The first notes of the symphony unfurled like slow-moving light. From the Suffox family box, Charlton sat upright, one gloved hand resting against the railing, the other closed around his programme. The paper had begun to curl where his thumb pressed it — a rare betrayal of restlessness.
Across the gulf of the auditorium, the Cross family crest glimmered faintly above another velvet enclosure. He could not truly see the occupants — only the soft shift of shadow when someone leaned forward or turned their head — but he knew who was there. The footman's voice in the lobby had carried clearly enough: "Minister Cross requests the honour of Lady Maxwell's company…"
Beside him, Larissa Ligeti sat with perfect posture, her gaze serene upon the stage. The candlelight brushed her fair hair with gold, the reflection of a life untouched by scandal. Her peace should have been infectious. Instead it gnawed at him, a reminder of the calm he pretended to have mastered.
