The floor of William Croft’s home office was a graveyard of crumpled paper. The Vance Conservatory was his obsession, a monument to the wife he couldn’t save, but the design for the main auditorium was failing.
“It’s the reverb,” William muttered, rubbing his temples. “The glass ceiling destroys the acoustics for the lower register.”
“It’s not the glass,” a quiet voice said. “It’s the angle of the back wall.”
William spun around. Sophie Laurent stood in the doorway, holding a tray of tea. She looked terrified at her own boldness. She was the nanny, hired to be invisible, but the music teacher in her couldn’t stay silent.
“Excuse me?” William asked, his tone sharp.
Sophie walked to the drafting table, setting down the tea. She traced a finger along the schematic. “I used to teach in a hall like this. If you curve the back wall at fifteen degrees, you trap the bass. You need a sawtooth design to scatter the sound, or the cellos will sound muddy.”
William looked at the plans. He looked at Sophie. For a year, he had treated her like a piece of furniture. Now, he saw someone who understood the language of his grief: music.
“Show me,” William commanded, handing her a pencil.
They worked until midnight, the silence of the “Ice King” broken by the scratching of graphite and the shared rhythm of creation.