Page 11 of Symphony of Salvation

“Excuse me?”

“I was assured a position for a few months.”

“A position?”

“Yes.”

“They’re paying you?”

“It’s trivial, but Dr. McCaine insisted.”

Mr. Edwidge’s troubled gaze flicked over my face. “That’s not what I was told.”

It was said more to himself than to me. I didn’t know how to respond.

“A few months?” he repeated.

“Yes. My daughter… she… I anticipate she’ll need at least a semester to adapt before I can comfortably return to work. When I enrolled her, I promised Chloé I wouldn’t abandon Constance before she was ready. Our daughter is…” I shook myhead. “I’m sorry. Is my presence going to be a problem? I’m by no means planning to overstep. Dr. McCaine seemed adamant to have me on staff, and—”

“It’s fine. Decisions have obviously been made without my knowledge.” The man returned the music to the rack and glanced about, his cheeks flush with what I could only read to be undisguised hurt. “I suppose we should start with a quick tour.”

“As you wish.”

I sensed displeasure as he led me down a short hallway with doors on either side. He opened the first, flicked on a light, and held it wide so I could peer inside. “We have four practice rooms. Thankfully, they’re far more soundproof than the main room.”

The moderately sized area contained several empty music stands shoved haphazardly in a corner, another Steinway, in rougher shape than the one I’d played, and a wall of shelving where several percussion instruments gathered dust: drumsticks, crooked stacks of rubber practice pads, triangles, broken castanets, tambourines, spare cymbals, a glockenspiel, a variety of bells, and maracas of various size.

“Budget cuts. We make do,” he explained, reading my mind.

The back room housed Timber Creek Music Department’s selection of wind instruments. It was hard not to respect the orderly arrangement of the hard black cases sitting in neat rows. Flutes, clarinets, and oboes occupied the top shelf. Trumpets, saxophones, French horns, trombones, and so forth in the middle. Tubas and baritones took up much of the bottom shelf.

The stringed instruments, Mr. Edwidge explained, were inconveniently located in a storage room next to the gymnasium. “We don’t have enough space back here. Most kids have their own instruments, but part of my curriculum is training them on several, hence the abundance of supplies. Ideally, before they graduate, I aim to have them adept at playing at least three.”

Constance expertly played four, but I smartly kept that fact to myself.

Most of the instruments were Yamahas, an inexpensive standard typically purchased for beginners, but they worked for the school’s purpose.

“In here,”—Mr. Edwidge opened a door in a dark corner of the back room—“is our musical library.” He flicked a switch. The tired overhead fluorescent illuminated a dusty enclosure. “It’s stuffy and in dire need of organization, but I haven’t found the time. It would be a massive undertaking. Perhaps during the summer months. We’ll see. I assure you, I’m usually more organized.”

The room was similar in size to the practice rooms but far less spacious, considering its sheer volume of sheet music. Built-in wooden shelves climbed to the ceiling on three sides, every square inch filled with files, bursting at the seams with compositions: orchestral scores, duets, solos, piano concertos, and more. Layer upon layer upon layer of partitura. It was both a dream and a nightmare. The floor space was filled with knee-high stacks, leaving a maze of paths, enough to access nearly every shelf if one was careful where they stepped.

“The room isn’t big enough,” I mused. It was the first I’d spoken since the tour began when I’d discovered my unwanted presence at the academy.

The man tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind his ear as he followed my gaze. “No, but there’s nowhere else.”

I squeezed past him, doing my best to ignore his aromatic, woodsy scent, but it snuck up my nostrils regardless, impeding the reasoning center of my brain, conjuring visions and long-buried desires. I couldn’t tell if it was a special type of cologne or if the forest and fresh air had permeated his skin.

Either way, I liked it more than I should have.

“You’ll find everything in here, from the popular to the obscure. Itwasalphabetical by composer, but any number of students have tampered with my system, so I make no promises. Let me know if we don’t have something you’re looking for. I can explore the budget and possibly purchase what you need, or I have connections at other schools who will often let us borrow from their libraries.”

His words barely registered as I scanned the shelves, reading the colorful tabs, tugging loose files containing the work of composers I’d not thought about for decades. “Astounding. You have an impressive collection. I should enjoy exploring your catalog, Mr. Edwidge.”

“You can call me Niles… since we’re to work together.”

“Niles it is. You can call me August. I’m not one for titles.”

I met his pensive gaze with a smile but didn’t get one in return. With his arms crossed defensively, his offer seemed officious. Forced politeness that wasn’t felt. The size of the room seemed to shrink, and I had the sudden urge to escape its confining walls, butNilesblocked the only door.

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