A man of ordinary talent will always be ordinary, whether he travels or not; but a man of superior talent will go to pieces if he remains forever in the same place.

~Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

A touch of guilt followed Mitchell Turner onto the train and into town. He rode all the way to London’s Charing Cross station and disembarked, looking about and realizing why he felt so odd. So very off. He’d hardly ventured into the world beyond Hurstwell since Dahlia had died. He’d had no reason. No desire, really.

His outdated wool trousers and frock coat seemed largely out of place among the cutaway coats and adorned buttonholes, the tall hats with neat ribbons. He’d been absent from the real world for too long, and it made him cringe. Both because he’d lived in such isolation, and because he didn’t now deserve to be experiencing the greater world when she could not.

The light snow had turned to slush in London’s busy streets, and color flew by in every direction—bright cloaks, painted shop signs, the glitter of brass on passing coaches. His inquiries revealed that Ella Blythe had been connected to Craven Street Theatre in Covent Gardens, so he began by asking about there and in the nearby inns until he found a pub where someone could point him toward the ballet studio she now operated with her husband in nearby Savile Row.

He walked to save the fare, enjoying the stretch for his legs, and soon came upon the large brown brick three-story with red trim and a swinging sign at the gate that marked the lower level a place of business.

When he rang the buzzer, a white-capped maid answered, and Mitchell asked for Ella Blythe.

“She isn’t taking pupils any longer, sir.” She eyed his tall form, looking past him for signs of a daughter or some other prospective student. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take one of her staff members instead.”

“It’s her I’ve come to see, actually, and on a personal matter. Can you tell me where to find her?”

“She isn’t seeing the public any longer, but if you’ll leave your card—”

“I’ve no card, but she’ll want to hear what I have to say. My name is Dr. Mitchell Turner. Tell her it’s about a friend of hers named Annika. Do that, won’t you please?”

The maid frowned, but she backed into the house and disappeared. When she returned, she beckoned Mitchell in with pressed lips and a quick nod of her head. They began in a generous entryway that was light-filled and calm compared to Hurstwell’s shadows and barred windows, then climbed the wide stairs to a small receiving room on the second floor. The room had a distinctly feminine air, light and airy—perfect for a former ballet dancer.