Neither Kevin nor Ana could make out yet who was playing. The candlelight was too dim to see by, and the player was backlit by a candelabra on top of the piano. Ana stepped closer first, Kevin behind, and they both realized at the same moment: it was the Bulgarian. They exchanged a startled glance and froze in their tracks, afraid that if he felt their presence, if he saw them there, the Bulgarian might stop playing.

In the drawing room, the others heard the faint treble of the piano too—a wavery sound echoing through the halls like music heard underwater. The Italian man woke to it and put a hand on his wife’s cheek. Pars heard it too. Claartija roused and sat in tears in the chair (for the notes seemed to massage the place in her left shoulder that had throbbed since the night of the crash). One by one, they rose and with candles and flashlights moved through the house like sleepwalkers feeling their way toward the source of the sound.

When they entered the library, Kevin held a finger to his lips for them to keep quiet, and each in turn put a finger to their mouth as they tiptoed inside the room. The pianist was clearly accomplished, that much was obvious to all. But if what drew them at first to the library was the sound of the nocturne, what kept them there was the realization that the Bulgarian was the musician. He played with his eyes clamped tight, tears moistening his cheeks. And the others listened and wept too, openly or to themselves, for even though the Bulgarian hadn’t spoken to any of them the entire time on the island, it seemed that he was the most articulate, the most expressive of them all; that heretofore, his silence had meant more than all their accumulated words combined.

Ana slipped silently out of the room. She could no longer bear the music. Had it been any other tune—Mozart, Jarrett, Monk—she wouldn’t have cared. But Chopin…Russell’s Chopin…was too much for her to take. Pars watched her go and decided it was best to let her be.

When the nocturne finished, the silence was complete. No one clapped. No one spoke. There were enough candles and flashlights in the room now to see by. Claartija sat on the rug, hugging her knees to her chest. The Italians stood in the corner. The Bulgarian hunched motionless, exhausted, arms hanging at his sides. The rain made a steady tattoo against the windows, and the wind buffeted the leaded panes, yet the storm seemed quieter now, more distant; and the absence of the music felt like the absence of an object or a person that had departed from the room.