He had given the maid the night off. They were – to his knowledge – all alone. Still, Zechariah cast a paranoid glance over his shoulder to the stairwell before putting a hand unnecessarily on Claude’s shoulder.

“This way,” he said, nodding to the parlor.

The piano looked, well, like a piano. The black paint still had a glossy sheen, even if the piano bench was crumpled strangely neatly on the floor.

The screws in the leg were not far from it, and had yet to see rust. There was not a single splinter to be found.