Prologue

A noise like a historical Earth air-raid siren, utterly out of place, whiplashed through the quiet bustle of the Promenade Hall's Winterfest preparations. A pause, and then, where there had been nothing but empty air and floor, three figures appeared. Two of them, human, hit the decks and rolled to a stop, either panting or coughing slightly.

The third was a piano.

The lankier of the pair, a man, looked up and around before nudging the other. She lifted her head enough to see the piano then let it drop. The smoke began to dissipate.

"You're on fire," he said, patting out a spark in her hair.

"Thanks," she said.

A second passed before the pair simultaneously disintegrated into laughter, seeming content to lie there for a minute or so before helping each other up.

"I," he beamed, "cannot believe that worked."

"That," she beamed, "was both far too close and the most fun I've had in months. Who knew I could move two of us and a hunk of wood?"

He was checking over the piano, which was unharmed but covered with a thick layer of dust and ash. "I'm not all that wooden, but thank you."

She joined him and rubbed the polished black lid with her left sleeve. "A Ffirish, Sons, Daughters and Rex original," she said, only now beginning to sound awed. "Custom designed and built for the Timpester Opera House. Only a single unit made. The finest, most famous piano in the world. In several worlds."

"Which perished long before its time in a fire during the Blitz of 1856, or so it will continue to be believed," he said, satisfaction in his voice. Stealing that which was believed dead - the perfect crime.

One of the ubiquitous servants strolled unhurriedly in with a broom, drawing a smile from the man.

"Shall we test the auto-tuner? Peregrine, as our most gracious ferryman the honour's yours."

"My bally pleasure, milord." With a finger, she pressed the silver dogshead set centrally above the keys. It sang out a note.¹ After a few more seconds, in which Perry shook the smut out of her hair and Suitov brushed off his shoulders and sleeves, a further teleportation split the smoky air.

"Can I help you, folks?" asked the tuner, a tiny sprig of a humanoid wearing spotless overalls and with a pair of goggles nesting in his gorselike hair. Before Suitov or Perry could so much as greet him, though, he exclaimed "Klara?" and dashed over to the piano. "By Forte, it is her! Klara! We all thought she was dead!"

"Perhaps we should explain..." Suitov began, and "We rescued her from a fire, hope you don't mind," Perry blurted out. "Didn't realise she was so recognisable," Suitov added.

"Recognise her, I should think I would! And I frankly don't care how you got hold of her." The tuner seized a hand from each of them at once and pumped them up and down. His eyes looked moist. "We thought she'd died. You give me an hour and I'll have her singing as sweetly as ever." He began to check the action tenderly.

They looked at each other. "We'll... just go and change and get ready, then," Perry said. The pair sidled out of the room.

In the hallway, they caught each other's eye and laughed again, rather more awkwardly.

"I'm for cold water and clean clothes."

"Same for me. See you around sevenish."

"Around sevenish, she says, and she's the time-traveller!"

"Nineteen hundred hours on the dot, sir yes sir!" Perry flung out a doodle of a salute and disappeared with a flash and a glissando. Suitov walked.

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¹ Rex was a remarkable puddlehound, belonging to the Ffirish family of pianomakers, who always howled in pitch-perfect Middle C.