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I hesitate. “You are already beginning to love it, and you have not heard very much yet. There is so much wonderful music, you will spend years falling in love again and again, you cannot imagine now how it will shape you. Music will be your home; your deepest love will be with a woman who will write music just for you. You will be her muse, her instrument.”

“Mrs. Baxter?”

“No, someone else, but Mrs. Baxter is very important. You must listen to her carefully and do your best to remember what she teaches you. But you have talent, you will find certain things come too easily; the most important thing is to learn to love difficulty. You must develop an appetite for problems, and you must learn to be patient. You must never be satisfied, but you must be glad and not despair. You will improve. Some day you will be very good.”

“It’s like a video game?”

“Yes. Remember how many hours it took to finish Wizard Mongoose Deathmatch?”

“Yes. But you don’t earn a score in music. How do I know if it’s good?”

“That’s an important question. I think there is something in us that recognizes the good: it feels right. But sometimes you have to learn what is good; you will be surprised by music that sounds unlike anything you know, you will have to change yourself in order to find what is good. Good can be simple and clear. Good can be frightening and difficult. But the first step is to listen, and to try and understand.”

He is quiet. I was always anxious, but on this night I remember being almost suicidal.

“What if I fail?” he says. “Can I go home, then?”

“You will not fail. You are like a superhero with a secret identity, and music is your superpower.”

He is not convinced. “I wish I had friends here.”

“Mrs. Baxter will be a very great friend to you.”

He shakes his head. “You know what I mean. Real friends my own age. Other boys.”

“Ah. I have a friend. He isn’t my age and we don’t live in the same time or place, but he’s a terrific friend.” I feel shy mentioning this, as though I’m bragging about money.

My self is intrigued. “Where is he?”

“He’s in America, in Chicago.”

“Chicago?” He’s about to ask questions I shouldn’t answer. I am terrible at knowing what not to tell young me. Alba disapproves because I tell her too much. I am spared having to deal with it now, though, because the bedroom door opens and Madeline peers in at us. We’ve been talking too loudly and have woken her. But I’ve been expecting her; it’s fine. Young me has a blank expression on his face—he wants to erase himself from the room.

“Who the hell are you?” Madeline asks. “And what are you doing in my house?”

“Hello, Madeline,” I reply. “I’m Yang Qing, or Oliver Thornton-Yang, as you know me.” I gesture at young me. “I’m a chrono-displaced person.” Madeline and I are speaking English, and young me doesn’t understand. He reaches for the translation bot on the nightstand and puts it in his ear.

She says, “Oliver, is this true?” He nods, though he isn’t exactly sure what I’ve just said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Madeline says. She sounds furious.

“My parents thought you would not accept me as a student if you knew I was a time traveler,” I reply. “My uncle didn’t know.”

“Well, you do have to admit that it’s a bit much,” she says, her voice rising. “I don’t mind attempting to teach Oliver to play the piano if it means he’ll be able to stay in England, but I can’t be expected to be responsible for a child who’s disappearing all the time.”

“I promise I will not,” young me protests in Mandarin.

“What did you say?” Madeline asks. I start to translate but she says, “Never mind, wait a sec—” She turns and stomps off, then reappears, fiddling with the translation bot at her ear. “I must say, you’ve learned to speak English beautifully. I’ll be glad when we don’t need these anymore.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid it will be a few years before I can function without them.”

“You sound slightly—American?”

I glance at my young self, try to explain without revealing too much: “I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in Chicago.”

Madeline catches on and replies, “It’s tempting to ask you all sorts of questions. Do you drop by here often?”

“Erm, it’s hard for me to say. Yes. I suppose I do. I hope you won’t mind.”

“It seems,” she says, “as though it’s already settled.” She sounds less grumpy than she did a few minutes ago. “Tell me something. I know that our lessons, all this hard work we are doing together—” Madeline smiles encouragingly at young me, it is sweet to see her affection “—I know that this is about immigration, and sanctuary, not music. But you obviously have a gift, and I’d like to know: Have you gone on with it? Can you play?”