Chapter 25 - Before the Music Began
The collector’s name was Armand Duval.
He owned theaters, performance archives, and a reputation for acquiring things just before someone else realized they wanted them.
Camille contacted his representative.
We did not begin with an offer.
We asked what existed.
A complete recording?
A fragment?
An original medium?
A licensed copy?
Who had sold it?
Under what authority?
I had learned that longing made people careless.
I refused to let mine become someone else’s easiest negotiation.
The answer took four days.
During that time, I taught.
Attended rehabilitation appointments.
Reviewed the summer budget.
Ate dinner with Alexander.
Visited the bakery apartment to collect the last of my clothes.
I kept the key until the rental period ended.
Not as an escape plan.
As a reminder that choosing to stay mattered more when leaving remained possible.
Alexander helped carry the bags.
He did not celebrate as though he had won.
At the penthouse, he asked where I wanted my notebooks.
“Not in your study.”
“Agreed.”
We cleared a shelf in the room beside the terrace.
My books.
My papers.
A desk I chose.
An ordinary accommodation.
I found it more romantic than the diamonds.
That evening, we discussed the wedding.
Not the guest list.
Not flowers.
What we actually wanted.
“A day without a press conference,” I said.
He smiled.
“Ambitious.”
“No public wager.”
“Reasonable.”
“No announcement that you rescued me.”
His expression softened.
“You rescued parts of yourself I didn’t know existed.”
I looked at him.
“That is dangerously close to a speech.”
He laughed.
Then he became serious.
“I want to marry you. I don’t want the wedding to prove anything to my mother, the board, or the people who read the contract.”
I reached for his hand.
“Then let’s choose a season before we choose a spectacle.”
Autumn.
Not immediately.
Not because delay would defeat anyone.
Because we wanted time.
Time for my body to recover.
Time for the school to settle.
Time for love to become ordinary enough that a wedding would not have to carry all of it.
We chose autumn.
Then we ordered dinner.
The next morning, Camille received a response from Duval’s representative.
The recording existed.
It included several uninterrupted sections of Elena rehearsing The Glass Orchard in a private studio.
There was also spoken commentary.
My mother discussing intention, structure, and changes she planned.
I sat down when Camille told me.
Her voice remained steady while mine disappeared.
“Lena?”
“I’m here.”
“You don’t have to decide anything now.”
“What does he want?”
“A meeting.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
“And a proposal.”
I waited.
Duval was preparing a season at one of his theaters.
He wanted my participation.
Not a single appearance.
A featured reconstruction project.
Exclusive first performance rights subject to negotiation.
Promotional commitments.
Access to the recording would form part of a wider arrangement.
I stared at the studio mirror.
Another stage.
Another offer.
Another person holding something I loved while asking how much of myself I would provide.
For a moment, I was back in the St. Regis ballroom.
Alexander smiling over a champagne glass.
Dance, and receive the thing they had decided I wanted.
Then Ruby knocked on the office door.
“Miss Lena?”
I covered the telephone.
“Yes?”
“Can we try it without the music first? We keep rushing.”
I looked at her.
Then I smiled.
“Yes. That’s a good idea.”
After she left, I returned to Camille.
“I’ll read the proposal.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“And the meeting?”
“I’ll consider it after we understand what he’s actually offering.”
She sounded pleased.
Not triumphant.
Pleased that I had left room between wanting and agreeing.
That evening, I told Alexander.
He listened.
Then he asked the question I had come to trust.
“What do you want?”
“To hear my mother.”
His eyes softened.
“And?”
“To make sure wanting her doesn’t make me abandon myself.”
He took my hand.
We stood beside the open terrace door while the city moved below.
Somewhere out there, a man possessed a recording of the voice I missed most.
He thought it might bring me to his stage.
Perhaps it would.
Perhaps the arrangement could become fair.
Perhaps I would walk away.
I did not yet know.
But the difference mattered.
The first time, the music began before anyone asked what I wanted.
This time, I would read the terms.
May you like
I would ask the questions.
And before the first note sounded, I would decide whether to dance.
