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leaned back. Ada squeezed his hand and rested her head on his shoulder in relief. She’d first met Charlie almost a year ago, when she and Corinne had attended a show at the Red Cat with Johnny. She’d never heard anyone play a French horn like Charlie could.She figured he probably knew that, considering his cool confidence in asking her out the next day, drawling his sultry Southern accent and winking like they shared a secret.
    In retrospect, she liked how effortless it had been. Being with Charlie was easy, and these days, precious few things in her life were.
    The stage door opened, and Corinne stuck her head in. She had a half-empty gin and tonic in hand and was wearing her favorite evening dress. It was pale pink and shimmery with tiny beads, capped at the shoulders and fluttering around her calves. A gold-and-silver headache band glimmered over her dark hair. The entire getup was in stark contrast to her usual fare of whatever wrinkled garment she stumbled over first in the morning. Tonight she was onstage, and when Corinne put on a show, she liked to shine the brightest.
    â€œYou all ready?” she asked.
    The musicians gave their assent and started filing through the door. When Ada passed Corinne, she lifted her left hand to Corinne’s right for their signature handshake. They tapped their fingertips together twice. A brief touch, easily overlooked. Ada didn’t know how it had been possible to miss such a simple gesture so fiercely.
    She took her spot stage left, a few feet away from Corinne, who gave her a broad smile. Corinne was dazzling under the stage lights, the beads on her dress glinting with every small movement. Ada smiled back and propped her violin under her chin. Her own dress of midnight-blue silk was simple in comparison, but Ada didn’t mind. Subtlety had its own distinction amid the flair of Boston’s nightlife.
    The faint aroma of spicy hors d’oeuvres and bittersweetbeverages filled the room, mingled with perfume and cigarette smoke. The club was packed tonight, elbow to elbow with men in black suits and women in glittering dresses. The Cast Iron was small and humble in comparison to the Red Cat, its main competitor, but that didn’t stop its loyal patrons from putting on the ritz for every performance. The lights were almost blinding, and Ada could barely make out Johnny at his corner table, entertaining the nervous senator and his wife. For Johnny the evening shows were all business, though he still refused to wear a dinner jacket. Jackson, also underdressed for the occasion, was sitting by Johnny, halfway through a beer. She noticed Gabriel at a table near the stage, though he didn’t have a drink in front of him.
    Corinne stepped up to the microphone, which was custom-made from brass and carbon. She didn’t even have to speak before the crowd fell silent.
    â€œWelcome to the Cast Iron” was all she said.
    Ada recognized her cue and sent the first mournful note into the air.
    The musicians rarely rehearsed together for these shows. It was widely believed that a more spontaneous sound led to a more spectacular experience. Even though she’d played with Charlie only on the rare occasions when he wasn’t needed at the Red Cat, she knew he would find an entrance and intertwine with her melody. The goal, of course, was harmony, but not just in the music—in the emotions as well.
    Ada always started low, laying down loss and longing like a delicate lace. She kept her melody in the minor key, and for almost three minutes hers was the only sound in the room. Charlie’s horn opened soft, for a few bars matching her tone; then he began drawing out a new thread, a vague sense of hope that Ada recognizedfrom the first time she’d ever heard him play. She forced herself to focus, following his lead into a wistful place. The other musicians were playing too, keeping the pace, tying everything together, but it was clearly Ada and