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“How does one prepare for that?”

“Champagne,” she said. “And patience.”

The doors were open. I stopped at the threshold.

Blackwood Hall’s opera house had been transformed. Only then did I realize how familiar it had become. I knew what it looked like on ordinary afternoons, on evenings when we had committee meetings, and how it sounded when it was nearly full. Tonight, none of it felt the same.

The chandeliers scattered light through thousands of crystals, casting fragments of brilliance across the opera house. Roses occupied every available surface in white and deep burgundy, their scent mingling with the candlelight. The stage had been cleared for dancing, with the orchestra occupying the pit below. Behind the dancers, the velvet curtains had been drawn back, exposing the depth of the stage and making the entire space feel larger than I remembered. Its opening movement rose around us as though it had been composed for this evening and no other.

Guests moved through the candlelight in gowns and evening coats. Servers passed with champagne, the crystal flutes catching the glow as they moved. From the balconies above, a few guests leaned against the gilded railings, watching the gala unfold below.

Charlotte placed her hand briefly on my arm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I looked out across the opera house again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

Charlotte smiled. “Neither have I.”

I turned toward her. “But you’ve been attending for years!”

“I know.” Her gaze drifted back toward the chandeliers. “It feels this way every time.”

We descended the staircase toward the main floor and the gala received us without ceremony. A passing server offered us champagne and I accepted a glass. Charlotte was claimed almost immediately by Georg, whose opening opinion on tempo had apparently not waited until ten o’clock.

I exchanged greetings with two committee members and admired a researcher’s remarkable mask. She explained cheerfully that it was made from discarded pathway diagrams and molecular structures printed on cardstock, cut into overlapping silver-edged pieces. I continued moving slowly through the room with the freedom of someone who had nowhere specific to be.

The orchestra was playing Vivaldi. I noticed it immediately. My mother had owned a recording she played most Sunday mornings, and I was suddenly back there. The smell of coffee, the sound of pages being turned, the taste of fresh blueberries on my lips. For several seconds, the memory and the gala occupied the same space.

A couple swept past me on their way toward the dance floor, and I was myself again, standing beneath the chandeliers in a sapphire dress I had not yet stopped being grateful for.

I did not notice him immediately. That was the most honest thing I can say about the evening. The man who would occupy my attention for most of it had been there all along.

He stood near the tall windows overlooking the gardens, one hand resting at his side, a champagne flute held loosely in the other. His coat was dark and precisely fitted. His mask was white, covering half his face, concealing enough of his features that I couldn’t place him. He was watching the orchestra with the still, focused attention of someone who was listening rather than merely waiting for the music to end.

At first, he seemed like any other guest. Then, without quite knowing why, I found myself looking for him whenever I wasn’t speaking to someone else. There was a stillness to him that the rest of the room lacked. Everyone else was performing. He simply occupied the room. He turned his head slightly, and his gaze moved briefly across the room before returning to the orchestra. I looked away.

Charlotte reappeared at my elbow a little while later, conductor-free and apparently satisfied.

“The tempo discussion lasted four minutes,” she announced. “A personal record.”

“Who won?”

“No one wins those conversations. They just come to an end.”

We made our way toward the far side of the room, where a small group had gathered near one of the side galleries, debating an upcoming chamber concert with increasing enthusiasm. I had learned, in the weeks since my arrival, that this was how Blackwood Hall discussed music: with genuine affection and remarkably well-supported opinions. Charlotte was quickly drawn into the debate. I listened for a while before continuing toward the edge of the dance floor.

The orchestra moved into something slower, and the room seemed to adjust with it. Conversations softened. Movement slowed. A few couples stepped onto the stage. The candlelight cast them in gold and shifting shadow.

I watched for a moment.

“Would you care to dance?” The voice came from slightly to my left, and I turned.

The man in the white mask stood beside me. I hadn’t noticed him approach, and for an absurd second, it felt as though he had simply materialized. Nothing in his posture suggested expectation. If I declined, I suspected he would simply incline his head and disappear back into the crowd.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Yes, thank you.”

He nodded and offered me his hand. I placed mine in his. That was how it began.

He danced with the ease of someone who had learned properly. There was nothing performative in it. He maintained a careful distance between us. His movements were controlled and certain, making it easy to follow him. His hand rested lightly at my back, warm through the silk of my dress, a single point of contact I could not ignore. He asked nothing of me, which meant there was nothing to resist. Somewhere in that calm, I let go of the careful distance I usually kept from people.