All at once the swell of peace I’d experienced grew clear—it was his presence, there all along. Waiting for me to step into it. To acknowledge it for what it was—a blessed sweetness permeating the cold stone walls, the bars, the discouragement that had polluted my heart. I was me, even in this place, because I was his more than I was anything else. His pursuit was the constant in my turbulent life, even now.

I drew the song to its tender finale and left my fingertips atop the keys, the song still pulsing through every inch of my being. I felt more fully myself than I had in months.

Another glowing light appeared somewhere to my left and a boot scuffed on the floor—someone had come through the locked main door. I wasn’t afraid, though. I closed my eyes and suddenly had the calming sense of Bach’s cello solo in the emptiness behind me.

24

Beauty still exists, even in the midst of playing wrong notes. Finding it, taking notice of it, might be your saving grace. Or it might be the point of the disruption all along.

~Vivienne Mourdant

Fading notes vibrated through the air as Mitchell Turner stood in that abandoned old room of shadows and tall windows, stunned into silence as he stared at the back of the trim little figure who had somehow produced the most magnificent sound. Then he brought the oil lamp closer to her, and she turned toward him, that great mass of flaming hair down her back, face still flushed with the passion of her creation.

That arresting stare held his as always, inspecting and challenging, yet demanding nothing. He let the stare linger, assessing her and never quite able to take her all in at once. It was his own fault she was constantly surprising him—he should know to expect the unexpected from her by now. Yet it was rather thrilling to feel so turned about every time he encountered her.

All he could do was set the lamp on the closed pianoforte lid and extend his hand to her. “Miss Vivienne Mourdant,” he said with wonder. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She held up her slender hand, and he grasped it, holding on to it for a moment as he looked her over anew. Seeing things as they truly were. It was so fitting—her slender form at the piano, those long white fingers drawing out the melody that seemed to come from who she was. Who he should have seen all along.

“I know I shouldn’t be here. I was just—”

“You’re right. You don’t belong here.” He looked at her tense face, then at Anna, with soft white wisps around her calm features. No, Vivienne Mourdant shouldn’t be in an asylum. Yet somehow, oddly, this woman was exactly where she belonged.