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descent into black melancholy had only locked a door that had already slammed closed in their faces.
    “I’m no composer,” her brother said. “We’ll be discovered. The pretense, traveling with the maestro…” He shook his head, not bothering to brush away the hair that fell across his eyes.
    “You will find a way.” Papa held up the bank notes Mr. Widmere had left, and shook them for emphasis. “Twenty pounds a week. Twenty! For that, for our family, you must. The contract is already signed. It is your chance, Nicholas, to bring back what we have lost.”
    Clara felt her brother shudder, then take a steadying breath. There was no arguing with Papa. He always knew just how to force their agreement.
    She wet her lips. “How can we possibly manage it?”
    Papa began pacing, the thud of his cane a somber, hollow sound. “Everywhere you go, Nicholas will insist on a suite of rooms. He will keep watch while you write, Clara. Compose at night, in your room.” He rounded on them, a fierce light in his eyes. “You must swear to never let Master Reynard, or anyone , know. Think of what it would do to him—to us. Discovery now will not be a private scandal. If it is found that Master Reynard is promoting music composed by a woman , public opinion will turn against him. He will be disgraced… and we will be ruined. You must ensure that does not happen.”
    She heard his unspoken command as well. Watch over Nicholas. She would, of course, although there had been very little she’d been able to do for him during his debilitating melancholy. It had taken everything she had to keep him eating, to coax him to rest when she heard him treading the floor through the night, to watch with mounting dismay as he grew listless and haunted.
    But he had recovered. He was well now.
    “You can do it, Nicholas.” She gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be there to help. Besides, you are a wonderful pianist. Imagine how the students will flock to you when you return from touring with the master.”
    Her brother stared at the floor a moment more, then straightened and pushed the hair from his face. “It is madness, but very well. We’ll go with him through England and Scotland.”
    “You will be home again in six weeks’ time,” Papa said. “After that, we shall see.”
    They were going with Darien Reynard. They were going with Darien Reynard!
    The reality of it sifted down into her soul and left her trembling. She, Clara Becker, was going to be traveling with the most celebrated musician in the world. He might be insufferably condescending, but she could forgive him. Could even forgive his rudeness to her.
    After all, audiences would now hear her music the way she did. How would it feel, night after night, to lay her music in the hands of the master? Her heart twisted at how desperately she wanted it, and at how perfectly perilous their scheme was.
    Master Reynard was so vibrant, so very masculine, from the set of his broad shoulders to the determination in his shadowy green eyes. So certain that the world would yield to him.
    And she had stumbled against him like the most gauche of schoolgirls. The memory sent an embarrassed, thrilled prickle over her skin. No one in her family seemed to notice that brief, intimate contact before he set her on her feet. Likely he had barely registered it himself. But she felt as though something essential had brushed against her for a moment; some dark, beautiful flame.
    The man was arrogant and inflexible, but he was Darien Reynard .
    “Yes,” Nicholas said, with more hope in his voice than she had heard for months. “We are going to Scotland, to make our fortune.”
    He strode to the hearth, took up the coal bucket, and with a flourish upended it into the fire.
    “Nicholas!” she cried, from habit.
    A half-bucket of coal was a guilty extravagance. But not any more. She could not help smiling at him.
    “We can afford to be warm now.” The new coals began to glow and a sudden