Page 8 of Symphony of Salvation

Constance marched ten feet ahead, plowing a path through the freshly fallen snow like she’d been born in the tundra and not in a climate where the temperatures rarely dipped below ten degrees Celsius. She pretended I didn’t exist, refusing to hear me reminisce about adventures skiing in the Alps or the time I’d spent in Russia during one of the worst winters imaginable. She didn’t care about the uniqueness of snowflakes, nor did she want to stop to admire the tranquility of a half-frozen lake in winter.

When the impractical boots her mother had bought didn’t do their job and she slipped on an icy patch, landing hard on one knee, Constance thwarted any attempt to help her up. She struggled with her backpack and angrily brushed the snow and debris off her stockings before delivering me a scathing look as though I’d been the person to orchestrate her fall.

Off she went.

Constance didn’t want a father. She didn’t want to go to a real school. I wasn’t sure she knew what she wanted. The only thing that seemed clear was how much she hated the sudden shift in the direction of her life.

Join the club, I thought.

I jogged to keep up. “We have to stop at the office to get your schedule.”

She walked faster.

“Dr. McCaine promised no physical education. You’re welcome, by the way. I fought for you.”

No gratitude.

I would be more apt to get a response from the frozen trees and frost-crusted pinecones than my daughter.

I couldn’t decide if Constance was angry because I’d made her go to school, because I’d accepted a guest teaching position at said school, because I wouldn’t yet let her live in the dorms with the other girls her age, because her mother had gotten herself in a tangle and forced her into my care, because I refused to take her back to Greece and her grandparents, because the latest advancement in technology and her subsequent surgery hadn’t lived up to her expectations, or simply because she was fourteen and hormonal. It was Russian roulette, and no matter where the spinner landed, the answer was wrong.

No handbook existed to explain Constance’s frequently swaying moods, and she refused to talk about her feelings no matter how many times I pried.

The confusing floor plan of Timber Creek’s main building forced her to slow down and await directions. Constance had declined to accompany me the previous week when I’d filled out registration forms, so it was her first time in the main body of the school.

Students bustled up and down the wide corridors as a shrill bell announced the commencement of first period. Their overlapping voices echoed off the high ceiling, and I dodged a few swinging backpacks as their owners raced past so they wouldn’t be late.

The century-old architecture gave the premises a sophisticated, erudite appeal. Photographs of directors and other prominent figures from decades past hung in ornate frames along the walls in the administration hall. The brass plates on mounted plaques—ones displaying high achievements—glistened as though recently polished. Timber Creek’s reputation as one of the highest academic academies in the province was what first attracted me to the idea of sending Constance here.

Besides, we needed space from one another if we were going to survive this father-daughter nonsense. Neither of us was much fond of the other. Once I reassured myself that she was settled—a month or two, I figured—I could return to my normal life as a full-time musician and a less than part-time parent. If she moved into the school’s dormitories, I could book a few performances with my agent and travel anywhere I pleased.

I was counting the weeks, days, and hours.

Inside the administration office, Constance put a hand on my chest and shook her head. She’d styled her flaxen hair in double French braids, and they swung with her adamancy.

Her mouth formed the wordnoas her fingers made one of the few signs I understood.

“You don’t want me to go in?”

A stubborn head shake. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose, and her electric-green eyes said all she couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

“All right.” I touched the knot of my necktie, and Constance swatted my hand. She fixed it straight, pulled it tight until it choked me, and offered the barest suggestion of a smile before making a shooing motion.

“I plan to check out the music room and meet the head of the department to coordinate our schedules. Then I’ll head… home”—it was hard to consider the cottagehome—“to work on that damnable sonata. If you need me—”

Constance shoved me toward the door, nonverbally indicating she was perfectly fine on her own.

Dr. Justine McCaine emerged from a private office on the left and beamed. “Oh, hello. You must be Constantina.”

A remarkable change overtook my daughter. She spun, affecting an air of innocence, of girlhood. I hadn’t seen her wear that smile since a long-ago birthday. Was she five? Maybe six? It was before everything in her life had changed. Before the subsequent surgery. Before her mother revealed her true nature and Constance ended up in my care.

Dr. McCaine guided Constance into her office with a gentle touch to her shoulder. “Will you be joining us, Maestro?”

I cringed. “Please, call me August.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

My daughter’s imploring gaze warned me off. “I’ll let Constance get settled on her own. Could you direct me to the music room?”

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