Rain drummed against the glass dome of the Saint Aurelia Opera House, turning the city beyond its windows into a watercolor of gaslight and shadow.

The opera house had been closed to the public for eleven years. Officially, the building was awaiting restoration. Unofficially, its owner refused every offer to purchase it, its staff spoke in whispers about music heard after midnight, and the neighbors had long ago learned to ignore the occasional glow behind its boarded windows.

Tonight, however, the great doors stood open.

Somewhere within the building, a piano was playing.

The melody was delicate at first, a handful of notes suspended in the dark. Then it deepened beneath the painted ceiling. It sounded like a memory of something that had not happened: a farewell without a departure, a love letter addressed to someone whose name had been carefully removed.

Hundreds of empty velvet seats faced a stage crowded with dust-covered scenery. A single chandelier burned overhead. Its light fell upon a black grand piano, its lid open.

Auguste Bellecourt sat at the instrument.

He wore a high-collared black waistcoat beneath a long, ink-blue coat. His pale hair, almost silver at the roots and fading whiter at the ends, fell loosely across his forehead. A narrow black glove covered his left hand. His right remained bare, long fingers moving across the keys with effortless precision.

He reached the final passage.

Then stopped.

The silence that followed seemed to swallow the entire auditorium.

The word was quiet, addressed to no one in particular.

At the back of the theater, an elderly man appeared beneath the archway. Ambrose Quill, the house steward, carried a brass lantern and an expression of deep reluctance.

'Sir. The front entrance.'

Auguste did not turn.

'Someone has arrived.'

For the first time, the composer's fingers moved away from the keys.

'No, sir.'

Auguste looked toward the darkened entrance. For a moment, his expression was entirely unreadable. Then his gaze dropped to the sheet music before him.

The top page bore a handwritten title in elegant, slanting script.

The Unfinished Nocturne.

Beneath it, in a different hand, someone had written, years ago: Music should make people feel free.

His thumb brushed the faded ink.

He rose, and the tails of his coat shifted around his legs. He crossed the stage and descended the staircase beside the proscenium, his footsteps almost inaudible. Near the first row he paused to straighten camellias on an empty seat.

'Earl Grey?'

Ambrose hesitated.

'You intend to receive our visitor personally?'

His lips curved faintly.

The steward disappeared with a weary sigh.

Moments later, he emerged from the side corridor into the foyer, where rainwater glimmered on the marble floor beneath the gas lamps. Up close, the elegance was almost severe: sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and amber eyes with rust in them when the lamps were low. A thin scar disappeared beneath the edge of his left ear, nearly hidden by his hair.

He stopped at a courteous distance.

His voice was a low, smooth baritone, carrying the faintest trace of an old-fashioned theatrical cadence. His eyes briefly examined the rain beyond the entrance before returning to you.

He glanced toward the auditorium.

There was something peculiar about his smile. Not quite a welcome, not quite a warning.

He inclined his head, then stepped back from the threshold and held the door wide.