I wrinkle my nose and shrug. It’s not rocket science.

“Felix—Herr Vogel is a busy man,” my father presses. There’s a snowflake quivering on his mustache. “Busy and important.”

I stifle a sigh. “Yes, I know.”

“I know you like your music, but don’t—don’t pester him, Bellamy.”

“Alright.”

“Keep to yourself and work on your studies. Iris and I will be back before the New Year, so if you get lonely before then…”

My father trails off. I raise my eyebrows. “Yes? If I get lonely before then…?”

My suitcase thumps to the stone step. Someone laughs loudly across the street. “If you get lonely, call your mother,” my father says with great distaste. “Or go out to a coffee house. Just don’t bother Herr Vogel with it. Understand?”

Yes, I think, lifting my suitcase in my free hand and waiting as the doorbell trills. My father is already backing away before the intercom crackles in answer, and by the time the door swings open, my father is at the bottom of the steps, arm raised in farewell.

Herr Vogel nods at him over my head, exchanging a quiet greeting and barely glancing at me before turning back inside.

My father’s steps echo down the city street.

Yes. I understand.

* * *

The last time I stepped foot in this house, I must have been ten years old. I remember staring open-mouthed at the high ceilings and glittering chandeliers; remember rocking up onto my toes to try to see the oil paintings lining the walls. As a child, Herr Vogel’s townhouse seemed more like a museum than a home—all cold marble and heavy drape curtains, a quiet hush permeating through the halls.

At twenty, I like to think I am harder to intimidate. Less likely to lose my tongue when Herr Vogel speaks to me.

But I still packed a few extra sweaters in my suitcase, ready for the cold composer and his even colder townhouse.

“My housekeeper prepared a guest suite for you.”

I follow a set of broad shoulders up the winding staircase, noting the way Herr Vogel’s tailored white shirt clings to his body. Is it so very physical, composing music? Where the hell did all those muscles come from? The man is lean with a narrow waist, but even through his shirt, he seems harder than marble. Like he could hop up onto a plinth in one of the alcoves and blend in with the other sculptures.

“That was kind of her.”

A pair of light gray eyes glance back at me. “Indeed.”

I’m glad Herr Vogel is leading the way rather than walking beside me. It lets me stare at him openly, comparing this man to the figure in my memory. He is as tall as I remembered, towering above me, but his black hair is longer, brushing at his collar, and dusted with silver at the temples. His voice, in the rare instance that he speaks, is low and husky, and his hand is strong where it grips my suitcase handle.