Who heard the piano first? It might have been Kevin or Ana; or perhaps they heard the notes at precisely the same moment. Kevin thought at first that someone had turned on the stereo in the kitchen but realized that was impossible with the power out. Ana sensed the music came from the library, for she’d seen the Baldwin there the night before. She rose off the davenport and picked her way past slumbering figures, and entered the dining room, where Kevin was listening too. Who dared play music, Kevin wondered, at a time like this? Ana caught Kevin’s eye, and the two of them went cautiously down the hall as lightning flashed now and again and lit the walls in a blue, unnatural light.

Ana couldn’t tell at first what was being played; but the nearer she drew to the library, the clearer the notes became, until she was sure it was Chopin. A nocturne. She didn’t know which one. The music was slow, andante. Her husband liked to listen to Chopin while he worked.

She held the swing door for Kevin. It was too dark to see who was playing, but the notes were clear now, and Ana closed her eyes. Standing there, in the darkened library, she felt a stab of iron enter her heart, as if each chord were a shard of metal, for her husband had listened to that very tune over and over on his stereo in his office, the LP scratched but better—he insisted—than any remastered recording. The nocturnes were the only music Russell could work to. He said they actually helped with his nomenclatural tasks, that listening to Chopin was less like listening to music than like hearing the rain fall on an April night; and shivers ran up Ana’s spine as she stood on the rug in the library, for how did the pianist—whoever it was—know about the music, that the first time she and Russell ever made love in his office at the museum, he’d played Chopin? Was it Russell sending a sign? Did he somehow direct this to her? Chopin’s nocturne, number 19, in E minor?

Kevin knew the piece of music as well. But for him the moment was partially ruined by the piano. He’d meant so many times to have it tuned. He’d kept after Douglas for months, but Douglas, typically, had done nothing. When they’d first bought the house, they’d had the tuner come from the mainland. But with the moisture and the sea damp (and, frankly, no one playing the thing), it was a losing battle to keep the Baldwin in tune. Still, as he stood there inches away from Ana, Kevin was surprised. With the exception of a few sour notes, the piano really didn’t sound that bad.