She’d read that in a novel by her favorite author, Daphne Villeneuve, and had decided to appropriate it for use should she ever have the occasion to speak with the duke again. It described him perfectly. He was arrogant, frequently inebriated, and insensitive in the extreme.

Her father read the invitation quickly, impatient to return to his work.

“Isn’t it a stroke of good fortune?” she asked.

“I should say not.”

“Why? I thought you’d be pleased.”

Reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote her a note. Sometimes he preferred to communicate in writing.

I don’t compose trivial tunes for yuletide galas. I’m working on the world’s greatest symphony. I’ve no time for anything else. This is my legacy. The culmination of my life’s work.

Viola sighed and wrote her reply.

This is an invitation from the Royal Society of Musicians. You can’t refuse. It’s only been sent to five composers in England. These Christmas carols will be published in a volume and sent to choirs across the realm. Your name will be on everyone’s lips once again. This is your chance to be restored to favor with the Monarchy and with your Public.

Another vehement head shake and a frown. Her father’s reply was brief: I’m not a trained monkey. They don’t have me on a lead.

We need the money. And the future royalties, she replied. She’d tried to shield him from the worst of their financial woes. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

You set a yuletide poem to music, was his reply. I know you’ve published under my name before.

Viola dropped her pen, splattering ink across the page. She had accepted a small number of commissions in her father’s name, penning an oratorio for the dedication of a new library, or setting poetry to music for chamber ensembles and vocalists. She’d had no choice. Every commission helped. She hadn’t thought her father was aware of her harmless endeavors.

You knew? she wrote.

He nodded. And then he did a very strange and uncharacteristic thing. He smiled. A true, open and affectionate smile.

She returned the smile, feeling a weight lift from her heart. Her father knew and approved of the work she was doing in his name. It was so much more than she’d hoped for.

He put pen to paper again: Compose the best Christmas carol those fools have ever heard. Better than the other four composers they’ve invited. Charlatans all. Only leave me to my symphony.

She hugged him. He laughed and laid a hand on her head like a benediction.

The letter had been delayed reaching them, lost in a pile of bills she’d been avoiding. She only had one month to either compose or commission the lyrics and set them to music.