“This wasn’t fan mail.”
“No?” His face is fiercer than his voice, and I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I step forward, saying, “I sent you a twelve-page analysis of the concerto’s structural arc. I referenced the harmonic shift in the second movement and the way the unresolvedcadence destabilizes the listener’s expectation of tonal return. I argued that the cadenza—unfinished though it was—demands the original conductor’s phrasing to achieve its full dramatic architecture.”
The words are precise. Not flattery. Not romanticism.
Study.
But I can’t quite hide the passion beneath them. His work has become my personal obsession over the past four years. The reason I answered an ad meant for another time and place.
“Is that supposed to impress me?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“And you’re certain you sent that to me?” he asks, forehead furrowing as he strokes his beard.
The question stings. “Yes.”
He turns away, eyeing the window again. Peaceful snowflakes drift to the powder-covered ground.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “I burned it.” The lie settles between us heavily.
Burned like his composition.
I try to hide my disappointment. Not because he destroyed my correspondence. Because he lied about not receiving it. But I let it go, understanding that this conversation likely pains him more than me.
“I thought you might.”
He nods once, as if that ends the matter. “You’re wasting your time.”
“No,” I say quietly. “Stephen Maxwell requested you, too.”
The blood drains from his face. Then, he scowls. “He doesn’t get to ask anything of me.”
I knew the name would land heavily. But it’s the truth.
Stephen. Reed’s concertmaster. His protégé. His friend.
The man who stood beside him on stage for a decade. The man who stood beside his wife when Reed wasn’t looking.
“Stephen Maxwell.” It comes out like a ragged sigh. Then he laughs darkly, rage flickering behind his eyes. His fists clench and unclench as he paces. “That music is gone.”
“You know better.”
He faces me, hands on his hips. “What does that mean?”
I step closer. “Without another copy, how could I have sent the letter? Analyzed your concerto with so much precision?” I work to keep my voice steady, though not defiant.
He pauses, stare bent toward the floor until I finish. “And how did said copy survive?”
“My mother was the orchestra librarian. She preserved it during your final rehearsal cycle.”
The memory rises. Closed doors. Limited personnel. Internal copies only. I was a young student then, hopeful to one day work with the great Reed North. Award-winning conductor, prolific composer, acclaimed violinist and pianist.
“She kept the reduction,” I continue. “Violin and piano. Later, it came to Stephen, who reconstructed the orchestration.”
