Thomas stopped, clutching me to him as he bent into the wind. "Hear that."

I listened, only catching brief snatches of sound I couldn't place. "What is it?"

He kept moving, bringing me closer to the source, because when he finally stopped again, I heard it. A piano, its vibrant notes drifting in and out of the snowstorm. I knew that song. I hated that song.

"The Scratching Post," I called toward Thomas's neck. "The brothel at the end of ...