I was playing a piece by Berlioz the night my father died, the second movement of Symphonie Fantastique with arpeggios smooth as a horse’s gallop. Footsteps stopped and a figure hovered in the doorway, and I knew what was coming before our maid even spoke the jarring words. “He’s gone, Miss Vivienne.”

“I see.” I did not smile, for that would have been wicked, but I did relax, more than I had allowed myself to in many years.

Her steady footsteps crossed the carpeted room past where I sat, and she threw open the drapes on every long window—drapes that had remained drawn for years to keep my father’s headaches, and his resulting temper, at bay.

It was dark outside, still very early morning, but so many hours had passed in the waiting. The maid turned, those wise old eyes cast my direction. “Night is passing, and day is soon to come for you, Miss Vivienne.”

We shared a solemn smile. Then she gave a brief curtsy and left me.

A breezy emptiness infilled my soul at the sudden silence, a sense of unfettered spring air blowing through hollow places. Gone were Father’s company and his uncanny business sense, but so were the sting of fresh lashes across my fingers as I practiced, that voice bellowing through the halls, the silent fight always knotted up in my belly with nowhere to go. Suddenly, it had all gone slack. It was over, and I was alone in the world.

I grieved the man, but I couldn’t say I was unhappy. I looked over the vast spread of pianofortes that awaited restoration laid out before me with a new sense of ownership, of delight. It was my repair shop now, and darkness would have no place here anymore. God, you are the master of this house now. The master of me. No one else shall ever be. I felt his heady presence with the coming dawn and I welcomed it.

After several deep breaths to acknowledge the passing of a soul, I lifted my fingers to the ivories in the flickering candlelight and began the piece again from the beginning. The song was the perfect end to our tumultuous years together, powerful dissonance brimming with deeply textured tones that climbed to a rich climax as the dawn crested, colorful light brimming through the room, then simply stopped at the obvious point of conclusion, and the room was empty. Quiet and peaceful in morning’s rosy glow.

Within the hour, familiar footsteps—masculine ones—sounded somewhere in the foyer, and my breath caught. I kept my fingertips poised on the ivories, feeling the oddness of Richard’s presence in this house. Things were shifting already.