank’s piano capabilities as “scarcely passable” would be a kindly assessment indeed.

“Yes, well, I think you will find it terribly difficult to negotiate your timetable now, as the others are quite set in their routine, and you are so new to the College,” sighed Mr Pownall. “But best of luck; do not hesitate to seek me out if you encounter any troubles. And don’t forget to sign up for the Union!”

“Thank you, sir. Good day,” said Frank, backing out of the registrar’s office and swiftly shutting the door behind him. He leaned his back against its solid frame as a river of students swirled by; he felt a strange sense of auditory isolation as their exuberant chatter stood in stark juxtaposition against the silence of dread that consumed him. Pianoforte!

Chapter Text

Blissy burst into the dining room with a bang.

“Let’s go a-wassailing!” he cried to his bleary-eyed audience. Bublum blinked several times before taking another sip of coffee, and Mr Bliss slowly lowered the morning paper to stare at his wildly energetic son. Even Barty — who had been roused from his term-induced gloom by the promise of approaching Christmas — failed to react with sufficient enthusiasm to appease Blissy, who flopped into the seat next to Frank.

“What do you say, Bunny?” he asked with his characteristic grin, reaching for a slice of toast and spreading it thick with bitter orange marmalade. Blissy’s rosy cheeks and breathless exclamations indicated an early morning run in the chill, late-December air; the house had scarcely had a moment of calm since his return from Pembroke for the holidays, and this morning was par for the course.

“I’ve never been carolling,” Frank replied through a mouthful of porridge. He didn’t have nearly enough fingers or toes to count the innumerable times he’d performed the Nutcracker, but an opportunity to go carolling was something he had never been afforded.

“Never been carolling!” Blissy exclaimed, his eyes widening. “Well, I’ll be! That ought to be rectified immediately, don’t you think, my dear Bublum?”

The object of Blissy’s inquiry shook his head in a noncommittal manner. “Perhaps ask me after breakfast, when I’ve had a moment to recover from last night’s festivities,” Bublum said.

“I, for one, would gladly welcome the excuse to run some wind through the ol’ pipes,” Barty interjected. “And I reckon I know more than a few lads who’d lend their voices to such cheer.”

“Father?”

A wry smile slipped across Mr Bliss’ face. “You lot are musicians,” he said. “I daren’t think I’d fit in with such an illustrious assemblage.”

“Skill is of no consequence,” countered Barty. “It’s Christmastime — all are welcome!”

“Have you never heard a choir of instrumentalists, Mr Bliss?” Bublum added. “It is not so grand as you might think.”

Little by little, Blissy’s zeal infected each and every member of the household, and with a visit to Benjee’s nearby Bayswater lodgings it soon spread. Letters were swiftly dispatched and responses received with equal speed; thus was arranged a considerable group of potential waits, each promising to gather at the Bliss family home following dinner on Christmas Eve.

The Collegians’ anticipation slowed the progression of time considerably, though this in turn only served to heighten their exuberance. Over the next several days, Bublum was frequently bade to sit before the piano and thrash out accompaniment to the most energetic carols; Frank quite quickly lost track of how many renditions of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen and The Twelve Days of Christmas the peculiar household performed. The singing of carols was usually followed by the creation of yard upon yard of paper chains, or the playing of round after round of The Sculptor, as well as the drinking of more than a few glasses of mulled wine.

At great last the eve of Christmas arrived. Edith had scarcely sent out the sugared plums before the faint beat of a drum could be heard in the distance, gradually drawing closer. Nearer and nearer it came, until the sound of a tambourine could also be distinguished, and finally the rousing voices of a chorus:

...of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,
And our jolly wassail it’s then you shall hear.

Come butler, come fill us a bowl of the best
Then we hope that your soul in heaven may rest
But if you do draw us a bowl of the small
Then down shall go butler, bowl and all.

“Come on, you Gloucester boys!” came a cry just outside. “Come on, Warwickshire, and you London lads!”

“On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!” called another.

All thought of dessert disappearing from their minds, those at the table leapt to their feet and raced to the front door. Blissy heaved it open to reveal Benjee and a jumble of other College associates standing in the snow-covered garden: those eminent cellists Snowden and Sharpe, and their beloved senior Ireland; even curmudgeonly Kirby gave a trill on his flute in greeting.

“And pray do tell, where is your wassailing bowl?” shouted Bublum with a laugh.

“Go on, then, give us a tune not even a businessman such as myself could munge!” added Mr Bliss.

Always willing to oblige, Ireland struck up a new song in his deep baritone. “‘O, where are you going?’ said Milder to Moulder,” he sang, those students bearing percussion instruments immediately joining in.

Barty stepped forward at once to reply, sheer joy illuminating his features. “‘O, we may not tell you,’ said Festel to Fose!”

“‘We’re off to the woods,’ said John the Red Nose,” continued Ireland, and then all together each the Collegians repeated this last line in a ritual wholly unfamiliar to Frank. He simply followed the others of the Bliss household as they dashed about, throwing on jackets and scarves and hats and gloves; and all the while the call and response continued:

“And what will you do there?” said Milder to Moulder
“Oh we may not tell you!” said Festel to Fose
“We’ll shoot the cutty wren!” said John the Red Nose
“We’ll shoot the cutty wren!” said John the Red Nose

It took no time at all for Frank to pick up on the patterns, and he lent his voice to the chorus even as they stomped off as one group through the freshly fallen snow. Their combined breath rose up as a pillow about them, enshrouding them within a sphere of good spirit and camaraderie. Even so, Bublum was swift to turn to Cedric with narrowed eyes.

“Did you perhaps remove these percussion instruments from school grounds?” he accused.

“Most certainly!” replied Cedric, his cheer unimpeded by his misdeeds.

“And if Miss Scott were to discover their absence?”

“Miss Scott is safely tucked away in Harrow with Miss Clarke,” laughed Cedric. “And that which the secretary is ignorant of cannot harm her!” He gave a rap on his drum before offering a flask to Bublum, who politely declined. Benjee was not so circumspect, however, and gratefully accepted the offered libations to pass around as the Collegians skipped along a street bedecked with wreaths and garlands.

They didn’t make it far — already the elderly Mrs Fitzwater was opening her front door several houses down, inviting the young musicians to extend their gift of song to her doorstep.

“And what will it be, kindly Mrs Fitzwater?” hailed Barty. “One of these newfangled ditties, or a traditional ballad for your consideration?”

“Oh, how is one to choose?” cooed Mrs Fitzwater. “It is a delight each time you gentlemen deign to grace me with your talents!”

“Let’s give her some Mendelssohn, eh boys?” cried Ireland, ever enthusiastic to exercise the full strength of his range. This proposition was met with rousing cheers, and so the baritone leapt into the opening bars of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, soon followed by the others.

When the last notes faded away, Mrs Fitzwater was nothing but apologetic. “That was lovely, my dear boys. Not since my husband passed eight years ago have I felt so joyous, and yet I’ve little to offer you tonight,” she said. “Come again tomorrow, and I shall have some freshly baked mince pies for you all.”

“It’s very much appreciated, Mrs Fitzwater,” said Snowden, “but we’re here on no other purpose save to spread Christmas cheer; many of us live a good ways away, and ask only that you feed the poor.”

“Speak for yourself,” whispered Blissy, clearly hoping for a taste of the widow’s renowned pies — or, at least, those of her cook.

“You are too kind,” smiled Mrs Fitzwater. “It does my old soul good to see the youth of today taking a moment’s pause for those less fortunate; and it does a credit to those who raised you.”

“On the contrary,” interjected Mr Bliss, “these boys needed no guidance in such matters, and as such I can claim no credit; attribute it to their environs, or sensitivity, or Christmas spirit if you will — yet it is these Collegians alone who are deserving of such praise.”

“I shall keep such sentiments in mind when you visit on the morrow to share a pie or three,” replied Mrs Fitzwater. “Happy Christmas!”

She closed the front door to a chorus of “happy Christmases”, and the students began to filter back onto the street, where — having heard the disturbance — several other households had appeared in windows or doorways. The revellers entertained each audience in turn, offering renditions of everything from The First Nowell and I Saw Three Ships to Cherry Tree Carol and Silent Night — in its original German, much to Frank’s dismay.

House by house they progressed up the street before turning into Holland Park Mews, where more than once they were greeted with still-warm bread or a glass of fortifying liquids. Yet even as the others surged forward, cavorting about in the streets and pelting each other with snowballs, Frank noted Bublum began to flag behind. Lobbing off a final salvo in Benjee’s direction, he dropped back to walk beside his slight friend.

“All right?” he asked.

“As ever,” said Bublum, summoning a wan smile that did nothing to dispel Frank’s concern. “I suppose I burnt too much of the candle when composing these past few days. I find myself with so little time for my own work during term that I can’t help but throw myself into a frenzy during holiday.”

Frank steadied Bublum as he slipped ever so slightly on the treacherous ground. “Would you like to take a rest?” Frank asked.

“Oh, good God, no!” exclaimed Bublum, though he was careful to keep his voice low and inaudible to the others. “It’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake! I couldn’t possibly impinge on the others’ jollity.”

“Nonsense!” said Frank. “Your health takes preced—” he began, but was cut off from a banging further down the lane. The Collegians came to an immediate standstill, finding themselves confronted by an elderly gentleman who brought his walking cane down upon the wrought iron fence of one residence several times.

“Stop that infernal racket!” he cried with surprising sprightliness despite his advanced age, which was evidenced by a shock of pure white hair sticking out from beneath his hat. “Gambolling about as though the heavens were to come crashing down tomorrow! It is only Christmas Eve; go home and vex your mothers!”

The petty corner of Frank’s brain felt no other desire than to shout, “I haven’t got a mother!” but he knew that to be decidedly against the spirit of Christmas, and indeed he was saved the temptation by Ireland, who struck up yet another song:

All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!

The singer strode forward, followed swiftly by the others, until they danced just beyond reach of the old man’s cane, which he brought down more fervently upon the gate in a futile attempt to drown out their voices:

Tis ill for a mind to anger inclined
To think of small injuries now,
If wrath be to seek, do not lend her your cheek
Nor let her inhabit thy brow…

The old man gave a “Bah!” and waved his cane at the Collegians and their mild-mannered guardian, turning to stomp toward Abbotsbury Road in a surly mood. They pursued him, their melody unceasing:

Cross out of thy books malevolent looks,
Both beauty and youth’s decay,
And wholly consort with mirth and sport
To drive the cold winter away

Even as Frank looked on in amusement, ignorant as he was of the song’s words, he glanced toward Bublum once more. The young composer wasn’t singing, and instead stood folded over, gasping for air, face paler than the snow at his feet. Frank raced to his side and seized him by the shoulders.

“Surely you will not pretend you are all right now!” he cried. Bublum could not respond in his breathlessness. Frank gave a sharp whistle, causing the others’ voices to peter out as they sang the final, “The old and the young doth carol this song, to drive the cold winter away!”

Momentarily baffled, the Collegians turned one by one to discover this new source of disturbance. When realisation dawned, they could not hasten back up the street fast enough, drowning poor Bublum in their concern; they all spoke at once, with the result being that not one could be understood.

“Calm, calm, calm!” shouted Mr Bliss. “It will not do to have you all fussing about like headless chickens. We must first convey him home and out of the cold.”

“I’ll go fetch the doctor,” Blissy volunteered.

“Is there any doctor in the city to be fetched?” asked Snowden, his voice thick with concern. “It is Christmas Eve, after all.”

“If there is a doctor to be had, I will surely find him,” said Blissy. His jaw clenched visibly as he jogged off in the direction of Holland Park Avenue.

“Go on now, boys, go home,” said Mr Bliss to the remaining Collegians, who stood about hesitantly. “There isn’t much else you can do tonight. You’ve given us great warmth and cheer this night, sufficient to tide our hearts over for a time — I will send word when the doctor has seen to Bublum.”

“Let us at least walk with you so far as the gate,” said Ireland.

Mr Bliss heaved a sigh; the determination in each young man’s expressions indicated he could not be convinced otherwise. Frank drew Bublum’s arm tight about his shoulders, and together with Snowden he supported Bublum as the company made its way back along the snowy streets. Their pace was slow to accommodate Bublum’s winded state, and the atmosphere about them suddenly seemed far less inviting; it felt an eternity before they finally arrived at the Bliss family home.

Even as Mr Bliss shooed the others back to their respective residences, Frank and Snowden bore Bublum into the drawing room, tailed by an anxious Barty. The maid Mrs Riddell had kept the fire blazing, and Barty rushed to draw the chaise lounge closer to its warmth. No sooner was it in place than Bublum collapsed onto its cushions; eyes closed, he struggled to breathe deeply, his hands trembling ever so slightly. Barty ducked into the kitchen to fetch water.

“I suppose I ought to be going, as well,” Snowden whispered.

“Thank you ever so much for your help,” said Frank.

“And you will send word?”

“Rest assured, you shall be informed nearly as soon as I.”

“I do not think I can rest,” said Snowden, “but thank you for your assurance nevertheless.” He gave Frank a brotherly pat on the shoulder then made for the door, nearly colliding with Mr Bliss as he came in from outside.

“All right, then, Snowden?”

“I hope so, sir, I truly do hope so.”

Once the sound of the front door closing signalled Snowden’s departure, the house sank into silence; carols and gambolling were replaced with stillness and the fire’s whispering. The piano tucked away in the corner seemed to mock Frank as he stared at it, for want of a better place to rest his eyes than the upsetting figure of a suffering Bublum.

Barty soon entered with a water jug and glass. He assisted Bublum to sit up, and Frank held the glass to Bublum’s lips, although even in his weakened state Bublum attempted to lift the glass himself. When he had drunk, Bublum sat back and closed his eyes once more. His breathing had evened considerably and his hands had ceased their shaking, but still the quietude that descended as they waited for Blissy’s return with the doctor was an acutely uncomfortable one.

The tick of the impressive grandfather clock beside the piano became unbearable. Though the hour neared midnight, the stirring of Edith and Mrs Riddell could be heard in the kitchen; their affection for Bublum would not allow the kindly dailies to return home. Overwhelmed, Barty began to sing gently, his voice so hushed it went unnoticed by the others for several bars.

Lully, lullah, thou little tiny child,
Bye bye, lully, lullay.
Thou little tiny child,
Bye bye, lully, lullay—

“I’m not dying, you simp!”

The surprising strength of Bublum’s declaration caused his three companions to turn and stare at him. He reclined as ever against the chaise lounge, but his eyes were open, and a smile flittered across his face.

“Play me a little something rather more cheery, would you?” He spoke more quietly now, his momentary burst of strength sapped. Barty dashed immediately to the piano.

“Any requests?” he asked. Bublum shook his head feebly, and so Barty launched into the opening chords of Deck the Hall, to which Frank and Mr Bliss promptly joined in. No sooner had they reached the third verse than there was a commotion at the front door and Blissy burst into the drawing room, guiding a harried doctor in his wake.

“Just here, Mr Boult,” said Blissy, indicating where Bublum sat before the fire. The doctor strode swiftly toward the chaise lounge, giving a polite, “How do you do?” to Mr Bliss in passing and setting down his bag.

“Hello, Bublum,” he said, reaching for Bublum’s wrist and taking his pulse.

“It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it, Mr Boult,” said Bublum.

“There is no need to speak if you are feeling ill.” Mr Boult pulled a stethoscope from his bag and pressed it to Bublum’s chest, listening intently.

“I’ve quite recovered,” Bublum protested. “I must have been straining myself to a greater degree than I realised, that is all, perhaps exacerbated by the chill and excitement.” The doctor paid him no mind, fussing about his patient in a series of tests that — to Frank’s highly untrained eyes — appeared astoundingly similar to many of the examinations he had received at doctors’ offices more than a century in the future. Meanwhile, Barty yet again found himself incapable of remaining still, and began playing a rather sacreligious ragtime rendition of Silent Night.

When at last Mr Boult stepped back, he fixed Bublum with an intent look before drawing Mr Bliss aside. They conversed in hushed tones, yet even over Bublum’s subdued accompaniment their discussion was audible.

“I was not able to identify any symptoms of an underlying illness,” said the doctor. “Perhaps it is as the boy says, and it was simply overwork that brought the spell on. Still, I cannot help but be concerned; see that he does not exert himself for the next several days, and summon me if there is even the slightest ill development.”

“Thank you, doctor,” replied Mr Bliss. “Would you care to stay for a nightcap?”

“No, thank you kindly. It is Christmas Eve after all— Christmas Day, in fact,” Mr Boult corrected himself with a glance at the clock, which showed the time was well past midnight. “I must be going.”

“Of course, of course. Give our regards to the dear Mrs Boult and your two boys.”

“Drat, those mischief-makers will be waking in a few hours.” Mr Boult gave a rueful shake of his head as he moved toward the door. Before exiting, he turned to Bublum for a moment and said, “Rest well, young man, and soon your compositions will be flying from beneath your fingers once more.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bublum replied. “Happy Christmas.”

“I can’t thank you enough for coming at such an hour, Mr Boult,” Frank added. Barty struck up We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

“It is no more than my duty,” said the doctor. “And even if it wasn’t, I would nevertheless come. Happy Christmas, all.” With a final, tired smile, he disappeared into the hallway beyond with Mr Bliss.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs and into bed,” said Frank, offering his arm to Bublum. Barty likewise leapt up to assist, but Bublum held up his hand to stop them both.

“I can do it myself,” he said. They watched as he stood shakily, hovering at his elbows in case he should fall. Their concern was unwarranted, however; Bublum slowly and steadily emerged from the drawing room into the hallway beyond, then up the staircase step by step.

When they reached the top, Mr Bliss called from below, “Do you need anything, Bublum?” Enervated by his brief display of effort, Bublum could do little more than shake his head.

“No thank you, Mr Bliss,” Barty shouted down instead.

“Very well, I will reassure Edith and Mrs Riddell and send them on their way,” said Mr Bliss. “Goodnight, and Happy Christmas.” He was answered with a chorus of similar greetings, then vanished into the kitchen.

Once Bublum was sufficiently situated in bed, Frank went to his own room and quickly gathered every blanket he could find into his arms. In the hallway, he bumped into a similarly-burdened Barty, who had stumbled upon the same idea. They burst into Bublum’s room and dumped their blankets unceremoniously on the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?” Bublum said. His voice was still little more than a whisper.

“Let’s ring in Christmas Day like we used to when we were boys,” said Barty, intent on arranging his blankets to his satisfaction. “Together, to hail the morning sun when it rises.” Bublum smiled and nestled further into the covers.

“So long as you don’t sing, like last time,” he said.

“I will most certainly try my best to restrain myself,” said Barty. Despite the unhappy events of that day, a contented silence fell between the three as anticipation built for the new day that was to come.

“Happy Christmas,” said Barty.

“Happy Christmas,” said Bublum.

“Happy Christmas,” said Frank.

Chapter Text

“No, no!” exclaimed Professor Stanford, thumping the piano lid with an open palm. Frank ceased playing immediately. “That’s not it at all, m’bhoy! What in God’s good name were you doing over Christmas holiday that you failed to make any significant progress whatsoever? There are students in the Junior Department who display a greater aptitude for the pianoforte than you!”

Frank held his tongue; to all intents, constructions, and purposes, he was — in essence — a junior student when it came to piano. But that wasn’t consistent in this strange version of the past.

“Again!” Stanford commanded. As the runs of Schubert’s Impromptus rang out from beneath Frank’s ungainly fingers, the professor continued to rant about the unevenness of his triplets, the ineptitude of his phrasing, his maladroit handling of harmony.

“Are you not a violist?” Stanford shouted over Frank’s playing, his pipe waggling with each syllable. “Harmony ought to be second nature to you! You know, m’bhoy, I had half a mind to eliminate you from scholarship contention for your distinct lack of competence with the pianoforte alone — you’re very fortunate Mr Pownall was so entirely enthralled by your viola performance.”

“I’m sorry,” said Frank. His hands stilled one more. It had been during his very first one-on-one with Stanford nearly four months prior when he matched the professor’s voice to that which had cut through the darkness during auditions, dismissing him with so little sentiment. In all the time since, the professor’s attitude toward him had not altered one iota.

“Do not apologise, m’bhoy,” said Stanford as he sank into an armchair, dismissing his disappointing pupil with a wave. “Merely practise. Now begone!”

Frank scrambled to gather his sheet music and race from the office before the desire to explain that he had practised overtook him — for such comments were sure to be unwelcome to the cantankerous professor. Just as he closed the door to room 53 and fled blindly around the corner, Frank bumped into an equally rushed Bublum, sending papers flying.

“Ah, I was just coming to find you!” exclaimed the diminutive composer as they both crouched to sort his neat calligraphy notes from the printed Impromptus. “How do you fancy a romp over to Piccadilly? Perhaps followed by a tour of the local bookshops?”

“If that won’t cheer Barty up, I’m afraid I don’t know what will,” said Frank, immediately discerning his friend’s intention. Bublum’s smile in response was half grimace.

Their classes concluded for the week, the two raced to their bicycles and pedalled furiously back to the Holland Park residence. They then set about coaxing the melancholic Barty from his bedroom — though it took more than a little effort, and the sky was fully dark before their attempts at extraction were met with success.

Warmed by a mouthful or three of scotch, they leapt aboard the Tilling bus and clambered up to the second storey. The early January wind was biting as the bus made its way along Bayswater Road, causing them to pull their jackets tight and hold onto their caps for dear life. Their shouted conversation was joined by an Australian accent when the route passed Queensway and Benjee made an appearance.

“Hullo, what’s all the fuss?” he said, poking his head over the railing of the upper deck and taking a seat beside Barty.

“Snowden has been perfectly intolerable all this past week,” explained Bublum. “Something about performing at the Ritz with Ireland. I thought we ought to go congratulate him.”

“The Ritz?!” Frank exclaimed.

“I very much doubt they would let the likes of us in,” said Benjee, brows raised archly. He was, as ever, dressed to the nines; the other three appeared in every regard the scholarship students making due with a weekly £1 allowance that they were.

“We can have a bit of brew and a gab at the Café Royal while we wait for their performance to finish,” shrugged Bublum.

“No!” insisted Benjee. “Absolutely not. We have come to see Snowden and Ireland — and by God, we shall see Snowden and Ireland!”

“Even with your velvet pockets, we haven’t enough coppers between us to buy one meal at the Ritz, let alone four,” Barty remarked, breaking his silence at last.

“There is a very simple solution you are overlooking,” said Benjee, an ominous glimmer in his eye.

When they disembarked near Bond Street, Benjee forged ahead of the others, leading them straight south until they emerged across the street from Green Park.

“Oh, no,” said Bublum ruefully, discerning his intention. But Benjee wasn’t paying attention; he darted between carriage and vehicle, scarcely waiting for the others to follow before slipping into the park. The lights of shops opposite illuminated the students’ path until the Ritz loomed ahead.

“Come on!” Benjee urged as they drew near the wooden fence that marked the eastern boundary of Green Park. “Give us a lift!”

Just on the other side of the fence, an immense tree reared skyward. Struck by a sudden urge for adventure, Frank knelt down next to the fence. Benjee did not wait for a further invitation, though he considerately wiped his boots on the grass before stepping on Frank’s back.

“Just a bit higher!” came Benjee’s peculiar pronunciation, and Frank struggled to rise up until he felt the Australian’s weight lift off him. Barty — who demonstrated no consideration for the violation of any rules — came next, and then Frank and Bublum stood staring at each other’s inky shadow in the darkness.

“After you,” said Frank.

“Utterly ridiculous,” Bublum muttered to himself, but relented at last, allowing Benjee to half pull him up into the upper branches of the tree. Frank stood to assess his own ascent, but even as he did so, a hand protruded from the foliage. He took a running leap at the fence and just barely managed to catch Benjee’s wrist.

“Up you go!” said Benjee, and in the next moment Frank was settled in the crux of two branches, the Ritz’s elegant garden spread below him. There were flower beds and a patio across which wrought iron dining tables and chairs were scattered, but far more important was the bay of four arched windows that opened onto the garden, casting light upon its greenery.

“There! I see them!” said Bublum (enthusiastic in spite of himself) pointing ahead. Frank peered into the gilt dining room, looking past its ostentatious patrons and the stream of waiters toward a recess where a chamber group sat nestled. At its helm was Ireland’s handsome face, mid-song, Snowden just behind him at the cello.

“I can’t see anything due to the blasted awning!” Barty groused from above. A foot searched for a purchase near Frank’s head, soon followed by the rest of Barty. After a brief, awkward entanglement of limbs, Barty continued his descent. A moment later, there was an exclamation of “Ow!” from Benjee, followed by the crash of bushes and mumbled curses in the garden below.

“Oi! You lot!” A porter had spied them and was making directly toward the tree with menacing gestures.

“Oh no,” Bublum moaned, absconding at once back into Green Park. As Barty followed, Frank extended a hand to the fallen Benjee, pulling him back up into the branches. Together they tumbled after the other two, leaving the porter to hurl threats in their direction.

The group was halfway through Green Park before Bublum pulled up short and flopped down on the lawn, completely breathless. The others clustered about him, hands on knees, laughing uproariously at the absurdity of their situation.

“I told you we should have waited at Café Royal!” Bublum gasped when he regained some of his composure.

“We never would have seen Snowden or Ireland if we had!” said Benjee. He extricated a pocket watch from his waistcoat and held it to his ear, then held it toward the light of the shops and squinted. “They ought to be done about now — perhaps we can congratulate them and have a pint or two.”

“No!” exclaimed Bublum. “We can’t go back. I can never show my face in Piccadilly again!”

“I don’t think such extremes are necessary,” Frank reassured him, enticed by Benjee’s proposal of libations. The scotch from earlier in the evening had entirely worn off, and Stanford’s verbal lashing still rang in his ears. “The porter couldn’t have gotten a clear view of us, what with the darkness and tree and all.”

Barty did not wait for a consensus. He stalked off in the direction of the nearest exit, leaving the others to scramble in his wake. The quartet was soon making its way back along Piccadilly, only to arrive at the hotel entrance just as the musicians poured out into the arcade.

“Benjee!” shouted Snowden upon spying them. “Let’s get blotto!”

“It seems you’ve a head start already,” remarked Bublum as Snowden gave his slight shoulders several heavy pats. Snowden did not correct him. Ireland emerged from the group with another man in tow — a short, stout man with a jacket that nearly swallowed him whole, and a homburg perched rakishly on his head. The mischievous grin seemed to be a permanent fixation on his face.

“This is Georges, a real brick of a fellow,” said Ireland by way of introduction.

“Salut,” said the man, his accent a thick mix of French and Dutch.

“He’s from the other RCM: the Conservatoire Royal de Musique in Liège,” Ireland explained.

“What are you doing in London, then?” asked Benjee.

“It’s better than the army,” Georges laughed. The others nodded in understanding (though very few of them had ever seriously considered militaristic pursuits) before gathering to determine their next destination. As they did so, the remainder of the Ritz musicians dashed across the street and made off along Bond Street, leaving a good-natured ribbing as their parting farewell:

“Go home and practise, you RCM jossers!” shouted one.

“Ah, bunk, you stodgy Academy ratbags!” Snowden called in return, kicking an empty tin can in their general direction. With a tumble of laughter and a few congenial waves, the RAM students disappeared between the buildings opposite.

“The Star, then?” suggested Benjee. This proposition was met with a murmur of agreement from all save Snowden, who was still staring at the can. With a sudden leap, he had his arms about Georges and Frank.

“Football, lads!” he said, dragging them off down the street towards Belgravia. “Think of it — football!”

“What footle is this?” asked Ireland.

“The College versus those Academy sods!” Snowden enthused. “When it comes to music, there is always some new accolade to attain, some new placement to fill — it is impossible to outright win. But not so in football! And we are sure to give those blighters what-for!”

“You want to dedicate our already limited practice time to football?” was Bublum’s reproachful response.

“It will be good for you,” Snowden insisted, continuing to enumerate the merits of his idea as the students made their way through the blustery streets and tucked themselves into a corner of Star Tavern. Georges was blessedly spared his fervour by nature of not being a student of the College, and Bublum was allowed to remain on the sidelines on account of his poor health; but otherwise Snowden devoted his attention to each of the friends in turn. Frank was quick to capitulate, as was Benjee, and though Ireland took a little more convincing, he too eventually fell prey to Snowden’s charm.

“What about you?” Snowden asked when he finally rounded on Barty. “You’ve been awfully quiet all evening. What say you?”

“My mother wants me to quit College.”

This statement was met with immediate silence. It was such a sudden departure from the topic at hand to one filled with unnavigable pitfalls. They all stared at Barty, whose own gaze was on his hands in his lap, his pint untouched on the table in front of him.

“She sent some tosh about how I’m not happy in London, how I ought to return to Gloucester and help with the family and my father’s shop.” The corners of his mouth pulled into a deep frown. The friends’ eyes darted from Barty to one another, unsure of what to say.

“Well, would you be happier back home?” Frank asked gently.

“I don’t know!” Barty shouted, leaping to his feet. “I wish my parents were dead like yours!” And with that he bolted from the pub, leaving the others open-mouthed in surprise. It took several moments for them to collectively regain their train of thought.

“I’m so sorry,” said Bublum, laying a hand on Frank’s forearm.

“It’s okay,” said Frank. “I’m fine. He didn’t mean it.” Then Frank remembered the others thought his parents had passed less than a year ago, and his reaction ought to be a bit stronger than the sting and squeeze of the heart he actually felt. He rearranged his face into a slightly more downcast expression.

“Shouldn’t we go after him?” asked Georges.

“No point,” said Benjee, returning casually to his Whitbread mild. “Mate’s probably halfway to the Thames by now.”

“He’ll show up after a day or two, feeling rather sheepish, and things will return to normal,” said Snowden with a shrug. Frank’s brow furrowed, but he remained silent; when did the term “manic–depressive” become nomenclature? The mid-1950s? As the others picked the strains of conversation back up, he wondered if he could devise a way to pass his (admittedly lacking) knowledge to them without arousing suspicion.

The remainder of the evening passed with an atmosphere somewhat muted. When Benjee elected to join the Ritz trio on their next stop, Frank and Bublum instead made the return trek home.

Barty did not turn up that evening. Nor did he return the following evening, or the one after that, or even the following day. The friends’ concern grew. For a full week, Barty was not seen in any of his classes or one-on-ones, causing even the typically dispassionate Professor Stanford to express concern over his absence. A telegram was sent to the kindly Mr Gurney, Barty’s father, only to receive a reply saying his son had not been spied in Gloucester, but that they would conduct a thorough search on their end.

The police were contacted. They were vaguely familiar with Barty, having chased him off several park benches over the years; yet their distinct lack of enthusiasm for such a “trivial” missing persons case inspired little confidence in the Bs who, in the meantime, scoured all of Barty’s preferred haunts: the bookshops of Cecil Court, the banks of the Thames, the train tracks looking westward to the River Severn that he could not afford a ticket for. He was not to be found anywhere.

All talk of the RCM versus RAM football match was suspended. Snowden and Ireland’s second Ritz performance was supported as a mere matter of course; Georges’ announcement that he had secured a position with the Trio String Orchestra just around the corner from the Café Français was met with tepid enthusiasm. Anxiety dampened their spirit and hung over all their activities.

“Do you think he’s really gone and done it?” asked Snowden in hushed tones as a motley crew of musicians sat tucked around a corner table at the Goat, nursing their drinks. They had spent several hours after classes in search of Barty, only to come up empty-handed yet again.

“No, no,” Bublum insisted, shaking his head. “No, Barty will turn up somewhere or other, sooner or later.” Whether it was Bublum’s own intimate knowledge of his paradoxical friend that informed his answer — or merely hopeful fancy — it was hard to determine.

Unable to shake his unease, Frank dedicated himself to an especially long and focused practice session that evening, but the Lullaby Miss Clarke had slipped to him by way of Miss Secretary Scott would not come lightly to his fingers. (Pretending to have never heard of the piece when it was presented to him — with more than a little flourish — had taken a great deal of effort on Frank’s part.)

The frustrated chords of Bublum trying to pound out his latest work could be heard downstairs, interrupting Frank’s focus in a way it never had previously. The lack of Barty’s stomping feet and thumping fists, or his frequent visits to Bublum to work out notative problems, left an unignorable emptiness hanging over the household.

At last Frank surrendered to unproductivity and tucked his viola away. After washing up, he climbed into bed, only to wind up staring at the dark ceiling when sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned long after Bublum retired from the piano and the sounds of his preparing for bed ceased. In the stillness, Frank mused on how close he had grown to the characters of the RCM in such a short amount of time, to the degree that he was rendered distraught by the absence of one.

The hazy fog of sleep had finally begun to overtake Frank when the sound of scratching at his window doused him in panic. His chest seizing, he sat up as a shadowy form, illuminated by the streetlamp just beyond the window, dropped into his room.

“Jeee—zus Christ!” Frank swore, leaping from bed.

“Sorry,” Barty whispered. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Frank, swallowing his palpitating heart. He briefly considered asking Barty where he’d been, but figured the inscrutable composition student wouldn’t be particularly inclined to answer in full. “Are you okay?” he asked instead.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Barty answered. “The downstairs windows were all latched. Yours is the only one upstairs with a tree near enough to climb.”

“I had been wondering why Bublum insisted on leaving the windows open. Ms Riddell must have closed them after we retired this evening.” Frank released a long sigh. “Everybody will just be glad to have you back.” He took a seat on his bed, but Barty continued to stand, scuffing one foot against the floorboards.

“Sorry about what I said that night at the Star.”

Frank huffed a gentle laugh. “Bublum told me your mum’s a right terror,” he sympathised.

Barty shrugged. “Still better than dead.”

“I suppose,” said Frank. His love for his own family was deep-seated and ardent, but he had come across more than one musician at the RCM whose parents had made him realise his experience wasn’t universal.

Barty began to cross the room toward the door, thinking the conversation had come to a standstill, but in a moment of inspiration Frank threw out a hand to catch him by the shirtsleeve. “How do you feel about football?” he asked.

“I’m no athlete.” Even in the darkness, Barty’s pursed lips were perceptible.

“I doubt any of us are,” said Frank with a chuckle. “But will you not give it serious consideration?”

Barty mused for a moment. “I have found in the past that regimented exercise can vastly improve my condition.”

“Snowden will be happy to hear that. And Barty—” Frank hastened to add when he began moving once more toward the door, “I know I’m no Bublum, but you can always talk to me. About anything.”

Silence billowed between them, but it wasn’t stifling or uncomfortable. It was a contemplative, earnest silence, imbued with meaning unable to be expressed in words — the kind of silence that passes between people when they come to understand each other in ways they did not realise possible.

“Thanks," Barty whispered, slipping at last through the door.

And so the RCM Football Club was formed, practising as often as time allowed, between orchestral and ensemble rehearsals. Barty’s return went more or less unremarked, save an especially strong clap on the shoulder by Ireland and the slipping of a Summer Idyl movement into his folio by Bublum. Frank did his small part by ensuring Barty ate regularly and attended each of the practices Snowden organised.

Freezing January weather softened into the overcast skies of February, and soon a downright mild March enveloped the Collegians. After brief communication between Snowden and one Mr Godfrey of the Academy, the match was set for the afternoon of the eighteenth at Shepherd’s Bush, and preparations began in earnest.

It was just their luck that thunderous clouds rolled in and parked over London on the seventeenth, dumping their contents onto grey rooftops and the murky depths of the Thames from Sunday evening throughout the night. With shoes and socks already waterlogged, the hapless footballers adjourned their classes on Monday afternoon and slogged through the damp streets (under the threat of further rain) until they came to Shepherd’s Bush. What greeted them there was a pitch flooded with several centimetres of water.

“Blast,” said Ireland, though there was a tinge of hope in his voice.

“Never fear!” exclaimed Snowden. “Did you really think I would host an event at an outdoor venue in March and not arrange alternatives?”

“Blast,” repeated Ireland, the hope now gone.

Snowden instructed one of the non-starting members to remain behind and inform potential spectators of the change in location, then stumped off down the street and around the corner to Wormholdt Park, where the Collegians discovered the Academy squad already running about. Not wanting to fall behind, they soon followed suit, thankful that the storm had at least served to clear the air of its smoggy hue, but less so that it had turned an already treacherous pitch into more hole than grass. Rain began to sprinkle.

“Cor, look at all the ladies,” said Wood, their left inside, with mouth agape as the team gathered before the kickoff. Indeed, a veritable flower garden of skirts and umbrellas — now shielding against the precipitation — had sprung up, outnumbering the young men nearly five-to-one. Frank spared a moment to wonder whether this had not been Snowden’s initial intention after all, for a great many female Academy students had joined the legions of their College counterparts.

Players from both teams found fit to gab with the onlookers rather than prepare for the match. Frank spied Bublum amidst a cluster of organists, introducing Georges to as many friends as possible. Even several of the younger College professors could be seen doing their best not to impose on their students’ revelries. Frank was waving in Professor Dunhill’s direction when Miss Clarke approached.

“Hello, Mr Warren,” she said. Frank spun around at once; strange how he had gotten so accustomed to being addressed by his last name, when it wasn’t his absurd nickname.

“Ah, Miss Clarke!” he exclaimed. “So kind of you to come and cheer us deplorable athletes on in spite of the terrible weather.”

“I rather insisted Miss Scott escort me.” She indicated the direction of her companion, who stood miserably beneath an unadorned umbrella. “Have you had an opportunity to review the composition I sent you?”

“Yes, I found it… inexpressibly brilliant.” But the sonata you’ve yet to write will be standard viola repertoire in about a century, he added internally.

“It had been my hope you might perform some such number at a Musical Evening, though I would not be so conceited as to assume it would be my own work. Imagine my surprise when Miss Scott informed me you are not yet a member of the RCM Union!”

Frank opened his mouth to respond, only to find he had no response that did not involve maniacal tales of time travel. He was saved only by the shout of “Toss!” from a rather onerous referee: none other than the curmudgeonly Kirby.

The teams regrouped. After a momentary yet rather vocal mourning for the loss of his lucky halfpenny, Snowden procured another (from an RAM lady, no less) which proved to be far less auspicious. The Academy took the kickoff.

Energy swelled in chorus with the crowd, undamped by rain. Frank darted forward as soon as the ball was in play, but no sooner had the RAM advanced from the centre field than the Collegians’ hard work began to pay off. Taking control, Cedric at centre halfback drove the ball forward and placed it just perfectly for Wood to snare their first goal within two minutes of kickoff, eliciting both wild cheers and miserable groans from the spectators.

Even as he made the fateful shot, however, Wood gave a shout and fell smack face-down in the mud, having turned his ankle in one of the craters of the pitch. He lay there a moment, and all the players dashed to his side, hearts racing — only for the blighter to flip over and give them a wide grin. He was carried off the field to hurrahs from all sides, including the Academicians.

But Wood’s replacement was far weaker than he had been, and Frank was forced to redouble his efforts in the already arduous left wing position. He had never been a particularly adept footballer in his own time, but he was skinny and fast, and thus Snowden shoved him into the last spot on the Collegians’ lineup. Despite their rigorous training, gasps began to claw at Frank’s lungs, his quads began to sear. It was with relief he allowed Barty and the other backs, as well as Benjee at the goal, to take on the Academy’s assault, and for Snowden to lead the way to a second score.

Then, galvanised by the two goal deficit, RAM finally found their footing. Frank was suddenly unable to shake his defender, unable to turn on a spurt of speed, unable to handle the ball with his typical finesse. The other Collegians pressed on, scoring an additional two goals, but soon they began to flag as well.

“I’d honestly rather be practising,” Cedric groused in a brief moment when he drew near to Frank, who only nodded breathlessly in agreement.

Aside from Snowden, the only Collegian to work the pitch with any degree of enthusiasm was Barty. They made a powerful duo: Barty at right back served as an impassable wall, stripping each Academy forward of their ball and supplying it to Snowden. But as halftime neared, even the zealous RCM captain began to slow. In the last minute of the first half, he was still gasping in centre field when Barty gained possession.

“Go on, Barty!” Snowden shouted, finally sapped of all strength and unable to put himself in position to strike. And “go on” Barty did, booting the ball clear across the pitch, the RAM goalie’s fingertips simply knocking it further into the net.

Kirby blew the whistle for halftime as the crowd gave a rousing cheer, with a particularly boisterous “Well done, Barty!” coming from Bublum. Both teams collapsed on the pitch.

“So that’s it,” said Cedric. “We’re finished, right? I don’t think I can take much more!”

“We haven’t enough substitutes for you to sit out, Sharpe!” Snowden lectured jovially, sitting up and encouraging his team to remove to the sidelines. The drizzle had let up somewhat, and in finding themselves presented with a crate of oranges courtesy of Director Parry (who had thought it appropriate to be absent and “allow the boys their fun”), the Collegians shared with their opponents and passed a pleasant halftime.

Kirby’s whistle sounded far too soon. Frank’s entire body complained as the teams took to the thoroughly muddy pitch again under a new curtain of rain, though the crowd’s hollers were no less thunderous. The footballers slipped more than ran from end to end, colliding quite nastily with each other on more than one occasion, and so it was little wonder a right wing from RAM was awarded a penalty. When he sent the ball sailing past Benjee’s defence for the Academy’s first goal, the Collegians shouted with equal vigour as their rivals.

The game became a haze of enervation to Frank; who had possession, how many goals had been scored — even which end was which — was so muddled in his mind that he soon lost all impetus to keep things straight. He watched the game as if an observer, barely seeing Ireland fend off another attack before punting the ball directly towards Frank.

Directly towards Frank! With a start, the world came alive and a jolt of electricity skittered through Frank’s limbs. Already his defender was advancing; Frank baited him before cutting back upfield and turning. The Academy’s right fullback was entirely out of position — he had anticipated the ball going once again to Snowden, as had the goalie. Frank seized his opportunity and chipped the ball into the near corner.

Bublum’s voice could be heard clear above all other whoops and hollers, but that was due almost entirely to the fact that even the spectators had now grown fatigued. Frank didn’t blame them, since he himself slipped immediately back into his mindless state. By the end, when the footballers were not jogging, they were walking; when they were not walking, they were merely standing around. Frank could not fathom how the Collegians managed to score an additional three goals.

It was to the relief of all when Kirby blew the final whistle.

But it was not those upon the pitch to whom breath came hardest.

Even as the teams squelched through the mud back to the sidelines, the crowd turned inward, away from the stage that had so recently held their attention. Sensing something seriously amiss, Frank squeezed through the throngs to find Georges bent over the collapsed form of Bublum, whose fastidious clothing was muddied in a way he never would have allowed were he conscious.

“It must have been the rain that did him in,” said one onlooker.

“He exerted himself too much in his support,” said another. Barty rushed past Frank and pushed Georges aside, lifting the unconscious Bublum into his arms.

“St. Mary’s is the nearest general,” Benjee offered.

“Sure, but St. Marylebone’s is right around the corner,” Snowden insisted, igniting a debate over whether such an institution as a workhouse was acceptable even in such desperate straits.

“He’s awake!” shouted Ireland, silencing the discussion at once.

Indeed, Bublum’s dark lashes fluttered against his cheek. He waved feebly for Barty to set him down, but Barty had no such intention. Instead, he marched off directly northward, joined by Benjee and a host of others. As he did so, Miss Clarke pressed her umbrella into Frank’s hand; with wordless thanks, he took off after Barty to give him some respite from the rain.

“Oi, where are you going?” exclaimed Snowden when they came to the main thoroughfare. “St. Marylebone’s is that direction.” He pointed off toward the right, but Barty pressed onward, not even turning around.

Not ten minutes had passed before they arrived in front of a red brick facade vaguely familiar to Frank: Hammersmith! But the hospital’s absent modern buildings were not all that stood out to him; once Bublum had been ushered away by a bevvy of deeply concerned nurses, Frank stared entranced at the mosaic tile flooring of the infirmary vestibule, stark black and whites sending him on a dizzying spiral as the others whispered anxiously around him.

In a flash, Mr Bliss came skidding into the waiting-room, Cedric close behind. “Is our Bublum all right?” he half-shouted. As if on cue — or perhaps having waited to see if anyone capable of making a charitable donation would arrive — a nurse bustled past the crowded benches of expectant patients with hacking coughs and swaddled limbs.

“It is an exceptionally busy Monday evening,” she began, eyeing the group with a decided air of disdain. “Your friend has not yet been tended to by a physician, but he is resting. I expect it shall be quite some time before we are able to make any determination as to his condition.”

Mr Bliss turned to the Collegians. “You boys had best go home now,” he said. “You’ve done all you can, and you look exhausted — and thoroughly unclean.”

The nurses’ glowers were not uncalled for; drying mud crackled on the students’ clothes and fell as dust to the tiled floor. With more than a little hesitancy, Frank and the others bade Mr Bliss farewell and departed Hammersmith, with the insistence that he inform them should there be even the slightest change to Bublum’s condition.

But the friends didn’t return to their homes. Instead, they found themselves back at the Star — back where the whole escapade originated. There, Collegians that had remained behind (as well as more than a few Academicians) were waiting with pints at the ready. Silence begot silence; each moment that passed only served to compound their unease.

After a time, Godfrey of the RCM laid a hand on Snowden’s shoulder. “It was a good game, all things considered,” he said.

“I was hoping to simultaneously celebrate the Academy’s licking and winning this term’s Scholefield Prize,” Snowden sighed. “But now, just thinking about those three quid makes me feel guilty.”

“I wanted to break the news that I’ve been offered a job on an ocean liner, as well,” Georges added. “I hope Bublum recovers before I set sail; I’d like to say goodbye.”

The gathering passed the remainder of their evening in subdued conversation, hoping for news of Bublum before they each went their separate ways, but were ultimately forced to retire with worries unassuaged. Frank, wholly absorbed in concern for his friend, didn’t make the connection until it was far, far too late.

Upon learning the doctors could not pinpoint the source of Bublum’s ailments once again, Mr Bliss insisted on removing Bublum from Hammersmith back to the Bliss family residence, even going so far as to have the chauffer bring round his old Renault Type Y. In the following weeks, he escorted Bublum to and from St Thomas’ Hospital — which he held in far higher regard than the workhouse — for a litany of tests that proved equally unforthcoming. Thus the household settled into a routine of accommodating Bublum’s symptoms, and doing all within their power to ensure he did not overexert himself.

On the morning of March sixteenth (a date Miss Scott emblazoned in Frank’s mind as the date of a meeting regarding the Society of Women Musicians in London, which she quite clearly expected him to attend), Frank slipped into the sitting room. Bublum had grown accustomed to taking his breakfast there, as it was significantly more comfortable than the austere dining room, and the others were more than happy to join him.

Mr Bliss was away on business for the week, but his son sat lounging upon a chaise, looking entirely contented with himself, as ever. Blissy and Barty had in essence exchanged places — the former returning from Pembroke for the Easter holiday, the latter departing to Gloucester for his own healing.

The trio had just dug in to a light meal of porridge (the house having decided to share Bublum’s bland, prescribed meals in solidarity) when the doorbell buzzed. Then came the sound of Miss Riddell’s sensible Oxfords in the hall, welcoming a pair of chatty visitors. Not a minute later, Snowden and Cedric bounded in through the sitting room door.

“Morning, all!” chirped Snowden. “Ready for this blasted meeting?”

“You needn’t sound so enthusiastic,” said Bublum.

“Yes, yes, it’s a worthy cause and all,” said Snowden, waving one hand dismissively. “It’s just that we have to listen to Miss Scott drone on at the Union General Meetings enough as it is, and I’ve no head for lectures.”

“I’m sure the Society meeting was half the reason Barty was so quick to flee back home,” added Blissy.

“Be that as it may, the success of the Society’s first concert — and of the RCM Union in general — is due entirely to Miss Scott’s diligence,” said Bublum. “We owe it to her to be good Associates.”

“You only say that because you don’t have to go,” Cedric quipped.

“Perhaps,” said Bublum with a sly smile.

“Is there anything we can do for you before we leave?” Frank asked, shifting all of the condiments and other breakfast paraphernalia within Bublum’s reach before rising.

“There’s no saying how long we’ll be away, knowing Miss Scott’s penchant for loquation,” said Blissy.

“I am not an invalid!” Bublum insisted, feigning to prickle at their concerned faces. “I am perfectly capable of caring for myself, and I should very much like you to get out of my house!”

“It’s my house, though,” Blissy mumbled as they bade Bublum farewell and stepped into the overcast street.

Chilly, grey days had haunted London throughout spring, and the Collegians buttoned their jackets tight about them before mounting their bicycles.

“Have you heard the news?” Snowden asked Frank and Blissy as they pedalled off toward Kensington High Street.

“I haven’t done much save practise at home the past few days,” Frank answered.

“What news?” asked Blissy.

“The Titanic went and gorged herself on an iceberg!” Cedric cut in.

“Georges — that absolute nit — didn’t want to boast that it was the Titanic he had been hired to when we were all balmy on the crumpet over Bublum,” said Snowden. “Ireland and I were the only ones on the docks to see him off.”

Frank braked hard, nearly sending himself over his handlebars. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Well, don’t be!” Snowden insisted. “It’s what he wanted; Georges isn’t one for fanfare. I’ve never met a less sentimental Frenchie!”

“No, I mean— about the… about the drowning.”

“Drowning? Tosh!” said Cedric. “The Titanic is unsinkable! She’s limping along to Halifax, and all the passengers were transferred to Carpathia, or so they say.”

Or so they say. Frank’s brow furrowed. Maybe, just maybe… this wasn’t the past after all. Maybe he was in an alternate version of history. In the last seven months or so, he had managed to glean that Asquith was in fact Prime Minister, and Edward VII had in fact died several years prior, only to be succeeded by George V. Much of what Frank had learned was consistent with his own understanding of history, and yet… perhaps…

He pedalled hurriedly after the others. An immense crowd had gathered at Hyde Park Corner, the clamour drowning out even the sound of motor vehicles. Snowden shook his head in mock condescension.

“All the major intersections are just the same,” he said. “Some people revel in disaster!” But he appeared to beam in pride at knowing someone at the source of all the commotion.

Just then, a newsboy darted across the street, a paper displaying its massive, bold headline flapping behind him. “Titanic disaster!” he cried. “Great loss of life! Only six hundred and seventy-five rescued — mostly women and children!”

Snowden drew up short. Already the boy was swarmed by curious onlookers, but he pushed past them.

“What do you mean, ‘great loss of life’?” he exclaimed. “Just last evening the reports said all aboard had been saved!”

“White Star officials lied,” shrugged the boy. “They thought the Titanic was unsinkable. They were wrong.”

Snowden collapsed on the kerb, his mouth working frantically though no sound came out. The other three joined him, their legs splayed out in the street with little concern for safety. Blissy procured a flask he had stowed in his jacket pocket and passed it to Snowden. They did not make it to Miss Scott’s lecture for the Society of Women Musicians in London.

Chapter Text

Frank slipped out the front door of the Holland Park residence without so much as a goodbye to Bublum, Barty, or Blissy lounging within. Many passersby cast disapproving looks in his direction as he walked towards Earl’s Court, for he wore no hat, nor a thick coat to guard against the unusually chill September. But any who bothered to look closer would notice a great many more details amiss: the broughes of a modern make, a suit from a brand that did not yet exist, the lack of a tie.

When he came at last to the flat that had once been his home, Frank stared up at its simple brick face and bay windows. He felt a momentary urge to mount the steps and ring the bell, perhaps see how this residence compared to the one he had known so well, but this peculiar impulse soon passed.

Frank patted his waistcoat in search of a tiny pocket, but found nothing. He had gradually broken himself of the habit of checking his phone for the time, only to replace it with a new habit: checking an actual watch. But his modest Baume Brothers piece — a Christmas gift from Mr Bliss — lay on his desk back in Holland Park.

“Excuse me,” he said, approaching an elderly gentleman. “Could you spare me the time?”

“Quarter to three.”

Frank smiled; he was perfectly late. He gave the gentleman a rushed word of thanks before bolting down the street and into the entrance of Earl’s Court Station, dodging sightseers who stood gawping at the new escalators. With no Oyster card, Frank was forced to buy a ticket: an inescapable deviation.

Trains didn’t run nearly as often as they had in the 21^st century, and yet the timing was as if fated — Frank had to race down the stairs in order to leap into a compartment just before the train departed. His luck held as he emerged from South Kensington Station; pedestrian and motor bus alike seemed to leap aside as he darted along streets familiar, past institutions whose altered façades he had now grown accustomed to.

The nearer Frank drew to the College, the more energy trilled through each limb to spark at his extremities. He could feel the press of anticipation, urging him onward, faster. He didn’t halt his headlong dash until he tripped up the front steps of the entryway — always that same blasted step!

Slipping unobserved into the main foyer, he hid behind a marble column and eyed the concert hall entrance. Christmas term exams were a mere two days away, and so staff and a few students were about, preparing for the unhappy event. If Frank were discovered wandering about in his formalwear during the midsummer holiday, he was sure to face uncomfortable questioning. Best not risk it.

If everything went according to his hopes and intentions, the exams were an ordeal he would not have to endure.

Frank crept across the antechamber and stole into the concert hall, breathing a sigh of relief on discovering it was empty. The stifling atmosphere was a hyperbaric chamber as he scuttled down the stairs and strode past aisles of chairs, the heels of his boots clacking against the hardwood floor. It was a sound he no longer noticed.

The clack of boots was followed by that of a viola case upon the stage. Frank’s folio — another habit now second nature — soon joined it. Metal case hasps rattled as he unlatched them. There was no shoulder rest to attach; Frank had quickly noted his Bonmusica did not fit in with the cloths and cushions used by other students. Now he used his own swath of linen fabric that had, over the course of the year, formed to his shoulder.

Frank’s heels grew still on the stage, viola perched upon his shoulder, bow dangling at his side.

One year.

Bublum’s slight figure drifted in front of Frank’s vision, followed by Barty’s beak of a nose and Blissy’s toothy smile, Benjee’s immaculate hairstyle. He heard Snowden’s jocular voice in his ears, heard Ireland’s elegant baritone, Cedric’s constant quips. Felt Kirby’s frowning countenance, Professor Stanford’s rebukes, Mr Bliss’ limitless generosity.

But then he thought also of Herb’s gentle, passionate friendship, Ivar’s logical artistry, the amusing antics of Art and Ben — and the enthusiastic, congenial Student Union family they had created together in the twenty-first century. He thought of Professor Lawls’ kindly guidance, and even felt a tinge of longing for Professor Henn’s acerbic teaching style.

He thought of his parents’ graves — their real graves, beneath the tremendous branches of an ancient English oak; not the seemingly identical headstones he had discovered, shaded by a scrawny sapling, up in Leamington when he visited during the Easter holidays. When he learned the house he had grown up in did not exist yet.

Frank heaved a sigh. At the centre of it all was the RCM. Behind its brick and stone façade existed both the familiar life he had once known and the new life that had now become familiar — a life with significantly more smog and sexism, to be sure, and also and a distinct lack of mobile phones, but one he had come to accept nevertheless.

Had he not learned to make due with the College scholarship’s £1 allowance? (He gleaned through the others’ comments some indication that he had come into a few thousand pounds’ inheritance following the sale of his family home in Leamington — but where that tidy sum might be sequestered, he did not know.) Had he not learned to appreciate the Edwardians’ dapper dress? Had he not revelled in the performances of works by Holst and Coleridge-Taylor, Bridge and Elgar, as conducted by their original composers? Saw the London premier of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé?

And yet he most desperately missed his old life. Most desperately missed home.

Frank inhaled a rattling breath, closed his eyes, and raised his bow to the string. These emotions — insecurities, hesitancies, longings, affections, curiosities — he translated into music:

The Elegy.

That single note. That single melody, unaccompanied even when the orchestra ought to have come in. It simultaneously sent its cries skyward yet made no sound.

It was a lament most fervent — and a lament it most undeniably was, for whatever was to become of Frank, there would be no escaping the notion of loss. The sea that had once borne him aloft now threatened to drown him; there were none to buoy him up, none to pull him ashore. Weightlessness was replaced by the heavy draw of the ocean’s depths, and colours that had previously unfurled from his bow became ribbons of black, binding his soul.

The vibrations of Frank’s viola wafted upon the air, filling all corners of the hall. He did not need to open his eyes to feel each chandelier, each flourishing cornice, each stand neatly arranged along the side of the stage by anticipant students eager for their holiday.

Would his own RCM still be on holiday, as well, or had term already begun? Would his friends rush to greet him, having known of his absence? Their smiling faces telling of relief and love, of lost companionship regained? Or would they see him as Bublum had in the beginning: no different from any ordinary day, in medias res?

Would he dare try explain to them the inexplicable? Or would he keep it to himself — a mere memory, a phantasm, a delusion?

Surely Frank was not imagining a surge in energy as he drew near the double bar! The swell and recession of the opening motif’s final repetition wound the tension in the hall like a tuning peg, and when the final G3 petered out — more than a full measure before the orchestra would have, had Frank had any accompaniment — the thrum of anticipation did not dissipate with it.

Frank desperately longed for breathless, bated silence, longed for the same sound that had marked his initial temporal shift; and for a short while, his desire was granted.

Then a single pair of hands clapped.

Frank did not open his eyes. So long as he did so, the applause could belong to anyone — to Herb, to Ivar, even to his own self, though the viola neck and bow frog still clutched tightly in his hands indicated the last was unlikely.

“I see now why Stanford likes you!”

Frank cracked one eye open to spy Bublum lounging in one of the chairs set out for the term exam proctors. Disappointment rushed in to compress his lungs and leave him gasping for air. What had he done wrong? What else could he possibly do? What ill will of fate had he tempted, to wind up its cruel plaything?

Frank wavered on his feet, knees nearly buckling beneath him, but Bublum didn’t notice. Frank didn’t want him to.

“Stanford doesn’t like me,” he stated flatly.

“He does,” Bublum insisted. “He’s quite set in his ways, and at least one of those ‘ways’ is backwards, to be sure; why, just last week he said to Benjee, ‘You Jews can’t write long tunes’ — imagine! Of course, it stung all the more for the fact that Benjee has indeed never written anything longer than a sonatina, though that clearly has nothing to do with his Jewishness.

“But Stanford has no nurturing tendencies — in fact, I very much think he actively discourages the practice in himself; ‘spare the rod, spoil the child,’ and such. He will never say he likes you, or your work, but on the ever so rare occasion, he will show you.”

Frank gently placed his viola back in its case and took a seat on the stage edge as Bublum prattled on. He hunched over, elbows braced on his thighs, and struggled to control his racing heart.

“Are you all right?” said Bublum, his voice suddenly very close. Frank looked up to see a face right in front of him, lines of concern etched plainly across Bublum’s forehead.

“Fine, I’m fine,” he said, feigning nonchalance. Fine, considering he had lost all hope of returning to a life he once knew, to people he still loved, to all that he had once considered home. “Fine.”

Bublum gave Frank the same look the Bs gave Bublum when he breathed a little too laboriously for their comfort. “Come on,” he said. “Aren’t you curious as to what I’m doing at the College during midsummer holiday?”

Frank sighed gently. “All right, what are you doing at the College during midsummer holiday?” he asked, thankful both for the diversion of topic and for the fact that Bublum hadn’t asked him the same question.

With a wild look in his eye, Bublum snapped the viola case closed and passed it to Frank. Tucking the folio under his own arm, he grabbed Frank’s wrist and dashed from the concert hall, turning down the corridor toward the men’s stair. Up, up he went, up to the topmost floor, then along the narrow hallway until they came to room 83.

“It’s quite impossible to find an unoccupied room during term,” he said, throwing his shoulder against door hinges swollen by the summer heat. “But now they’re empty. Perfect time for inspiration!”

The two friends crammed into the miniscule practice room, made all the more claustrophobic for the small practice organ that consumed nearly half the space. Bublum slid onto the bench, his feet scarcely reaching the pedals, and urged Frank to sit beside him.

Before he had even tucked his viola case against the wall and picked up the folio Bublum had laid on the bench, the gentle swell of organ filled the air. Bublum’s hands didn’t flit across the keys as they did when he played piano; instead they moved with intention — slow and deliberate, gliding from one key to the next, notes slurred into a soothing melody. As composed as his upper body was, however, Bublum’s legs shifted first here and there as his toes sought the appropriate pedals. No matter how far Frank scooted toward the edge, he always seemed to be in the way.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Bublum turned to Frank with an enthusiastic grin. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

For a moment, Frank stared into those fathomless brown eyes, always the right slightly narrower than the left. A glimmer there ignited a brief spark of hope within Frank. Perhaps he should tell Bublum everything: the incredible journey through time, his failed attempts to return, all that would come to pass over the next century. Perhaps sharing his perturbations would ease Frank’s weariness, perhaps Bublum would understand.

Or perhaps he would not. Already the Bs were consumed by their concern for Barty; Frank’s own tale was sure to redouble that, even if they believed his wild tale. And the fact still remained that Frank didn’t particularly fancy spending any time in the Maudsley. No, perhaps it was best to endure in silence.

Frank shook his head, only to find those brown eyes were now clouded with confusion and a slight trace of hurt. Bublum was still awaiting his answer.

“It’s an unusually simple melody in comparison to your other works,” Frank rushed to say. “But that simplicity enhances the lullaby’s soothing nature.”

“I’ve a mind to call it ‘Cradle Song’,” said Bublum, his cheer quickly restored. “It materialised fully-formed in my head this morning, and I couldn’t be satisfied until I heard it on the actual pipes — and so I, like you, find myself at the College during midsummer holiday. Now pull that stop,” he added, pointing to one of the white knobs protruding from the side of the console.

“This stop?” asked Frank, motioning toward one.

“No, no, not that one. That one!” But as Bublum went to point closer toward the appropriate stop, the cramped space proved overwhelming; he accidentally knocked the folio from Frank’s hands, sending sheets flying onto every surface of the tiny practice room.

“Oh no!” Frank moaned, leaping from the bench and gathering the papers as quickly as he could. Bublum knelt on the floor to help, but stopped just as suddenly, rising to his feet.

“What’s this?” he asked. Frank glanced up, only to see what he dreaded most: his own neat notes scrawled across the page.

“Just— ah!” he reached for the paper, but Bublum fended him off. “Homework. From Stanford.”

“You’re not a composition student,” Bublum frowned, suspicious. His eyes scanned the lines, translating scribbled splotches into music in his mind. His brow furrowed deeper. “This is… quite good, you know.”

Frank finally succeeded in snatching the music back and shoved it into his folio. “It’s only practice,” he said, blushing. Not even in his own time had he ever composed anything save what was explicitly assigned. “Stanford was bully-ragging me about my counterpoint again.”

Bublum’s lips twitched, hinting at a stifled smile. “It really is little wonder he likes you so much. You’re nearly as insufferably swottish as I am!”

“Maybe,” Frank sulked. “You can keep your history essay prizes, though.”

“I very much intend to,” said Bublum, retaking his seat on the organ bench. “Now come on, I’ve another piece to play for you!”

Frank’s suspicions ought to have been aroused when he couldn’t find his folio several days later, but instead convinced himself he had misplaced it in a fit of absentmindedness. In this assumption he was mistaken, however, and it was thus with surprise he was summoned to Professor Stanford’s office soon after term began. He approached room 53 with not unwarranted hesitancy — unexpected summons from the brusque Irishman had the potential to go either extraordinarily well, or devastatingly poorly.

There was no answer when he knocked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Frank turned to leave, only to hear a belated shout from within. He slipped inside the office like one condemned, portraits with the likes of Chopin, Beethoven, and Handel peering down at him in distant sympathy.

“Take a seat, m’bhoy,” said Stanford from within his cloud of tobacco smoke. If there was one thing Frank was still not used to, it was that everyone smoked everywhere, all the time. His heart accelerated at the thought that he might have to get used to it, that he might not ever live in a world where non-smoking was the norm again. He sat across from Stanford and scanned the papers scattered across the professor’s desk, searching for anything with which to distract himself from his rising panic.

“Hey, that’s my composition!” he exclaimed when he realised what it was the professor was shifting from one hand to the other.

“Yes, yes it is,” said Stanford, his eyebrows waggling in time with his pipe. “It came to me by way of a little bird.”

“Bublum?”

Stanford did not confirm. “Is this what is going on inside your head during our lessons?” he asked, shaking the papers in Frank’s face.

Frank’s chest fell. Bublum’s surely well-intentioned actions had been misguided; how could his artless jottings satisfy Stanford when even the most accomplished students flailed against his unattainable standards? “In all honesty, the ideas usually come to me far later, after class. I’ve no head for improvisation.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all be Barty, can we?” mused the professor, poring over one page of particular interest. Frank didn’t know how to interpret that comment, and so remained silent.

“I must admit — it is most certainly not perfect, but it has potential,” Stanford continued.

Frank blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“With some rather thorough editing, I do believe this suite would clean up nicely for one of our concerts.”

“You want it to be performed?” asked Frank, flabbergasted.

“That is what I said, yes.” The professor peered at him over the top of his glasses. “It seems to have been written with a very specific violoncellist in mind; it would be a shame if the concerts’ permanent fixture did not have the opportunity to hear the piece played properly. I am only curious as to why you have not chosen to compose for, say… the organ.”

“Violoncello is easier to write,” Frank shrugged.

“Yes, well, come to your next one-on-one with this revised,” said Stanford, placing the music back in the folio and handing it to Frank. “I should like to see what you can do with it before I give you any guidance. You are dismissed — it is nearly two o’clock; don’t be late for orchestra rehearsal again.”

Frank stood and fled the office, not daring to look back. His mind whirled with the notion that Professor Stanford had just paid him a compliment, had suggested his composition was worthy of being heard. These were comments Frank was accustomed to hearing addressed to others; a mass of Bublum’s had been performed at Westminster within a week of his arrival at RCM, and Barty was always off exploring some new musical trend or another. Even Benjee’s works — lambasted for being “short” as they were — had garnered attention on occasion. But Frank had never believed that kind of attention would ever be turned on himself, least not for his maladroit compositions.

Ah, imposter syndrome. He’d nearly forgotten the term.

Frank took a steadying breath and marched down the hallway to room 58, folio clutched to his chest. If he was going to be stuck in the past for the foreseeable future, perhaps he ought to embrace it.

He threw open the door with a bang. “All right, I’ll do it,” he declared. Miss Scott turned to him, a hand over her startled heart.

“Are you feeling quite well, Mr Warren?” she asked.

“Right as rain, I’d say.”

Miss Scott simply shook her head. Perplexing artist-types abounded at the College. “Do what?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you’ll do it, and I was inquiring as to what ‘it’ you meant.”

“Ah, right!” said Frank. “I’d like to become a member of the Union.”

Miss Scott nodded. “Two shillings sixpence,” she said without missing a beat, as though she had always known he would capitulate. Perhaps she had. “To be paid before November first — please see to it you are not amongst the members who invariably fall due. The Annual General Meeting has been set for the afternoon of January sixteenth; if you do not bring your invitation card, you will not be allowed in.” She peered scrupulously at him before adding, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to become a member of the committee?”

“One thing at a time,” said Frank, hands raised in surrender. The woman was incorrigible.

“We look forward to seeing you at Musical Evenings.” With that, Miss Scott returned to her paperwork, businesslike as ever. His energy suddenly draining, Frank slipped out of the Student Union office and went in search of Bublum, intent on berating him for having shown Stanford his composition.

Chapter Text

Frank leaned back in his chair, listening for the front door to close downstairs. That was Mrs Riddell gone, then. There had been little for the dailies to do around the house all summer, what with Blissy and his father off in America, Barty ostensibly recovering in Gloucester (although he was, in all likelihood, exchanging barbs with his stern and inflexible mother), and Benjee treating Bublum to his first tour of the continent.

Blissful silence settled over room and hall. Frank shut his eyes and tilted his head back, breathing in the quietude before bending back over his desk. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his forehead, down his neck to his collarbone. The cool glass of lemonade Mrs Riddell had so kindly made helped tame his flaming cheeks when he rolled it against each in turn. The weather wasn’t quite as sweltering as it had been two years back, but it was still summer in London — without air conditioning.

Unfastening a few additional buttons of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves, Frank resumed reading the letter from Bublum that had arrived that afternoon:

—the audacity to intrude on our compartment! Benjee was perfectly polite and welcoming, as you can imagine, but I was so exhausted from being bumped about ever since Gloucestershire that I must admit I was feeling quite peevish. Good God, I have never heard a man talk so much! And with so little sense — to have so slight an opinion of Wagner!

Well, having picked him up in Paris, and his accent being what it was, both Benjee and I were entirely convinced he was French, and so felt free to rhapsodise about the insincerity of Italian opera (for the man knew little of any other mode). Imagine our surprise when he revealed that he was not, in fact, French… but Italian! It was with immense relief and not a little embarrassment that we disembarked at Montreux.

But our spirits were soon restored, and in full! My dear Bunny, I do not often find myself absent words to convey description and emotion, but I am truly at a loss when it comes to what greeted us at Lake Geneva. The mountains have a way of making one feel so terrifically small and insignificant! A storm rolled in just before dinner and loosed tremendous lightning and thunder all evening, and so I felt all the smaller — and all the more alive. Perhaps we might return together one day, and you’ll see why these mountains have served as so much musical inspiration. Wagner, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky!

Tomorrow we make for Mont Blanc. I will write you there as well, of course. How goes the composition? Stanford isn’t bully-ragging you too much, is he? ‘But time is running out, me bhoy…!’

—Your beloved Bublum

With a smile, Frank folded the letter and set it aside. His answer would have to be written later. Giving his sleeves an extra roll just in case, he drew the cluttered mess of his revisions toward himself, bent his head over his work, and burnt the candle at both ends — or, in this case, made excessive use of the electric lamp Mr Bliss had kindly gifted him — deep into the night.

The red pen in Professor Stanford’s fingers waggled threateningly as his eyes scrutinised each and every mark on Frank’s proffered sheet music (including some hastily corrected last-minute mistakes, brought on by exhaustion in the wee hours of the morning). It paused here and wavered there, but never made contact until it tapped twice right next to the double bar at the end of the last page.

“It is quite competent,” Stanford concluded, though he quickly added, “for a first attempt.”

Frank still beamed with pride; that was a high compliment coming from the stodgy professor. “There are still some places I’d like to iron out, perhaps with the performers’ input,” he said with full humility.

“You had Snowden in mind, if I’m not mistaken? This is quite in his style, and I’ve heard rumours you two have been thick as thieves of late.”

“We’re close, yes,” Frank acknowledged. But his motivation for writing the suite for Snowden was not due exclusively to their friendship, but also to the fact that John was undeniably the most expressive cellist currently at the RCM. There were very few College Concerts where he was not featured, and with good reason.

“And the accompanist?”

“Oh, I’ve already asked Benjee.”

Professor Stanford pursed his lips; he did not approve of nicknames, though even he had capitulated once he realised each and every other member of the RCM staff found the notion endearing, and used them almost to the exclusion of the scholars’ given names.

“It is your composition,” he said at last. “Why don’t you play it?”

“I, uh— I don’t… play violoncello?” said Frank, confused.

“Not the violoncello, you silly bhoy! The accompaniment. You can manage that much at least, can’t you? Your skills have come along sufficiently – to where they ought to have been from the start. This is your third year; it’s about time you debuted at the Concerts.”

Frank stared at the pince-nez pinched delicately across the bridge of the professor’s nose, failing to see the eyes behind them in his daze. He had not missed a single College Concert since enrolling in RCM-of-the-past; they were a stark break from the unceasing and oftentimes quite specialised programmes of the future RCM, but there was something about the smaller student body, the camaraderie and support that felt more like family than Frank had ever experienced in the twenty-first century.

And he had, of course, participated in orchestral concerts; all members of the orchestra were expected to — particularly those who had worked their way up to second chair as Frank had. But as for chamber concerts… he had only ever watched from afar.

“The first College Concert of term is to be chamber, on October twenty-third,” said Professor Stanford, interrupting Frank’s chaotic, distinctly un-train-like thoughts. “Have the suite ready by then.”

With a wave of the professor’s hand, Frank was dismissed. Still reeling, he stumbled out of Room 53, down through the halls and foyer of RCM, and along the bustling streets of London. It was rote memory alone that ensured he made it all the way back to Holland Park without incident. Mrs Riddell was just on her way out as he came up the walkway, although she turned right around when she spied Frank’s state.

“Whatever’s the matter, Bunny?” she asked. “I’ve known ghosts with more rosy-cheeked constitutions than you.”

“Absolutely nothing’s the matter, Mrs Riddell. Kind, good Mrs. Riddell!”

Frank stumbled into the house and up the steps to his room. Collapsing at once into the desk chair, he set his folio to one side and drew pen and letter-paper to himself instead. (A tray of cucumber sandwiches soon materialised at his elbow in spite of his reassurances to Mrs Riddell.) He immediately set about penning a letter to Snowden — who was away in France — but once that matter of practicality was taken care of, Frank extricated a new blank sheet and sat staring at it for quite some time.

Now that it was finally time to reply to Bublum in earnest, he found the words would not come, though he couldn’t say what gave him pause. It wasn’t as though Bublum would be at all surprised to learn of Stanford’s intentions — he had spent nearly a whole year insisting the piece would soon be played at a College Concert. “One of these days, Bunny, just you wait!” had been his mantra all throughout the spring and summer.

Feeling a calmness wash over him at the mere thought of Bublum’s support, Frank picked up his pen and began in the best way he knew how:

Dearest Bublum,

Stanford has lost his d——ed mind!

As term drew near, the residents of Bliss Family Boarding House slowly filtered back. First to return from their tour of the Alps were Bublum and Benjee, though the enthusiasm with which they greeted Frank and his newfound success might have misled one to believe they found more joy in that than their own thrilling journey — or, perhaps, it was not so misleading after all.

Next was Blissy and his father, bearing gifts from America: a strange assortment of Campbell’s Soup cans — consomme, mulligatawny, chicken gumbo and the like, completely unfamiliar to Frank — and an incredibly bulky box of chocolate creme sandwich biscuits. Oreos. Mr Bliss had managed to procure Oreos!

“I had to visit at least half a dozen stores before I found a box!” he bragged. “Highly sought after, they are!”

But Frank had not been prepared for something so suddenly and distinctly reminiscent of the future. It was small moments like this that still dug into his heart like the tiniest of pebbles in a shoe; sometimes it could get wedged in such a manner that the wearer didn’t even feel it, and sometimes it slipped into a position that completely crippled him. He spent the remainder of the evening cooped up in his room, practising the most morose of pieces he could recall.

One of Ivor’s more dour moods might have been good company, but the abstruse composition scholar burst into the house several days later with a lungful of new song, his spirits revived by the fortifying qualities of a summer upon the Severn. He had, over the course of his weeks away, come into the stern belief that he was, in fact, actually and truthfully, Brahms incarnate.

“I have crafted no fewer than half a dozen songs these past two days alone!” he shouted to the household in general, then descended upon the Oreos, having forgone (or forgotten, more like) all food since his departure from Gloucestershire.

Thus Christmas term stumbled into being in much the same way it always did: with Blissy’s return to Cambridge, and a lengthy and rather uninspired Director’s Address from Professor Parry. Frank found its tribute to the passing of an old Registrar he had never met particularly yawn-inducing, although he sensed he was not the only scholar to feel so; even amongst those who had not come from more than a century in the future, few knew any Registrar other than Mr Pownall. Chairs scraped back and students began to flee the Concert Hall before the professor was even off the stage.

But Frank scarcely made it out into the foyer before Snowden came skipping along, blithe as could be and smelling strongly of cigarettes.

“There you are, Bunny!” he shouted down the hall.

“Snowden! How was Fra—” but before Frank could inquire after Snowden’s summer holiday ventures, the jaunty cellist had already moved on to his next subject.

“Ready for rehearsal?”

Frank froze, torn between duty and the desire not to make a fool of himself in front of the entire student body. “I’ve musical analysis with Dunhill in just a bit…”

“Tosh!” said Snowden, throwing an arm about Frank’s shoulders. “Bless the man, but Dunhill is so absent-minded he will scarcely notice your absence. You know he never takes roll! Plus, I’ve never seen you struggle in any theoretical class; it’s like you learned the material years ago! So come on, let’s go in search of a piano — we’ll never get one if we wait until classes are over.”

And so they mounted the steps, up to the upper-floor Organ Loft and its limited number of pianofortes, where Frank so rarely ventured except when with Bublum. But it seemed many of the other students had the same notion (or were desperate to make up for practice that had fallen by the wayside during holiday). Each room they peered into was occupied — including Room 86, which was notorious for being unbearable in the colder seasons, when the faulty flues clouded it with noxious smoke.

“We can always go to Holland Park,” Frank offered. “Mr Bliss’ grand piano is deevie.”

Snowden froze, then turned to give him a feigned look of contempt. “Don’t ever attempt to use slang like that again. You’re way too swottish for it, mate!”

Then, with a charming smile, he slipped out the front door of RCM and set out along Prince Consort Road, Frank trotting along behind. But even as they strode through the streets of Kensington towards the Bliss family home, Snowden ducked suddenly into a tea-shop and had ordered two slices of treacle tart before Frank could catch up.

“Your treat,” Snowden said as he waited in front of the counter, a twinkle in his eye.

Frank couldn’t help but laugh, his already-dwindling one-pound weekly allowance be damned; treacle tart was the least he could offer to a good friend who was, quite frankly, stooping to a performance significantly beneath his status.

The first rehearsal passed with far less revision than Frank had anticipated. Then one rehearsal turned into two, then half a dozen, and perhaps a dozen more (resulting in more skipped classes than Frank had ever been guilty of, even at RCM-of-the-future). The suite’s five little pieces were not complicated by any stretch of the imagination, but there was no staunching Frank’s compulsion to revise, and the insouciant Snowden was more than willing to accommodate. The pair forged on with ever increasing determination — and occasionally with an audience of Bublum, or Barty, or whoever happened to be around the house.

Thus the last few days of September tumbled deep into October, with no intention whatsoever of slowing. Time sped up, rather, as it is wont to do, and all too soon the morning of October twenty-third dawned, bright and chilly in the way only autumn mornings can be.

Whether Frank truly attended his classes that Thursday, he could not say. Certainly his corporeal body went through the motions, but his mind was ever elsewhere: on last-minute fingering or dynamic changes, on how his work might be received, on insistent thoughts he strove to shut away in dark corners of his mind.

He abandoned his lessons early (indeed, was sent away by Stanford, who was quite through with his lack of focus), only to drift through rehearsals and come home to a house completely upended in chaos. Both Benjee and Snowden had converged early upon Holland Park to offer moral support, and even Blissy had managed to manufacture some pressing business in London and come down from Cambridge just for the occasion.

“Sit down and have some supper, lad,” Mrs Riddell urged Frank as soon as he stepped in the door.

“Have you seen my tails?” Mr Bliss asked to anyone who would spare him half a second.

“The tickets, Bublum! Where are the blasted tickets?” Blissy shouted up the stairs.

But Frank was as oblivious to the mayhem as he had been to Dunhill’s lecture that morning. Unable to stomach even the thought of food, he politely declined the mutton cutlets Mrs Riddell had prepared special for the occasion (though Barty was more than happy to indulge in a second portion) and mounted the stairs. Bublum found him some time later, standing in front of his dresser, eyes staring blankly at the blue silk cravat in his hand.

“Bunny?”

Frank was already so lost in thought that he didn’t respond. Each performance in The Past had brought about the same notions — that maybe, maybe… maybe this would be the time he returned home. Maybe this time, the power of music would transport him as it had before.

But the aftermath of each performance only shattered his diminishing hopes.

Perhaps it was time to give up.

Perhaps it was time to wear the tie.

And yet… a nagging part of Frank’s brain couldn’t help but think he was only pretending to give up, in the hopes that the fates (or whatever ill-willed force it was that caused his current circumstances) would choose that very moment, that shift in perception, to drag him back through the ages again. Would that make success just as unlikely as when he wished outright to return?

Such thoughts sent him stumbling into a complex web of confusion, which increasingly wound in on itself until Frank was lost entirely. He felt as though he would plummet head-first into the abyss, spiralling out of control, until his discomposure was interrupted by Bublum’s hand on his forearm.

“Bunny, are you all right?”

Frank turned to look into his friend’s eyes, dark and wide with concern. Then, after taking a fortifying breath, he offered a halfhearted smile of reassurance. “Let’s go.”

Hastily tying his cravat, he followed after Bublum down the stairs (turning momentarily back for his viola before remembering he didn’t need it) and out the door after the herd of others.

The College was dressed spectacularly for the occasion. All the lamps were lit, staving off a night which fell even earlier than its predecessor. Bouquets of flowers graced the entrance and the foyer beyond — red and white chrysanthemums, in honour of the Princess of Wales and thus the school colours. Garlands adorned the foyer ceiling and Concert Hall entrances.

Miss Scott stood in guard of the left-hand door, and was just turning away a pair of first-years (who had unluckily misplaced their tickets) when Frank and company approached.

“Good evening, Miss Scott,” said Benjee, all manners and charm.

“Good evening,” she replied. “Making good use of your guest tickets, I see.”

“Come on, Marion,” Snowden cajoled. “Two guests to five scholars is scarcely enough to drain the punch bowl.”

“Miss Scott, if you please, if not Madame Secretary,” she insisted, not unreasonably. “If there is nothing but standing room tonight, you all shall be considered responsible. Here are your coat check tickets; you may retrieve your items at the office to the right following this evening’s festivities. Refreshments are in the Examination Room — to be enjoyed at intermission or after the performances only, Mr Gurney,” she added with a particularly withering look at Barty.

“As always, dear Marion,” said Snowden, only to be sent scuttling into the Concert Hall with his own glare and whispered “knave!” from the secretary.

A great many music desks had been brought down from the upper floors to form tables scattered throughout the hall, each with its own tablecloth and floral arrangement. Every remaining millimetre of remaining space, including the mezzanine, was crowded with chairs. Already a large crowd milled about, greeting one another, preparing for performances, or laying claim to the best tables. Frank caught a glimpse of Miss Clarke near the exit to the garden, but a brief smile and nod was all that passed between them before she was lost amidst a wave of new arrivals.

Soon after, Mr Pownall mounted the stage just as a gong urged the gathering to find their seats. Snowden’s seniority and charisma had secured a table for the group about midway back, near the exit leading to the rehearsal rooms — most convenient for himself and Frank. But the cellist himself was already absent, preparing for the first performance of the evening even as the registrar cleared his throat to give the opening address.

“I bring with me news of Director Perry’s regret that he cannot join us this evening, on account of being not in the greatest of health,” he began. “I have from him, as could be expected, a rather long-winded telegram…”

Completely disregarding any comments Director Parry might have seen fit to send, Blissy leaned across the table in that moment and whispered to the others, “I’ve decided to transfer to RCM.”

Momentary shock reigned; the whole table save Mr Bliss (who was quite in the know) stared at him, open-mouthed, until Bublum also leaned forward. “What?” he hissed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I have been considering it for a long while, and am currently in discussions with the admissions office, but didn’t make up my mind until just now,” Blissy shrugged.

“But… why? Not that we won’t be glad to have you!” said Frank.

“—regret to announce my own retirement,” Mr Pownall continued, oblivious to the quiet commotion below. “Owing, as many of you know, to my own rather protracted and acute ill health, it has come—”

“Quite frankly, I don’t think I can stand Professor Wood’s teaching a day longer!” Blissy glared across the hall to where that very same distinguished educator sat, returning that very same glare.

“Well, you’ve certainly been caught out, that’s for sure!” Mr Bliss laughed.

“Mr Wood is a long-standing patron of the College Concerts; we ought to have warned you,” said Benjee.

Their clandestine conversation was interrupted by a wild round of applause as two women rose to their feet. Frank ever so vaguely recognised them as Misses Grimson and Dudding — violinists who had graduated the RCM some time ago, but still participated in Student Union meetings on occasion.

“Second violins Miss Jessie Stewart and Miss Dora Garland,” said Mr Pownall. Two additional women stood. “And finally, Miss Sybil Maturin and Miss Rebecca Clarke as violists.”

The rowdy cheering grew deafening, but Mr Pownall forged on. “That all six women are the first to be inducted into the Queen’s Hall orchestra — and at the same pay as its men — is truly a remarkable feat well-deserving of RCM’s history books. Their debut performance is to be held on November first, with a rendition of our own Director Parry’s Symphony in B minor. I imagine I shall see a great many of you there.”

Raucous whoops continued for some time even after the beaming women had retaken their seats. Frank glanced in Miss Clarke’s direction just as she happened to look in his, but when he raised his hands to offer her congratulatory applause, she blushed and ducked her head, turning instead to strike up a conversation with her tablemates.

But already Snowden was mounting the stage alongside three of the newly-inducted Queen’s Hall Orchestra musicians. When the sweeping chords of Tchaikovsky’s first string quartet struck his heart, Frank’s panic set in with a fury. His suite was second to last in the evening’s programme, which was an honourable position to be sure — but also a position which left the most time to induce anxiety. He scarcely noticed when Snowden tumbled back into his seat, breathless and sweaty, and the strains of Beethoven’s fifth violin sonata began to drift out across the audience.

“To follow Blissy’s news with my own,” Snowden said quietly to the table, mopping at his forehead with his handkerchief, “I’ll be leaving RCM this term. It’s about time I graduated!”

Frank’s world drew suddenly into sharp focus, but all he could manage was, “What?”

“Now that’s a proper show-up!” Blissy laughed good-naturedly.

“We’ll miss you terribly,” said Bublum.

“Come now, Ireland wasn’t even gone from RCM a full term before he returned to perform in Colomba,” Snowden pointed out. “No scholar ever truly leaves the RCM.”

Furious shushing came from the nearest table. Snowden sent a sheepish (albeit insincere) smile in their direction before leaning in close to Frank. “So let’s make this performance one to remember, eh, Bunny?”

Frank’s stomach somersaulted all the more furiously. He did not move from his seat as the intermission came and went, nor did he partake in any food or drink, for fear it would come right back up. When the performances resumed, he scarcely heard one scholar’s rendition of Liapunov’s Nuit d’été and Études d’exécution transcendante, so intent was he on all the thoughts and emotions refusing to form any sort of sense in his head. Then, as a mezzo-soprano and her accompanist replaced the pianist, Snowden leaned in once again.

“Time to go!” he said.

Frank stared at him, almost uncomprehending, heart thrashing against his ribcage. With a characteristic grin, Snowden seized his hand and half-dragged him towards the side door. A chorus of whispered “good lucks!” followed from those gathered at the table (all save Barty, who was nowhere to be found — it was assumed he was somewhere in the general area of the Examination Room, raiding the refreshments).

Snowden and Frank ducked out into the hallway and into one of the rehearsal rooms, where they stumbled upon the pianist hastily wiping her cheeks. Briefly commending her Liapunov performance, the pair set about their final rehearsal in earnest. How quickly the time flew! Before Frank’s brain could register the progression of events, the two of them stood lurking behind the Concert Hall door, much as Frank had all those years ago — and all those decades in the future — before the performance of Elegy.

Then came polite clapping and heels on wood flooring. The door burst open suddenly.

“If I am not expelled from the College after that performance, it shall be a very lucky thing indeed!” the mezzo-soprano sobbed, caterwauling down the hallway towards a more private room in which she might succumb to her emotions unobserved. The accompanist rushed after her to offer comfort.

Snowden exchanged a glance with Frank, gave a casual shrug, then pushed the Concert Hall door open and bumbled through with his cello — Frank realising far too late it would have been the considerate thing to do to hold the door for his friend; he was so accustomed to having his own instrument to navigate that the thought hadn’t even crossed his preoccupied mind.

He felt naked mounting the stairs without his viola in hand. Wiping his sweaty palms on his trouser legs, he straightened his cravat and swept a hand over his well-coiffed hair (Blissy and Benjee’s doing), then took a seat on the piano bench — only to find his kneecaps nearly crammed against the lyre post; the accompanist was significantly shorter than he.

In the heavy silence, the bench scraping along the wooden stage as he adjusted its position set Frank’s teeth on edge. Muffled laughter could be heard scattered throughout the hall — perhaps at the humorous height discrepancy between Frank and the accompanist, or perhaps at how stereotypically awkward the sound was, and yet Frank couldn’t help but feel certain it was directed explicitly at himself. His face flushed red.

But then Snowden gave his own chair a particularly aggressive scoot, purposefully eliciting the same sound. He turned around to give Frank an encouraging wink.

The smile Frank sent in return, however slight, was genuine. He huffed a quiet laugh, closed his eyes, breathed in deeply… and placed his fingers on the keys. When he opened his eyes again, it was to signal Snowden.

From the very first chord, every passing beat grew increasingly torturous. Each mistake — all Frank’s own; Snowden was a consummate professional — rang harsh in his ears, each phrase sounded childish and under-developed, the counterpoint deserving of Stanford’s endless lambasting. The melodies no longer brought joy to Frank as they had when he composed them, the harmony no longer fit so neatly. The audience seemed to lean in closer — not for any connection to the music, but in anticipation of their flaying any remnants of Frank’s delicate ambition.

His hands refused to stop shaking. His fingers seemed to skip keys of their own accord. His legs felt too weak to press the pedals. His breath rattled in the silence between each miniature. (Why did he have to be so zealous as to compose five?)

At another missed note, Frank truly and earnestly wished with all his might that this performance would not transport him back to the future; he could not leave the past with such an abysmal farewell. There was so much left to be done, so much left to learn, so much to be redeemed!

His wish, of course, was granted… if such things were even possible in the first place.

In one agonising moment, it was all over — all five miniature pieces: An Absent One, A Little Cradle Song, Whims, So Seems in My Deep Regret, A Sunday Evening in Autumn — all.

Even as the last notes of A Sunday Evening petered out, the audience erupted into raucous applause, with rather unseemly whoops and whistles coming from the left where Bublum and the others sat. Frank rose in a daze and stumbled to Snowden’s side. They bowed in unison, although Frank’s was a little wobbly, and he wavered when straightening. Snowden seized his forearm.

“Steady on, Bunny!” he said, flashing a grin. “You’ve only just gone and bloody done it!”

Frank didn’t (couldn’t) respond. After a few disoriented seconds, he wheeled around and fled the stage, Snowden following with several final waves to the crowd.

Once back in the rehearsal room, Frank collapsed and lay sprawled starfish-like on the floor, its wood worn smooth by only a few decades’ worth of students’ feet. A few decades more, and the entire hall would be extensively renovated. A few more, and Frank-of-the-future would be walking this very same spot. How many more dreams would dissipate on the fickle wind of the unremarkable by then, how many egos — diminutive and inflated alike — ground down beneath the millstone of reality?

As soon as Snowden tucked away his cello, he joined Frank, sweeping his arms and legs along the rather dusty floor as if making a snowman. “Don’t act like you munged it, mate!” he said. “It was a good showing! I’d expect this kind of sulking from Barty, but I always thought you were a reasonable fellow.”

Frank just groaned, certain the heartbeat thudding in his ears and throbbing in his fingers was just as apparent to Snowden — evidence of how riled he still was. But if his own bodily functions weren’t loud enough, the next performer struck up the organ, blasting Bach’s Toccata and Fugue through its pipes. The notes reverberated deafeningly within the rehearsal room as if to mock Frank.

Just then, Bublum and the others burst into the rehearsal room in a cloud of boisterous spirits and animated conversations. A hundred questions crashed over Frank all at once, joined by a thousand hearty congratulations, adding to his fog of confusion. Benjee passed him a glass filled to the brim with a bright red drink.

“Here you go, Bunny — some cordial to fortify you!” he said, then added in a whisper, “I’d not ask Blissy what he slipped in it, if I were you.”

“Shouldn’t you all be out listening to the last performance?” Frank asked weakly, taking a sip of the cordial and nearly coughing it back up. He wasn’t going to ask, but whatever Blissy had added, it was strong.

“Nah, Shimmin is a right josser and none of us organists get along with him,” said Barty, having been discovered by the others in the hall outside with hands full of cream-puffs. “Not even Professor Alcock likes the blighter, and Alcock likes everyone — including me.”

“Come on,” said Benjee, clapping his hands together then extending one to Frank, pulling him up off the ground. “If we go now, we’ll make it to the Examination Room just as Shimmin finishes up. First in line for refreshments!”

“Excellent,” said Barty, cramming the remaining evidence of cream-puffs into his mouth in preparation for more to come.

Frank allowed his friends to guide him through the halls to the Examination Room, listlessly accepting whatever food and drink they shoved into his hands. When they returned to the Concert Hall, the lights were all up; audience and performers alike milled about, sharing impressions of the programme or titillating gossip, their good spirits enlivened by an evening of excellent musicianship.

Frank, on the other hand, was perfectly content to slump into a chair and stare off into space, occasionally drinking from the glass of cordial Benjee had provided. Many Collegians, professors, and alumni came over to clap him fondly on the shoulder and offer congratulations; he accepted praise from Kirby, Ireland, Professor Dunhill and the like with reserved thanks and half-hearted smiles. The approach of Professor Stanford, however, sent him into an absolute panic — though he needn’t have worried.

“Well done, m’bhoy, very well done!” Stanford exclaimed. “I rather think old Hubert will be quite put out at having missed such a splendid debut from one of the College’s most promising scholars! Well done in-deed!”

The professor then sauntered off, hemming quite contentedly to himself, pleased with the knowledge it had been he who — at least in part — fostered the talent in said scholar. But just as Stanford could be heard muttering “Whims!” to himself, Snowden leaned over and tapped Frank on the elbow.

“Let’s go get a breath of fresh air, shall we?” he said, nodding in the general direction of the courtyard.

He didn’t wait for Frank’s answer before standing and wandering off, although Frank didn’t really mind; the courtyard garden had very quickly become his favourite place to relax, or to gaze down into during his lessons in classrooms that afforded him a view. The flagstone courtyard of twenty-first century RCM and its measly potted plants had been replaced with (...or preceded by) a lush lawn, flowerbeds, and gravel paths. A young maple grew in the very centre, its leaves now tinged with the sunset hues of autumn. Magical even on the most ordinary of days, this sanctuary was awash with the enchanting illumination of electric lights — remarkable even to Frank lately.

Small clusters of concert-goers were dotted across the lawn. Snowden wove through them in order to take shelter next to the maple, where he and Frank would be at least partially screened from view. Glancing quickly about to ensure there were no professors — or, worse, Miss Scott — nearby, he pulled his cigarette case from his breast pocket and extricated one.

“You’re a real member of the RCM now, make no mistake,” he said to Frank, cigarette wagging between his lips as he attempted to light it even as he spoke.

Frank gave an amused huff. “Just as you’re leaving.”

“So it goes,” Snowden shrugged, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the maple’s upper branches. “So it goes. But you know, in leaving the RCM, I’ll also be leaving the Union Committee.” Both his words and the glance he gave Frank then were laden with significance. “I know Marion has been haranguing you about taking a position on the Committee for a while now.”

“Ever since I signed up for the Union in the first place,” Frank laughed.

“You ought to think about it — and seriously. That curmudgeon Kirby will also be graduating; perhaps you can have a bit of a gab with Benjee or Bublum and convince one of them to join, as well. You’ve seen the chaos of those General Meetings; the Committee needs level heads like yours.”

“Level heads?” Frank felt as though his was about to float off into the night sky.

“It’ll do you good,” Snowden insisted. Just then, his gaze hovered momentarily over Frank’s shoulder, in the direction of the garden entrance. But even as Frank turned around to see what had caught his attention, Snowden gave his arm a pat and started walking off.

“We ought to perform together again soon!” he called back over his shoulder. “I hear the December fifth Concert still has slots open.”

Snowden soon vanished amongst the other guests, and in the next instant, Frank discovered what had so occupied him: Miss Clarke. She made a beeline directly towards Frank and stopped beneath the maple, perhaps a few centimetres closer than dictated by polite manners.

“Good evening, Mr Warren,” she said.

An impulsive thought flashed through Frank’s mind. For some reason, he couldn’t stop his mouth from saying, “You can call me Bunny, if you’ve an inclination. Everyone does.”

His eyes screwed shut; shame flushed through him in an instant. It was one thing to study literature and have a general understanding of “how things were,” but it had taken Frank a considerable amount of time to become accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of etiquette prevalent in post-Edward VII England — doubly so because the RCM students and staff seemed to have very little consideration for such conventions. Not only were nicknames rampant, but outside of a few lingering habits such as separate entrances, there was a rather egalitarian mixing of both gender and class.

Even so, it would not do to suggest that a young, unattached woman call him Bunny.

Perhaps he ought to have asked Blissy what he put in the cordial, after all.

But Frank was greeted by the sound of Miss Clarke’s laughter, more melodic than any of the performances he had just been audience to. He opened his eyes to find a good-humoured smile on her lips.

“I thought you’d never offer,” she said. “Perhaps I might extend the same courtesy to you.”

“Very well, Reb— Miss Clarke.” After his immense gaff, Frank simply couldn’t bring himself to use her given name so suddenly. His best hope was to divert the topic. “Deepest congratulations on your appointment to Queen’s Hall — may Sir Henry Wood recognise the jewel in his orchestra’s midst.”

His entire body shuddered in humiliation yet again. To any familiar with the impact Rebecca Clarke would ultimately have on the sphere of viola performance and composition, these words were a criminal underestimation of her significance; from the perspective of those who had yet to witness such events unfold, however, it was exceedingly immodest flattery.

But Miss Clarke rescued Frank from his mortification yet again with a gentle, sincere, “Thank you.”

And then the conversation fell into an excruciating lull. Frank rocked on the balls of his feet, floundering in a discomfort of his own making. Finally, some obscure corner of his brain decided to ask, “What brings you here?”

“Well, you see, as an alumnus of the Royal College of Music, I spend a great deal of my time supporting my alma mater.” Miss Clarke’s eyes glittered in amusement. “This includes attending College Concerts and other similar events.”

Frank’s pain only compounded. “I meant the gard— to ask what brings you to the garden.”

“Ah, is it not expected to congratulate a promising composer and musician after such a splendid performance?”

“Do not mock me, I beg of you!” said Frank in a greatly exaggerated display of dramatics, covering his face with his hands. “To even say it was ‘a fine performance’ would be unmerited.”

“You were nervous,” said Miss Clarke kindly, sympathy overtaking sarcasm. She reached out to gently pull his arms down. “It was a sweet piece, and perfectly in-keeping with trend. It is an accomplishment deserving of pride — not only the composition itself, but having had the courage to write it at all.”

“Your flattery only wounds me more,” Frank sulked.

“Well, it was impressive enough that I have come to propose an idea I’ve shared with you at least once before: performing at a Musical Evening.”

Frank stared at her, more than a little impolitely. In truth, he didn’t rightly recall Miss Clarke ever having made any such suggestion, although he might have been so terrified he cast it from his memory at once. Only the most accomplished Collegians — both current scholars and alumni alike — performed at Musical Evenings.

“Only one will be held this term, as there was a dearth of drawing-rooms volunteered,” Miss Clarke continued in the face of Frank’s complete silence. “Unfortunately, the programme has already been set, but I’ve spoken with Miss Sylvia Thompson — perhaps you know her? — and begun arrangements for another Musical Evening next term; possibly February or March. What say you?”

Frank’s words were caught somewhere down by his sternum. Miss Clarke looked at him quizzically as he shook his head, half in answer to her purely rhetorical question regarding Miss Thompson, half in sheer astonishment.

“Well, there’s time to convince you yet,” she concluded. “Good evening, Bunny.”

She was more than halfway across the garden before Frank regathered enough of his wits to shout out, “Good evening, Rebecca!” in her wake. Then he was left alone, beneath the maple tree and electric lights, wondering whether he truly wished to torture himself with another night like the one he had just endured.

Chapter Text

Frank paused in front of what would — many, many years in the future — come to be known as the Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall, trepidation stilling his steps. Memories of the countless prospective student tours he had given flashed in his mind. Fleming’s story, which at the time seemed so far in the distant past, would not even begin for another decade at least — and then it would be a further two before the enigmatic cellist would win a scholarship to the Royal College of Music in 1943.

Frank frowned; some passing fact occurred to him about Fleming having studied under a man named Ivor James and… one John Snowden.

Some small part of his brain didn’t want to do the calculations, didn’t want to confirm one more detail that locked him into the very real past. Frank ought to be used to the notion, now that he had spent nearly two and a half years discovering how frequently the minutiae of daily post-Edwardian life was reinforced by what was to come; but he found it particularly unappealing to square away the image of the youthful, exuberant Snowden (who, even having graduated the RCM, was so often Frank’s accompanist) with a stodgy, middle-aged violoncello tutor.

It was easier to assume the two figures were entirely separate.

Frank refocused on what was, at “present” time, merely the Concert Hall, and the doors through which he could now hear Miss Scott’s commanding voice: “If you would all be so kind as to sit in the front row of chairs — yes, the very front — not so modestly in the back — that’s it — otherwise nothing of the speeches will be heard, and discussion will be especially difficult. Quickly, now! Director Parry will be here any minute.”

Even as she said these words, Frank heard footsteps fast approaching. He turned to spy the Director himself, eyes fixed on his pocket watch, scurrying down the hall.

“Ah, young Bunny!” Director Parry exclaimed when he finally glanced up. “What are you doing, standing out here like a wind player who has lost their measure?”

“I, uh—” Frank gestured halfheartedly at the concert hall entrance, “...was about to go in.”

“Yes, well, you’d best hurry! Not even I would risk Miss Scott’s ire at being even later than we already are.”

But then Director Parry stopped, gave Frank an additional glance, and threw one arm about the hapless violist’s shoulders. “There are two vacancies on the committee that the honourable Secretaries are looking to fill this session, and a little bird told me that the name of one exceedingly talented instrumentalist has been both proposed and seconded — along with that of his very Australian pianist friend,” he said with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, which made it appear as though his spectacles might slide off the tip of his nose at any second.

“So it would seem,” said Frank.

But the Director wasn’t listening as he dragged Frank into the concert hall. In a surprisingly sprightly flash, he was gone from Frank’s side and making for the stage, leaving Frank to search for a familiar face amongst those crowded (rather reluctantly) in front. He didn’t have to look long; Benjee and Bublum sat just to the left of the gathering, frantically waving their arms back and forth. Frank slipped into the chair next to them just as Miss Scott shot an annoyed glance in the direction of several additional stragglers — a group which included Barty.

“Now that most of you are in attendance,” she said, taking centre stage, “let us commence the Annual General Meeting on this day, Thursday, January fifteenth — sit down, Mr Shinn; you may read the minutes after the Director has finished — at three forty-two in the afternoon…”

Frank couldn’t help but let his mind wander as the meeting began in earnest. Director Parry’s address was astoundingly short, but it was soon followed by Miss Scott’s rather protracted and less-than-gripping annual report, and the even more stupefying presentation of the balance sheet. As one Miss Daymond spoke at length about the union loan fund, Frank’s thoughts returned briefly to Snowden before launching into a nebulous web of indecision and self-doubt.

Was it really the right choice to apply for a position on the Committee? He had adored his position on the Student Union back in the twenty-first century, but it somehow felt different, more communal, more esprit de corps (as Director Parry liked to say) one hundred years in the past. What if he were to suddenly succeed in getting back to his time, leaving Miss Scott et al. in the lurch? What if becoming a committee member, becoming even more entangled in life here, made it all the less likely that he would return to his life there?

“As for elections—”

Frank’s eyes snapped up and his heart flew into a frenzy when his stupor was shattered by these words, only to realise Miss Scott only meant the Honourable Officers’ positions. With a brief and perfunctory raising of hands, both she and Miss Darnell, the financial secretary, were re-elected as a matter of course — but then Frank’s fate came sharply into focus.

“With those formalities over,” said Miss Scott in a manner that brooked no nonsense (that is to say, her typical manner), “it is time to discuss Mr Percival Kirby and Mr John Snowden, whose departure from the College is sorely felt. But their absence at the College also leaves two vacancies in the General Committee which might be filled by fresh, eager Union Members. Several nominations have been submitted in accordance with the guidelines set forth in the previous Magazine; those that were late have been disqualified.”

This statement elicited several groans of disappointment from the audience, but Miss Scott continued undeterred: “Let us first hear from Miss Phœbe Walters…”

Frank didn’t (couldn’t) hear what Miss Walters had to say, nor Mr Glyn Walters who followed her. He wasn’t even entirely sure what words came out of his own mouth when it came his turn — something along the lines of “dedicated member of the committee” and “hardworking asset,” and a brief appeal to his leadership in the orchestra — then he sat stunned as Benjee delivered a rousing speech with his typical charisma and well-coiffed hair. When the Committee members passed around scraps of paper, Frank accepted his automatically, with a blank stare and a mouthed “thank you” to Miss Darnell.

“Please write the name of your candidates neatly on your ballot before submitting,” Miss Scott declared, looking very pointedly in the direction of Frank and his companions. “If it cannot be read, it will not be counted, Mr Gurney.”

Barty waved his hand in half-hearted acknowledgement as Bublum took Frank’s paper from his listless fingers and wrote his vote for him. In a matter of moments, or so it seemed, Miss Scott was reaching into the ballot box.

“One vote for Miss Walters,” she announced. “One vote for Miss Walters. One vote for Mr Benjamin. One vote for Mr Warren. One vote for Mr Waters. One vote for Mr Warren. One vote for Mr Warren. One vote for Mr Benjamin…”

On and on the Honourable Secretary’s voice droned; Frank couldn’t keep track of the numbers — although Mr Shinn had no troubles. He announced the results as though they were as unremarkable as the weather, and before Frank could process his and Benjee’s election, the Union had passed around the draft of a circular letter and begun discussing improvements.

But even as Frank sat in a stupor, Benjee’s beaming smile and Bublum’s incessant nudging told him that what his ears had heard was true.

His head was still reeling when the gathering broke into applause at the President’s concluding remarks and made with all alacrity towards the refreshments table arranged at the back of the hall — “the tea fight”, as the social hour following the annual general meeting was colloquially called.

“I’ve been led to understand Miss Rebecca Clarke has spoken to you about our next Musical Evening?”

Frank turned, half-filled bowl of strawberry ice in hand, to spy Miss Scott peering at him questioningly. “I recall some such discussion, yes,” he said, having finally recovered most of his wits after the meeting’s whirlwind of emotion.

“Yes, well, she informed me that Mrs Hanbury Aggs — perhaps you know her as Miss Sylvia Thompson? — volunteered her drawing-room for the occasion, but has since withdrawn the offer on account of her father’s poor health.”

Simultaneous relief (at being free of a performance engagement) and disappointment (at being deprived of a performance engagement) flooded through Frank. But all that came out of his mouth was, “That’s a shame.”

“It might have been, had not Miss Clarke immediately offered her own drawing-room in its stead.”

Frank’s eyebrows crashed together. “I thought Miss Clarke lived in Harrow?”

“Ah.” For perhaps the first time since meeting her, Frank thought he saw some combination of uncertainty and hesitation on the secretary’s face. “It is not exactly my place to say, but Miss Clarke’s relationship with her father had been deteriorating over the past several years, and she was recently forced to find… alternative accommodations.”

How was Frank to know? And yet he felt somewhat guilty for having asked. In the twenty-first century, he would have suggested that Rebecca stay at the Bliss family “boarding house,” but in post-Edwardian England that simply wouldn’t do — not even amongst the socially lax Collegians.

He settled for a disinterested, “Is that so?”

“Yes,” said Miss Scott, eyes boring into Frank. “She seemed very adamant that one particular violist who has seen a great deal of success in recent College Concerts be asked whether he might deign to grace her home with his music.”

“Oh?”

“Not that his participation was a non-negotiable condition of the offer — on that particular point she was perfectly clear — but she was very adamant.”

“Miss Clarke is at the forefront of British viola performance; her desire to promote the instrument further is only natural. Perhaps she ought to invite Lionel Tertis to fill her programme.”

Miss Scott’s mouth twisted into its typical thin slant. “Your false modesty is unamusing, Mr Warren. I’m certain you can arrange something in time.”

“And when, pray, is ‘in time’?”

“March seventeenth.” Miss Scott turned on her heel and began marching towards Barty, who seemed determined to fit all the remaining eclairs into his mouth for safekeeping. “See that you are ready.”

It is said that Leonardo da Vinci in turn once said “art is never finished, merely abandoned” — and though it remains a mystery as to whether Leonardo ever said such a thing at all, the words themselves are proven time and time again to be true. When Miss Scott said “see that you are ready,” what she in fact meant was “see that you are as ready as can be, given that you can never truly be ready.”

Somewhere in the chinks between Easter term classes, rehearsals, new Committee responsibilities, practice sessions, and brief hours of sleep, Frank went about getting “ready” — starting with the tracking down of Benjee, Snowden, and a pair of violinists: the beak-nosed Eugene Goossens and one Mr Philip Levine, terror of the second violin section.

“The usual suspects,” Stanford mused when the quintet tumbled into his office, seeking validation and chamber work recommendations. He stared at them, equal parts narrow- and twinkle-eyed, then sent them scrambling with copies of Dvořák’s second piano quintet in hand. “A nice but not overt tribute to the lower string registers,” he assured them.

Thus were even more rehearsals piled onto Frank’s already overburdened schedule — and yet he found he didn’t mind much at all. With anxiety eased by the fact that it was no longer his own composition he would be performing, Frank fell into a routine long-established by his years at the RCM of the future. This was what he was meant to do, whether it was this century or the next; he was meant to share music, meant to connect with others through music, meant to get lost within music.

And so he plied himself to practice and rehearsals with renewed vigour — but alas, the tread of time is slowed by anticipation, and the more desperate Frank became to perform, the further away the Musical Evening felt. A torturous two months and two days passed before the fateful event arrived at last.

Viola in hand, Frank dashed eagerly down the polished wood steps of the Holland Park residence even as someone banged on the front door. Before poor Mrs Riddell could even emerge from the kitchen, he threw the door open and both Benjee and Snowden burst into the entrance hall, shaking off the pouring rain from their coats and bulky cello case.

“Hullo, Bunny! Ready for our Musical Evening debut?” Benjee greeted him.

Frank’s face blanched. “No,” he muttered.

“Come on, Barty!” Snowden shouted up the stairs. “We’re late already!”

“Are we?” asked Frank, panicking. He pulled out his pocket watch and fumbled it in his hurry.

“No,” Snowden scoffed good-naturedly. “But pretending like we are is the best way to get Barty to move his bloomin’ arse.”

“I can’t find my ticket!” Barty wailed down from his room.

“That’s because you gave it to me for safe keeping!” Benjee called back. Grumbled curses could be heard in response.

“It’s a shame Blissy can’t come,” Snowden remarked as they waited for Barty’s heavy steps to come thudding down the stairs (although it was only more cursing that they heard).

“I can’t help but wonder whether Professor Wood failed him on purpose, after Blissy was caught at the Concert last term,” said Benjee.

Frank’s eyes were suddenly on the floor, ceiling, wall — anywhere except on his friends. He still felt bad about the whole incident, even if it hadn’t exactly been his fault; it was Bublum who invited Blissy, after all, and Blissy ultimately didn’t have to… mislead Professor Wood about the reason for his absence from Cambridge. But the entire scheme had been done in support of Frank’s composition, and there was no denying that.

“Still, no sense risking it, I suppose,” Benjee shrugged. “Only one more term and he’ll be back in our esteemed company!” He concluded this sentiment with one of his typical dashing smiles.

“What’s all the gas?” exclaimed Barty, slipping down several steps in his rush. His collar was still askew. “You said we were late!”

“Sure, sure,” said Snowden. “But we can’t leave without saying goodbye to Bublum.”

All four stuck their heads into the drawing-room, where Bublum sat surrounded by a pile of blankets on the chaise lounge. It was drawn near the fire to ward off the chill of an especially rainy mid-March evening — though all the blankets had been thrown off, and Bublum appeared rather flush.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Snowden, stepping into the room to pull the blankets back over Bublum.

“Awful,” said Bublum. He attempted a smile, but his voice was scarcely above a whisper, and his hands shook as he threw the blankets off just as soon as Snowden tucked them in.

“I’ve brought you some tea from Wilkins,” said Benjee, pulling a packet from beneath his coat. “Hopefully it didn’t get wet.”

“Assam?”

“I know it’s your favourite.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Barty pressed.

Bublum waved his hand weakly. “Go.”

“I’ll have Mrs Riddell fix you up a bit of brew,” said Benjee, holding up the packet of tea.

Bublum merely nodded in response. Taking advantage of the pause, Snowden began shepherding the other three out of the drawing-room. “Let’s leave the poor man to his peace. If we don’t go now, we really will be late.”

“We’re not already late?” asked Barty, confused, but Snowden just continued to drag him towards the door.

“Be safe!” Bublum whispered after them.

“We’ll be sure to avoid any wayward women wearing fur muffs!” Snowden called over his shoulder, eliciting a laugh from the others.

“Fur muffs?” Frank questioned.

“You haven’t heard the scandal?” exclaimed Benjee, eyes wide.

“What scandal?”

“No time!” Snowden insisted.

And so the quartet handed the packet of Assam tea to Mrs Riddell with desperate entreaties to look after Bublum to her greatest ability — which she might have been inclined to take offence to, had she not known their hearts were in the right place — and darted out into the curtains of rain.

“Blast, if this isn’t the wettest spring we’ve ever had to endure!” Snowden shouted, clutching his cello and hat tight to him as they raced east along Holland Park.

“If we were going any further, I would have begged Mr Bliss to return all the way from America and drive us in his motorcar!” laughed Benjee.

Still, it was only a handful of minutes before they were being greeted by the kindly Professor Dunhill at the door of Miss Clarke’s respectable Ladbroke Terrace residence — where they were also greeted by a wall of humidity. Barty’s glasses fogged up instantly as the troupe stood dripping onto the entry hall floor, the black and white chequered tiles of which were already quite wet.

“I’ll take your coats, lads,” said Professor Dunhill.

“Ah, Bunny, you’ve made it!” exclaimed Miss Clarke, approaching from the parlour. “I hope your journey wasn’t too terrible in this storm.” She then turned to Frank’s companions. “Mr Snowden, Mr Benjamin, Mr Gurney.”

“Miss Clarke,” they chorused in unison.

“Mr Goossens and Mr Levine are already enjoying refreshments, if you’d care to join them.” Miss Clarke gestured towards the parlour, from which flowed the sound of boisterous conversation.

“Leave your instruments and outdoor shoes in the entrance hall,” Miss Scott commanded, appearing suddenly behind Miss Clarke. “I don’t care to ruin Miss Clarke’s lovely rugs, otherwise we’ll never be invited back — and we’ve few enough drawing-rooms offered for Musical Evenings as it is.”

“Good evening, Miss Scott,” Snowden proffered.

“You’re late,” she sniffed in answer.

“Come now, Madame Secretary,” Professor Dunhill said in an attempt to pacify her. “With this rain, it’s a wonder we’ve any guests at all. Let the boys dry off a bit before sending them to the stage.”

Miss Scott’s mouth became a thin line yet again. “I knew I ought to have put you lot last in the programme…” she muttered to herself, stomping off to attend to what was surely pressing business.

Frank and Snowden nestled their instruments in the spandrel beneath the stairs and followed Miss Clarke and the others into the parlour. It was already chock-a-block with students both past and present, as well as a smattering of professors and associated musicians — including several Academy students who had succeeded in infiltrating the Collegians’ ranks. Frank thought he caught a glimpse of George Butterworth and went to greet him, but was distracted by Ireland’s booming baritone:

“Hullo, boys! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, giving handshakes all around. “Where’s Bublum?”

“Feeling a bit under the weather, unfortunately,” Benjee explained.

“As you might expect, considering what weather we’ve got. Send him my regards, if you will.” Ireland pulled a tray of sandwiches away from a protesting Goossens and Levine at a nearby table and offered it to the newcomers. Only Barty took one (though he quickly took two more); Frank in particular was too nervous to eat.

“Come to give us a song or two, Ireland?” asked Benjee, who craned his neck around in search of tea.

“A whole cycle of thirteen — and there’ll be no running away or avoiding it like at the College Concerts!”

“Resurrecting Somervell’s Maud, then?” Snowden hazarded.

“Naturally; Stanford insisted — and yet he’s nowhere to be found, on account of the rain. Bah! Speaking of not running away, have you lads heard the news out of France?”

“We were just talking about it earlier,” said Barty through a mouthful of pork pie he had procured for himself. “Really quite the scandal!”

“What? What?” Frank begged. “I’ve been locked away in rehearsals the past few weeks, and haven’t seen a newspaper in even longer.”

“You tell him, Benjee — you’re our French expert,” said Snowden, accepting the pork pie from Barty.

Benjee blushed at this compliment, but launched into the story with evident gusto nevertheless: “Are you at all familiar with the newspaper Le Figaro, Bunny?”

“Vaguely,” Frank lied.

“Well, just yesterday its editor, Gaston Calmette, was entering his office in the evening when his wife pulled a pistol from her muff and shot him dead!”

“Shot him four times!” Barty exclaimed.

“The minx,” Ireland interjected.

“Why?”

Benjee shrugged. “No one’s certain. But what they are certain of, is that Calmette’s wife didn’t even try to run away. She insisted on being chauffeured to the police station in her own private vehicle, rather than the police van.”

“Oh, to be rich!” said Snowden.

“Calmette was dead before the day was done,” Benjee concluded.

“And good riddance,” said Ireland. “Serves him right for being soft on Germany during the Agadir incident — nearly plunged us into a war, that did!”

“And him praising Kiderlen-Waechter while condemning Caillaux!” added Benjee. “Sheer hypocrisy.”

“A pox on Le Figaro and its warmongering,” said Snowden dramatically.

“Wasn’t France the aggressor in Morocco?” Frank asked, trying to recall hazy details of history lessons long past.

All of them turned to stare at him.

“That’s because Germany doesn’t understand anything except strength,” said Benjee. “Poincaré was right when he said they only use our willingness to negotiate against us. They see it as weakness.”

“You boys had best not be discussing politics on this otherwise lovely evening!” declared Miss Scott, materialising like a ghost between Barty and Benjee, causing the former to freeze in fear.

“Politics? Certainly not, Madame Secretary,” Snowden cajoled. “How could you accuse us of such uncouth behaviour?”

Miss Scott eyed them all suspiciously before jerking her thumb in the direction of the entrance hall. “It’s time. It seems there are no more stragglers, and we need something to distract everyone while more food is being prepared. Miss Clarke and her staff were not expecting so many guests to partake in spite of the weather.”

Frank and company shuffled back through the crowded parlour into the hall and sifted through the mountain of coats and personal effects to extricate their instruments. Perhaps he ought not to have been, but Frank was still surprised to discover a manuscript tucked beneath his viola case, protected from the damp by a leather file. He flipped it open to discover Lullaby on an Ancient Irish Tune scrawled across the top in Miss Clarke’s elegant script. Just below was an additional line: To Bunny.

Frank inhaled sharply. If only she knew!

But she didn’t.

And he had no intention of telling her.

Placing the file reverently in his case, Frank slipped back into the parlour after the others. Benjee was entertaining the crowd with a rendition of his Romance-Impromptu, which he had composed some time ago and still played on occasion but never seemed satisfied with. Even as the final resolution petered out — this time a G-major — Frank tucked himself away in the corner beside the piano, between Snowden and Levine.

An unfamiliar calmness washed over him as he shifted his chair back against the faded green wallpaper and gave his viola one final tuning. Not even the crowd gathering around, pressing in could unsettle him — though the chatter that persisted towards the rear of the room certainly helped to ease the tension he typically felt during more formal concerts. There was something about the cosy, intimate nature of Musical Evenings that made Frank feel as though he were at home, expressing himself as best he knew how, regardless of what year it was.

And here he was, taking his place in this pantheon of renowned musicians, in history itself!

Final glances passed between the five before all eyes turned to Benjee.

With a graceful sweep of his hands, the first waves of piano notes lapped gently upon Dvořák’s musical shores. Atop the undulating swells bobbed the boat that was Snowden’s cello, no more than a small ketch (perhaps Director Perry’s own Wanderer), light and happy to be borne where the will of the world took it. Then Frank, Eugene and Philip leapt in — a summer storm upon the sea, brash and angry, but quickly soothed by dissipating winds.

It was, after all, Dvořák; each piece was its own story, each melody its own plot.

Frank was so consumed by the music, so engaged with his fellow performers that he didn’t hear how quiet the gathering had become. It wasn’t until the dumka that he felt the full weight of the silence, the anticipation for each and every note, punctuated by the lash of rain against the windows.

When Goossens took over the melody, Frank glanced around at all those who surrounded him, staring with rapt attention. There was Barty, who had abandoned all pursuit of food and stood front and centre, swaying with eyes closed. Immediately beside Barty was Ireland, and Professor Dunhill who had taken an inconspicuous position right up against the wall. There was Miss Clarke — Rebecca — and Miss Scott, also, and Professor Stanford, who was slipping in from the entrance hall at that very moment. He sent a surreptitious wink in Frank’s direction.

Smiling in response, Frank attempted to refocus on the music. But his thoughts were soon drawn to Bublum, tucked away back home, and to Blissy stuck in Cambridge; drawn to Director Parry and Mr Bliss, and even of the ill-tempered Kirby. Of everyone who had been integral to his adjustment to life in the past. Emotions heightened by the sentimentality of Dvořák, Frank’s heart swelled with gratitude and affection.

Then he was struck by a notion he had never previously considered: whether he might not live long enough to seek out his parents, or any of the precursors to his life that was yet to come. If he was truly trapped in the past, perhaps he might wait for the Leamington house that he had grown up in to be built, for the vestiges of the future to reveal themselves. He had never really known his grandparents or their origin, but there were other ways of seeking information, even if Google was almost a full century out.

But in the same heartbeat, despondency seeped in.

It was a fool’s hope.

These things were lost to him — both in the past and in the future.

Where he belonged was here, amongst those he had come to love, who had shown him kindness and empathy and generosity, and to whom he wished to return in kind and in equal measure.

He belonged here, where he could see for himself the way in which modern British composition had come into being.

He belonged here.

Chapter Text

Frank stared up at Kitchener’s long, pointing finger: accusatory, identifying, commanding — the bold “YOU” every bit as intimidating as the illustrated Earl’s stern gaze. Kitchener was already Earl in the summer of 1914, wasn’t he? Historical facts swirled in Frank’s addled mind as a stream of would-be volunteers pressed past him into the recruiting centre of Kensington Town Hall — the old one, not the Kensington Town Hall Frank knew, the one across from the Central Library.

He hadn’t exactly forgotten about one of the most important events of the 20^th century. It had just seemed so distant, so irrelevant to the livelihood of an enthusiastic musician that Frank had simply… not paid its encroachment any attention, especially when consumed by chaotic life at the College.

Cedric had gotten married to one Miss Betty Jennings.
Snowden had officially left the RCM.
Rebecca had performed Berlioz’s iconic Harold en Italie at a College Concert.
She and Frank had attended the London debut of Vaughan Williams’ Phantasy Quintet together.
Bublum had won the RCM’s History Essay prize yet again.
Frank and Benjee performed Dohnányi’s piano sonata during another College Concert.
Bublum’s Nunc Dimittis had debuted at Westminster during Holy Week.
Frank had been browbeaten by Stanford into performing twice more that Midsummer term.

Life had demonstrated all the affectations of normalcy.

And what was Frank supposed to do, anyway? Go and infiltrate Young Bosnia and stop Princip before he pulled the trigger? Somehow negotiate the cessation of Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia and Herzegovina? What was one small, insignificant person to do against the tide of history?

Thus Frank was somehow taken by surprise when he stumbled down the stairs and into the dining room on the morning of June 29^th, only to spy the Archduke’s assassination splashed across the front page of Mr. Bliss’ daily newspaper. Oh, how Frank had regretted his cavalier attitude then! It didn’t take a time traveller to figure out what was about to happen next.

“Make up your mind, josser!” A pair of impatient recruits roughly shouldered Frank aside, tangling his web of thoughts into a jumbled mess. “You going in or no?”

Frank ripped his gaze from the recruitment poster and turned from the crowds. “God save the King,” he mumbled, with only a tinge of irony.

Trodding through the oppressive heat of mid-September as though each step would be his last, Frank skirted through Holland Park and tripped up the steps of the Bliss Family Boarding House — only to have his greatest fears realised even as Edith passed him a glass of cold lemonade in the entryway.

“—before we miss the action!” Blissy could be heard declaring from behind the dining room’s double doors. Frank shoved his way through to find Blissy, Bublum, and Barty all gathered round the table, joined by a concerned Mr. Bliss at its head.

“War is war, boys,” said the indomitable patriarch, his stern countenance speaking more than words ever could. “No sense in getting caught up in something if there’s no need.”

“No need?!” exclaimed Blissy. “How can you say there’s no need, father? This is the defence of our country we’re talking about. Of course there’s need!”

“How was your trip to America, Mr. Bliss?” asked Frank, sliding into a chair and downing his lemonade in one parched gulp.

“As well as could be expected, all things considered,” replied Mr. Bliss, his accent thicker, as it typically was after spending time in his native land. “I now consider myself fortunate to have been able to make it back home without much incident. How go your preparations with Benjee?”

“Professor Dunhill has tasked them with performing his very own quintet,” Barty interjected.

“And Bublum has written a piano concerto Benjee will play at this upcoming Patrons’ Fund concert,” said Frank, attempting to divert attention both from himself and the impending international conflict.

Blissy, however, was not so inclined. “We’ll be lucky if we see those performances through,” he remarked.

“Surely the war won’t reach our shores?” said Bublum, a tinge of panic in his voice. Frank bit back the urge to make some comment about not visiting Scarborough — there was still a whole year before the zeppelin attacks would commence — but Blissy was very much not through with his proselytisation.

“That’s not the point,” he insisted. “We won’t be at risk of attack in England if we’re at risk of attack in France. I’d be ashamed to die at home while our brothers are being killed overseas.”

“You intend to enlist, then?” said Barty. The breath of hope and excitement in his voice drove nails into Frank’s gut.

“You don’t?” Blissy accused. “Kitchener promised we can sign up together and serve in the same unit — pals battalions they call them. What do you say?”

“No,” Frank whispered, not even conscious of the fact that he had spoken until all heads whipped around to stare at him. He blinked back, his mind in such turmoil it might as well have been blank.

‘No?” Blissy questioned. “Surely you’d want to fight alongside your friends rather than some stranger. Who else can you trust to have your back when the bullets fly thick, when you’re lying on the ground and need someone to read you your last rites?”

“I, uh–” said Frank, attempting to regain his train of thought. “I, that is, think about it from the other perspective: if we are all together and our entire company is taken out, we all die. But if we’re all in different battalions, at least some of us might survive.”

Blissy scoffed. “Afraid of dying for your country, Bunny? Put off your enlistment too long and there won’t be any Krauts left to kill! Wouldn’t you say, Bublum?”

“Don’t ask me!” laughed Bublum. “They’ll surely not accept me, what with my condition and all.”

The others stuttered into silence. It had been some months since last Bublum was incapacitated by a sudden onset of fatigue, but there was no escaping his medical record.

“I’ll have to lie about my own…” Barty gesticulated vaguely at his head.

“And hopefully they won’t test your eyesight too carefully!” Blissy jested.

Barty frowned as he adjusted his comically thick glasses. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Blissy confirmed, but then he glanced at Frank and an uncharacteristic seriousness overtook him. “Each to his own unit.”

That’s how Frank wound up back at Kensington Town Hall after classes the next day, Kitchener staring him down yet again. The building was surrounded by clusters of boys — because that’s what they were: boys. Most looked too young to enlist, but everybody knew which centres checked birth certificates and which, more importantly, did not.

The line ran all the way out the Town Hall front door and down High Street towards Kensington Gardens. Frank felt supremely out of place, clutching his viola case tight in his slippery palms with his music folio swung over one shoulder. But there was no holding back the press of tides; he inched forward with the rest of the prospective recruits like a river of sludge making its way towards the sea — a sea that would dilute them into nothingness.

How had he wound up here? To Frank of the twenty-first century, war seemed like an even more distant concept than to Edwardian Frank. He was vaguely aware of the UK’s various military entanglements around the globe, something about the Middle East (did they even have any active combatants there?), and of course MOD’s Operation Rescript in response to COVID-19. But this — this was war, as traditional as modern conflicts got.

Some 880,000 deaths. Give or take.

When Town Hall finally oozed into view, Frank’s lunch nearly flowed out of his mouth. A few salmon-coloured splotches near the doorway evidenced he was not the only one. But a sharp shove to his shoulder blades sent him sprawling, viola, folio and all, into the recruitment centre.

“Name?” The officer sitting at the desk didn’t even look up until it took Frank several attempts to speak. “Come on, son, we haven’t got all day,” he chided.

“Francis Purcell Warren,” Frank blurted out.

“Birthdate?”

“May 29^th, 1895.” The date he had memorised from his information on file at RMC.

The officer peered at Frank briefly as if to determine whether he was lying, but his eyes quickly slid back to the form; nineteen and a half was more than good enough.

“Address?”

“Do you want my London address, or my hometown one?”

Frank could physically feel the officer’s sigh. “Depends. Where do you want to enlist?”

“10 Holly Walk, Leamington,” Frank rushed to answer. As far from any of his RCM friends as possible.

“Next of kin?”

“Walter Warre—eeer, Francis Bliss, at 21 Holland Park, Bayswater.”

The officer looked up again in exasperation.

“Recent orphan.” Frank attempted an apologetic smile, although it probably just made him look all the sicker. It was met with a roll of the officer’s eyes.

“Take this paper. Change out of your clothes and into a towel over in that room over there. Hand this paper to the doctor when you’ve done so.”

“What about my viola? It’s rather— expensive…” Frank shrank under the officer’s withering glare.

“Leave it under the desk and come get it when your physical examination is complete.”

Frank followed the instructions and ran off, slipping into the changing room as the officer waved the next boy forward, letting off a string of muttered curses about unprepared recruits.

If Frank was expecting any sort of revolutionary experience, he was to be greatly disappointed. He and a handful of other recruits were herded like cattle along a series of tasks like any other medical screening:

Step on the scale. Step off the scale. Hands up to measure chest. Put on the funny glasses to test vision. March back and forth across the room. Hop on one foot across the room. Hop on the other foot across the room. Hands up again for inspection — backs of the hands together. Junk inspected. Prostate examined. Lungs checked. Heart stethoscoped. Knees deeply bent. No, he’d never had any blows or cuts to the head. (Frank thought briefly of Barty when answering whether he’d ever had any “fits” of any kind.) Shout, “Who comes there?” (That was a new one.) Teeth observed. Ushered off back to the changing room.

When Frank reemerged, another officer was at a second desk, waiting. He slid a sheet of paper towards Frank.

“Two days from now, come back here — to Kensington Town Hall — to be attested. Do you understand?”

Frank nodded dumbly.

“From there, you will be sent to a depot. Bring your belongings. You’ve been assigned to the seventh battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. Sign here. Read the back before you come.”

Frank couldn’t even feel the pen between his fingers. His consciousness floated somewhere near the ceiling as his body put ink to paper and signed his life away. The officer handed him the paper and waved him off dismissively.

“Two days from now,” he repeated.

Frank looked down at the paper in his hands and froze.

Had it been three years already? How had he been as oblivious to the anniversary of his own trip through time as he had about the coming of World War f——ing One? How long would this cursed date haunt him?

Still lost in a haze of ambivalence, Frank drifted off towards the Town Hall door before racing back to pick up his viola and folio from under the front desk — and face the first officer’s disdain again. But even as he turned from the desk, Frank nearly collided with another man also making for the exit.

“Terribly sorry, dear chap,” said the man.

Frank began to form an apology, but all words left him when he caught sight of the man’s face: middle-aged with a distinguished nose and short-cropped hair, the curls of which gave the impression of going about their own which-way, rather than abiding by their master’s intent. Frank stumbled out onto High Street, still staring as the man floated down the trio of steps after him. More hands pushed him out of the way of the river of recruits still flowing into the Town Hall.

“You’re— you’re Vaughan Williams!” he breathed.

The man’s eyes briefly flitted to the viola case in Frank’s hands before a warm smile spread across his face. “Indeed I am,” he said.

“Your Phantasy Quintet— London debut— viola—” Frank truly struggled to form a single coherent thought, let alone voice it.

“You were in attendance, then?”

Frank nodded enthusiastically; words still escaped him. Then he was struck by a sudden notion. Swinging his folio around, he began digging through it, eventually finding what he sought. Motivated by service to a friend, Frank’s capacity for speech came tumbling back to him:

“This is a composition of a friend of mine,” he explained, holding out the music hopefully. “He is even more fond of your work than I; your Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis was what inspired him to pursue composition at the RCM, upon hearing it performed at the Gloucester Cathedral.”

“A fellow Collegian, I see!” said Vaughan Williams, accepting the sheet music and pulling out a pen from his pocket. “And your friend’s name?”

“Bublum.” Frank blushed. He racked his brain to think of any time he had heard or seen Bublum’s true name, but wrapped in the collegial bubble as they were, they had always dispensed with such formalities. Frank never even bothered to check the student attendance log or music programmes; it had never seemed necessary.

“That’s… a very unique name,” Vaughan Williams remarked, signing his name and a quick message on Bublum’s new piano concerto. He gave it a brief glimpse, thumbing through the pages. The pleasant smile never faded from his face. “This is quite a remarkable work,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Frank, taking the music back. “I’ll tell him you said so.” But then another thought struck Frank. He turned to look back at the recruitment centre. “But wait a minute… aren’t you—?”

Vaughan Williams glanced about to see if anyone was listening. “Too old to enlist?” he offered quietly. “Not if I was born in seventy-six, as I so clearly was.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “They’ve relegated me to the Medical Corps, as it is. I’ll be lucky if I see any more action than driving ambulances.”

And a good thing it was, too, thought Frank; however many historical events he wished to alter in that moment, Vaughan Williams’ survival of the Great War was not among them. Who else would compose Flos Campi or guide Gerald Finzi along his musical career?

“Each man to his part,” Frank mumbled.

“True enough,” said Vaughan Williams with a laugh. “Well, good luck out there, lad. And don’t forget to practise!”

With that, he strode off down High Street, leaving Frank to stare after him, lost both in thought and thoughtlessness.

There was already quite a commotion at the Bliss Family Boarding House when Frank slipped in the front door a short while later. Mr Bliss was still off at his factory, but Benjee had decided to stop by. Both he and Blissy were bounding about the dining room in wild imaginings of what adventures soon awaited them.

Bublum was the first to notice Frank’s entrance. He plucked the notice from his loose grip and scanned it quickly. “You’ll be off before any of us,” he remarked.

“You’ve gone and done it, then?” said Blissy, sliding into a chair next to Bublum and peering over his shoulder to read Frank’s notice as well.

“Where’s Barty?” Frank asked, evading the question.

“He’s run off again,” Benjee explained. “Turns out, you can lie about having fits, but not about poor eyesight.”

“Rejected?”

“Afraid so,” Bublum confirmed. “We’ll be lucky if he returns before you all are off. I’m sure he would like to say goodbye, but he’s also quite pettish. At least the weather’s still warm and he won’t freeze half to death, like last winter.”

He quickly cut himself off as Edith ducked into the dining room with a tray of coffee things. She said nothing as usual, but her expression was gloomy and her eyes were rimmed red. Even after she retreated back into the kitchen, the conversation was slow to resume.

“Ah!” Frank reached into his folio and pulled out the signed sheet music, then passed it to Bublum. “I ran into Vaughan Williams while at the recruitment centre.”

“Vaughan Williams!” Benjee exclaimed. “But isn’t he too old to enlist?”

Frank laughed in spite of himself. “He lied about his age, apparently.”

“How many Collegians is that now?” Bublum asked.

“Ireland’s signed up,” Blissy answered. “Butterworth, too, and Cedric and Snowden.”

“Too many,” Frank murmured.

“What was that?” asked Blissy, but Frank merely shook his head.

“You’ll have to write, of course,” Bublum insisted to them.

Fank inhaled deeply, stemming the panic and affection and melancholy that welled in his chest. “As often as I can,” he promised.

Just then, a deafening chorus of bugles sounded.

“Blast,” Frank swore, leaping up from his groaning bed and bolting from the room, pen and letter entirely forgotten in the chaos. He joined a stream of other recruits thudding down the rickety parade hall stairs.

“An attack! We’re under attack!” one voice shouted.

“It’s just a night-alarm, you dolt!” shouted another.

Energy thrummed through the air as Frank and the others raced out to the parade ground, muddy ground squelching under their shoes. It was, of course, raining; it was always raining these days. Likely to be the wettest winter in recorded history, the news said.

For a short time Frank was lost in the sea of other recruits, all following their own tides in the darkness — it must have been nearing 11 p.m. — but eventually he managed to fall in with the proper column just as the Sergeant-Major’s voice cut through the night:

“Warrant and non-commissioned officers on PER—ADE.”

SQUAD—SQUAD—TION. Frank went through motions that were now so easy it made him uneasy. EYES—RIGHT. He breathed a sigh of relief that Weatherby wasn’t off drinking like he had threatened; drilling was so much more miserable for everyone when there was an unexpected absence during roll call. FORM—FOURS. Some recruits muddled through the formations, having forgotten what to do — much to the enjoyment of the commanding officer, who was more than happy to make them FORM—TWO—DEEP. Back and forth and right and left and up and down, Frank’s mind didn’t even wander during drills anymore — it was completely blank.

He no longer dwelled on the ominous goodbyes he and the other Collegians had shared at the depot; not even the fact that Rebecca had been there, and several professors as well. Gone from his thoughts was the chaotic train to Chelmsford, and the equally chaotic arrival and billeting and distribution of what little supplies the camp offered. His transfer from Chelmsford to Witham was as unremarkable as the army food. Each day of training blended into the next, until they became nearly indistinguishable from the present: miserable drills in miserable weather in the miserable middle of the night.

But even once the parade was over, the night-alarm wasn’t.

DOUBLE—MARCH. Frank groaned inwardly; the battalion’s thin, unsteady columns were now headed in the direction of the alarm-post, nearly a mile away. They sloshed through the mud, rain continuing to dump down on heads they were not allowed to bow against the onslaught. It would be at least midnight before the recruits got to bed that night — just in time to get up at half six the next morning.