“So play.” He waved toward the pianoforte. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

“I mean on the stage. In the halls.”

“Vivienne, dear, that simply isn’t an option just now. Perhaps you should use this time to practice, to polish your skills.”

“I’d rather perform. That comes with pay.”

He blinked at me. “Do you need the pay?”

My face warmed. “I’ve had to take a position. But . . . I want out. Soon.” I said the last words quietly, troubled faces under garish lights swimming through my mind.

“Perhaps a little change is good for you. A small break from the strain of performing.” He didn’t look at me as he said it. That meant he was avoiding something—or hiding it.

I narrowed my eyes at the man’s newspaper shield. “What aren’t you telling me, Marcel?”

He shook it again, his face glib and his eyes not fully meeting mine. “Oh, you always were a sensitive one. Why would you think I’m hiding anything? I merely believe a break will do you good.”

“I love playing. Music is my break.” He knew that too. Normally, no one pushed me harder than Marcel—not even Father. If there was an empty stage, he wanted it filled with music. If a city hadn’t yet heard me play, he wanted to introduce me at the first chance. Breaks had never been part of Marcel’s priorities before, and come to think of it, neither had societal niceties like mourning periods. I leveled a look at him. “Please, Marcel. Be reasonable.”

“This is quite reasonable. The answer is no. You’re not playing.”

I banged the side of the pianoforte. “And you’ll not go telling me what to do.”

He met my gaze for just a moment. “Won’t I?”

“You’re fired.” I stood, staring down at him.

“Of course I’m not.”

“I mean it.”

“You don’t, and you know it.” He didn’t even glance up this time. “You’ll do what I say, just as you always do. How will you manage without me? And right now I say, you wait.”

Why did it suddenly feel like my career was hanging in the balance? Like whatever secret he kept meant the end of everything as I knew it? I stared into his face, but he did not look up. Not once. “I should go.”

Finally, he flipped the page away from his face. “Vivienne, if you’ve agreed to work at this asylum, you should see it through.”

“Why? I’m a pianist, and that’s what I should be doing. It isn’t as if I planned to keep this position forever.”

“Perhaps a little change will be healthy for you—stretch new muscles, open new avenues. You never know.”

“Just a minute. How did you know about the asylum?”

He blinked at me over his paper. “You just told me. The position you were obliged to take.”