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The Fellows’ Dining Room occupied a quiet corner of Blackwood Hall, overlooking the lush gardens. Tall windows filled the space with daylight, while dark wood paneling and shelves lined with books gave the room the atmosphere of a private library that also happened to serve lunch.

Small groups of residents and researchers occupied scattered tables, their conversations kept low. I got the impression that ideas were exchanged here just as frequently as meals were enjoyed. It was elegant, but comfortable enough to invite people to linger.

Lunch felt more casual than a professional meeting, and the entire day was beginning to feel like a warm introduction rather than a formal tour. We talked about architecture, about music we both enjoyed, and the satisfaction of solving a problem that refused to cooperate for months. I had come braced to perform for the man who signed the checks. Instead, I kept forgetting there was anything I needed to prove.

Twice I caught myself leaning toward him without thinking, and twice I made myself sit back. He noticed the first time. I could tell because he didn’t look away, and the soup stopped being the warmest thing at the table.

As we stood to leave, a tall man in a dark suit appeared briefly in the doorway. His gaze settled on Alexander for only a moment. Alexander gave the smallest nod. Just as quietly, the man disappeared. Before I could ask who he was, Alexander turned back to me.

“There is one more place I’d like to show you.”

“Please lead the way.”

Alexander inclined his head and stepped into the corridor. I was still thinking about how easily the hours had been passing when he stopped before a pair of double doors. He pushed them open.

The Opera House.

Empty now, it felt even more impressive than it had that morning. From inside the auditorium, I could see details the doorway had concealed. The ceiling above the balconies had been painted as the night sky, deepening in darkness toward the stage until the room seemed to exist outside of daylight altogether.

I could only stare. “I can’t believe all of this is part of the same institution.”

“I saved the best for last. You seemed disappointed when Margaret moved on quickly. I thought you might appreciate seeing it properly.”

I blinked. The moment he was referring to could not have lasted more than a few seconds, and I certainly didn’t remember commenting on it. There wasn’t the slightest hint of doubt in his voice.

How had he known? To be noticed this precisely by a man I had known for a matter of hours should have unsettled me. Some of it did. The rest of it, the part I was not prepared for, felt like being desired. I had not felt that in so long that I almost didn’t recognize it.

“We host performances throughout the year,” Alexander said, drawing my attention to the stage. “Opera, symphonies, concerts, ballet, guest lectures, and the occasional theatrical production. Many of the performers are residents of Blackwood Hall, though we also invite artists and performers from outside the Institute.”

I looked across the rows of empty seats. “You have resident performers?”

“Several. Blackwood has always attracted people from different disciplines. It was designed with the assumption that all of them would have something to contribute.”

His gaze turned toward the balconies. “The performance schedule is overseen by a committee made up of residents and fellows. They review proposals, select productions, and determine how the season is structured. The goal is to ensure the opera house reflects the community rather than individual preferences.”

There was such quiet devotion in the way he spoke about Blackwood Hall that I wondered if this was how he spoke about someone he loved. Fondly. As though his affection were simply a fact. Giving himself away without seeming to know it.

“There is currently an opening on the committee, and I thought it might interest you.”

I turned toward him. “It would be an honor.” The words escaped before I had time to consider them. I smiled as I looked back toward the stage. “Going to live performances has been my favorite hobby for as long as I can remember. Opera, musicals, ballet. I love all of it.”

I heard myself and laughed. “I can’t imagine a more dangerous amount of authority to give me.”

“Then it seems I made the right decision.” Something in his voice grabbed my attention. “This gives you a reason to return.”

* * *

Alexander opened the door to the Chairman’s Office and I immediately understood why it had acquired such a reputation.

Tall windows overlooked the gardens below, the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon. Bookshelves lined the walls, interrupted by framed architectural sketches that appeared old enough to belong in a museum. A stone fireplace stood near a grand piano in one corner.

In the center of the room sat a large dark walnut desk that looked like it was designed by an architect rather than purchased from a furniture catalog. The polished surface held only a fountain pen, a leather portfolio, and a framed photograph of a very happy golden retriever. It was the only personal item in sight. Somehow, that told me something about the man behind it. Everything had a purpose, everything had its place, and the only thing there simply because he loved it was the photograph of his dog.

Alexander crossed the room and moved behind his desk. He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Please, Dr. Rossi.”

I sat across from him. The man who had spent the afternoon showing me another side of Blackwood Hall had receded behind the responsibilities of the office he occupied.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in.”