My palm was sweating.

The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion was full but not hot. I wasn’t getting sick. But there I was, in a sleeveless gown, sweating like a schoolgirl with my damp hand holding Peter’s on the armrest.

Adam Brate had just drawn his bow across the strings for the final moan of the first movement of the famous concerto we’d all come to hear. Ballad of Blades. I knew the piece, and I knew what was next. But he paused. Lit from behind, face obscured by a shadow perfected over years of staging, he was now and always would be the anonymous genius. His body in silhouette, paired with the instrument between his legs, he dominated the concert hall like a giant. The music had molded the space into its own form, then died.

Someone coughed.