“I drafted them last night.”
“I’ll see they’re distributed.”
“No distribution here. We’ll add it to the public record.”
He turned the baton once between his fingers. “To acknowledge him in advance of whatever he’s planned would look like appeasement.”
He met my eyes in the mirror.
A stage manager passed outside the door. Dominic rested his free hand on the counter.
“If anything happens tonight—“
“Nothing is going to happen.”
He looked at me directly then, no mirror between us. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.” Then I added, “But you hired someone who does, and he has already adjusted for whatever Henri planned. You conduct. That’s your job tonight.”
He stood. Straightened one cuff and then the line of his jacket.
“Luca.”
“Yes.”
“You will spend most of your life here in this city when I’m gone—“
“Don’t.”
“Consider him. He could be the right one.”
I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t have sounded like I was arguing. He straightened the pocket square a final time, picked up his baton, and moved to the door.
From the hallway, without turning, he said, “Do try to keep up.”
Celeste appeared from the direction of the house. A woman beside her was in her mid-forties, dark-haired, with Dominic’s posture. I recognized her immediately: Dominic’s niece, Marguerite, who had grown up in Lafayette and now lived in Chicago. I’d met her once at a donor reception three years ago.
While Celeste smiled, Marguerite pulled me into a brief, firm hug before I could speak.
“He doesn’t know,” Celeste said.
“He’s somewhere here backstage,” I said. “You still have fifteen minutes.”
Marguerite nodded. “After, then.” She said it the way Dominic said things: settled, without negotiation. “We’ll be in the house.”
Celeste’s mystery guest. Her refusal to give Thiago a name the night before suddenly made complete sense. She had arranged Marguerite’s attendance without telling Dominic because telling him would have drawn energy away from his conducting.
Celeste looked at me and lifted one shoulder slightly, a perfect acknowledgment. Then she took Marguerite’s arm and steered her toward the seats.
The house filled fast.
The audience looked exactly as New Orleans should have looked on a night like this: men wearing linen jackets darkened at the collar by the August heat, and women wearing heirloom jewelry passed down through generations. The balcony curved overhead in a dim arc of iron and shadow.
I stood in the wings once Dominic took the podium. From there I could see the first violins, Dominic’s profile, and enough of the house to read when its attention shifted.
Bridget sat at first chair where she always did. Her posture was faultless. Her black performance clothes made her face paler than usual. She raised her instrument with controlled confidence.
I couldn’t see Thiago. That was by design. I knew where he and Eamon would be.
