As the singers finished, the chapel echoed with their final notes, then fell into the usual humdrum footsteps, coughs, conversation.

Oscar didn’t say a word until we’d walked back outside. Then he drew a lusty breath, like the air smelled cleaner now that he’d heard that.

•   •   •

“What’s this neighborhood?” he asked as we walked back to the subway.

“Washington Heights.”

“Should we explore?”

“If you want to. We’ve pretty much seen what there is to see here.”

“That was my first thought too.” Oscar was looking at a mother and two kids on the opposite corner. “But people live here.”

“Yeah. A lot of people. This being the city and all.” I pulled out my phone. “Why don’t I see what else there is around—?”

“No, it’s cool.” His eyes were troubled. “Another time.”

“There’s actually a lot,” I said, holding up the map on my phone. “Morris-Jumel Mansion? Apparently haunted?”

I glanced up but he was already walking into the subway tunnel, MetroCard ready. Before I ran down, I scanned the street, desperate to see what had caught his attention—the half-scrubbed club posters clinging to a brick wall, the smell of chicken on a spit, music trickling out a second-floor window, its bass notes shaking the panes . . .

The downtown A train was pulling up when we made it through the stiles. As we settled into our plastic seats and rumbled south, one of the vocal lines of the song from the Cloisters got stuck in my head. I hummed it to get it out.

“That voice of yours.” Oscar stretched his arm behind my neck. “You sing to yourself a lot.”

“It’s because I’m alone a lot. It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

“I love it.” His hand draped lazily over my shoulder.

I nestled in. “Mom used to tell me I had a singer’s musicality. But I think it was her way of discouraging me from playing the piano.”

“I don’t know, she might have a point. Did you pick out the tenor voice just from listening back there? Or can you remember all of them?”

“Um . . . no? I can’t pick out . . .” I leaned away, laughing. “I’ve heard that piece a million times.”

Oscar looked delightfully blank.

“It’s di Lasso. One of his polyphonic masses?”

“Do you have a recording at home?”

“I can’t believe it—finally something you don’t know!”

Oscar gave a tight shrug, smiling even bigger. “There’s a ton I don’t know.”

The train car stopped, letting people off and on. Oscar scooted closer to make room for a woman with a toddler in a stroller. I glanced down to see his foot tapping a frenetic beat against the floor.

I touched his leg and it stopped. My hand stayed there, on his thigh, and I watched, gratified, as the tension in his eyes softened into something warmer.

He was anxious. Trying to hide it.