“Your mother told you this?” The words come out rough.
I swallow loudly. “Yes, and so did he. I’m one of Stephen’s graduate students.”
Reed huffs a laugh, whispering, “That’s rich!” His posture remains unchanged, but something shifts beneath the surface. “That reduction was incomplete.”
“As it remains,” I agree. “The cadenza is missing.”
“Of course it is.”
He paces some more, then stops, turning toward me. “The cadenza was never finished on paper. It lived in my head longer than it lived on staff lines. It was the most exposed part of the work. I couldn’t bring myself to finalize it.”
His words are percussive and fast-paced. Tension simmering just beneath them. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says suddenly. “Especially since you came, not to answer my posting, but for Stephen.”
“I came for both,” I say. “But don’t mistake this for something it’s not. I’m not Stephen’s messenger.”
“Five days isn’t enough,” he barks, circling back to the festival.
I suppress the smile that wants to creep over my lips. So, there still is room for a compromise? “For you?”
“For any of it.”
I study him, searching for something deeper than his refusal.
“You are the only one who understands the pacing of that piece,” I argue. “The elasticity of the opening theme. The restraint before expansion.”
His Adam’s apple works, but he says nothing.
I set the violin case down and open it carefully.
“What are you doing?” he grunts.
“Reminding you.”
The hinges click softly. I lift the violin, placing it beneath my chin. My movements are economical. Practiced. Not theatrical.
“You don’t have the right,” he says.
“To play it?”
“To carry it.”
I meet his eyes across the narrow distance between us, saying quietly, “Someone has to.”
Then, I look away, refusing to give in to the grim look on his face. The bow touches the string. The first note is clean.
The cabin absorbs sound differently than a hall ever could. Closer. Warmer.
The second follows. Then the third.
“What’s the instrument?” he murmurs, cocking his head to the side. “Impeccable intonation. Rich, velvety sound.”
“The Lady Sunshine Stradivarius, 1728.”
A sharp exhale escapes him. “The Lady Sunshine?” He steps closer, eyes washing over the coppery varnish, the carved tailpiece. “Indeed.”
I smile politely. “Intrigued?”
“Perhaps,” he sighs. His face tightens, the creases in his forehead deepening. “But you should go if you’re not here for the post.”
