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The memory raised an ache in my chest. Above the desk was her photograph. Sofia, my best friend, at twenty-six, looking at something just beyond the edge of the frame. Without thinking, my hand went to the necklace I was wearing, the fine gold chain she had folded into my palm in a hospital corridor on my birthday, after we both accepted that there would be no more treatments. You’ll forget to wear it, she’d said. Wear it anyway.

I hadn’t forgotten. I added the photograph to the mental list I was preparing of things I’d carry myself and reached for the next drawer. Sofia would have expected me to finish what I had started.

I took the last sip of tea, set the mug in the sink, and turned off the lights. Before heading into the bedroom, I looked back one last time. It had been a very good place to live.

I went to bed looking forward to finding out if Alexander Blackwood, opera houses, and ghosts with exceptional bone structure lived up to their reputations.

* * *

Eight days later, I was in the back of a black SUV watching Manhattan slide past the window. Everything had been packed and was following behind in a convoy of moving trucks.

I exhaled. Apparently, excitement and anxiety could feel remarkably similar.

The move had gone surprisingly well. I had expected complications. Instead, the entire relocation seemed to happen with an efficiency I wasn’t accustomed to.

Every question I asked had already been answered. Every concern I raised had been anticipated. It was an unfamiliar feeling, discovering someone else had been thinking about what I might need before I had thought to ask. What should have taken months had somehow been completed in twelve days.

The efficiency impressed me, but it also left me wondering what it was going to be like working somewhere that seemed determined never to let a problem become one.

The car turned, pulling me from my thoughts. The driver slowed as we approached the rising wrought iron gates. The circular drive curved around a fountain at its center. Blackwood Hall appeared before us.

For several seconds, I simply stared. Every photograph I had seen had failed to capture the scale of it. Blackwood Hall occupied an entire city block, looking both elegant and imposing. The pale limestone exterior of the Opera House rose above the surrounding structures. Massive windows caught the daylight, while the broad staircase drew the eye toward the main entrance. Every line seemed deliberate. Nothing seemed designed merely to impress.

The driver pulled to a stop at the curb. I remained seated a moment longer, studying the building through the window. Then I gathered my purse and stepped outside.

The front doors opened before I reached them. A woman in a black suit stepped forward with a practiced smile.

“Dr. Rossi. Welcome to Blackwood Hall.”

“Thank you.” I glanced past her into the lobby before looking back. “I have to admit, this is one of the most beautiful structures in the city.”

“I completely agree,” she said. “I’m Margaret Lewis, the Research Program Coordinator. I’ll be helping with your transition into the Institute.”

I shook her hand. “It is nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Dr. Rossi.” She gestured toward the grand staircase and led me inside. The lobby immediately stole my attention. The ceiling rose several stories overhead, drawing my eyes upward. Pale marble columns framed the space in perfect symmetry. Morning sunlight poured through the mosaic windows, washing the polished stone floor with colorful reflections. Somehow, it seemed brighter in here than it did outside.

This was the type of space that made people lower their voices without being asked. Fresh white roses stood on either side of the grand staircase, their fragrance filling the room. Small groups lingered throughout the lobby, their conversations kept naturally low.

“This way,” Margaret said.

I followed her across the lobby and up the grand staircase. Halfway up, something beyond the landing caught my eye. I stopped without thinking.

Margaret turned. “Dr. Rossi?”

I looked past her toward the enormous doors standing partially open across the landing. “May I?”

She followed my gaze and smiled. “Of course.”

The doors stood open just far enough to reveal the auditorium beyond. Rows of red velvet seats swept toward a stage disappearing into shadow beyond the curtain. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. Ornate gilded carvings framed the walls.

The shape of the room caught my attention. The balconies curved toward the stage, each level seeming to draw the audience closer rather than farther away. For a theater of its size, there was something unexpectedly intimate about it. Every description I had heard about the Opera House at Blackwood Hall suddenly felt inadequate.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Margaret asked.

“I knew there was an opera house.” I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “I just wasn’t expecting…”

“…this?” Margaret finished.