“Can you show me the room you’ve been charged with designing?” Cassin asked.
Willow blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The music room, this commission of yours. I should like to see it, if you are willing to show me.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice strangely faint. She did not move, not for a long moment. She said, “It’s the last room at the end of the corridor.”
He bowed his head and gestured for her to precede him. Willow felt herself move forward, barely seeing the doorway ahead.
“It would be too dark to see at this hour,” she said, “but I had the east wall torn down and rebuilt with towering windows. If the clouds allow for us to see the sunset, you may get some idea.”
“Will there be a domed mural?” he asked.
She missed a step. A memory flashed in her mind, Cassin lying with her on the chaise at Leland Park, staring up at her floral mural.
She cleared her throat. “No, no mural. The ceiling is coffered. I met with the owners at length about their expectations. I’ve had to be mindful of how instrumental sound will resonate in the room.”
They reached the music room, and she stepped inside. He came to a stop beside her. “And where is this paint? I would see it before we are alone here in the dark.”
The buzzing beneath her skin fizzled back to life. Willow pointed out the wall with three rough squares of paint. “There. They are all lovely in the full light of day, but I need the precise shade that will not appear dingy, or worse, taupe, in the fading light.”
“Not dingy or taupe,” he repeated slowly. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I shudder to predict your reaction to the walls of Caldera.”
“Oh? And what color are they?” she said.Because I may or may not ever see them.
“I’ve no idea.”
She laughed. “You don’t know?”
“I’ve never given it a moment’s thought, actually. Grey, perhaps? Ivory? Much of the castle is stone, which is definitely a greyish, brownish, blackish color. But there is plaster that is surely . . . some other shade.”
She stared at him, reminding herself thatherfocus was noteveryone’sfocus.
“Is it wrong,” he speculated, “to admit that each of these samples looks exactly the same to me?” He gave her a boyish look that caused her stomach to flip.
“No, it is not wrong, simply . . . well, it’s not your purview, is it?”
“No. And let us thank God for that. It’s fascinating to see the work you’re doing.” He settled his eyes on her, smiling, and then glanced around the room.
Willow watched him take note of the windows and high beams, the boxed coffers of the ceiling. It felt so validating to share her work with someone besides her aunt and uncle.
“I’ve scarcely begun,” she told him. “I have very high hopes for it, indeed. You can see the exposed timber beams there and there; those will be stained a dark chocolate brown. The smooth plaster in between will be the fawn color. The correct shade is the middle one—there.” She pointed. “I quite like it in the dusky light, I must say. The ceiling beams will be stained the same brown, and the coffers, a lighter shade of the fawn. I’m hoping for the rare balance of dramatic but also neutral. The pianoforte and harpsichords are meant to be the showpieces.”
“It will be breathtaking, Willow,” he said. His voice was so soft that she turned around. He had ceased looking around the room and stared now only at her. It was a half-lidded stare, soft and hot at the same time, like the last embers of a fire.
Willow felt her own eyes grow large. She felt a burst of energy, doubts giving way to nerves and hope.
“This room posed a challenge,” she heard herself say. She began to walk the room. “It will be used in the daytime to practice but also in the evenings, when the couple entertain. I’ve worked with my uncle to design custom-made furniture that will serve as traditional chairs and sofas but also rows of seating, as in a theatre.”
“Willow?” Cassin called, his voice still low.
“You’ll note the doorway at the far end of the room”—Willow pressed on, rambling now—“that leads from the dining room? ’Tis but a short walk from dinner to chamber concert.”
“Willow?”
“Even so,” she went on, speaking so very fast, “it was important to the owners that such spontaneous concerts not appear staged. The wife has significant talent, but she is timid about it, apparently. The husband is an ambassador. There are quite a few ambassadors, actually, taking residence in Belgravia. This wall will be devoted entirely to bookshelves,” she said, gesturing behind her. “Apparently their collection of music is extensive.”
“Willow?” he said for the third time.
