I sighed, going for brutal honesty—on one matter, at least. “There’s no fortune, Richard. No inheritance save the shop. You should know that first and foremost, if you have any intentions concerning me.” The notes to be paid were plentiful, and the income was not. That much I knew. The strain of it had contributed to Father’s illness.

He looked at it again, then tossed it on the lid of a Chalmers upright. “I expected as much. He had little to offer you in life, either. Pardon my speaking ill of the dead.”

I turned away, silent for a ghost of a moment as the chill of recent death once again passed over me. “It was not easy living with him, but he did give me music.” I walked to the window, looking out into the sunlight. “That is all the inheritance I need.”

“You’re right. What do you need with a fortune, anyway?” He came to stand behind me, his solid presence giving me heart flutters, and laid his hands on my arms. “You’ll marry and settle down with some fine bloke, and what’s his shall be yours. That’s how it usually works, anyway, and how it should be. All you have to do is coast. Keep up your performances to maintain the shop, then marry and allow someone to take care of you for a change. And if I know you, you’ll put this business with the asylum aside, elegantly folding it into your father’s past to be forgotten along with the rest, and go on with a most splendid life.”

I shivered. He was right about one part. I had no intention of pursuing this matter and uncovering uncomfortable details of my father’s history.

At least, not yet.

4

Every difficulty slurred over will be a ghost to disturb your repose later on.

~Frederic Chopin

Frederick Harford first stepped into my life several weeks after Father’s passing. It was at an evening performance at an estate on Hanover Square, and everything seemed rosy. Effervescent in the sparkling light of crystal chandeliers. It was the one small parlor performance arranged before entering mourning, and it would make a tiny dent in the debts. It was bad form to be seen out in society so soon, but a terrible disservice to cancel positions I’d already agreed to take, I had reasoned. The hosts were counting on me. Most people in London didn’t even know of my father’s recent demise, except my manager, Marcel Beauchene—whom I had not told of this performance I’d arranged myself. I had decided not to even dress in mourning, and there had been no one about to disagree with me.

I moved through the opulent room, watching Richard from a distance whenever I dared, and noticing his attention on me as well.