The morning light broke over the Atlantic in harsh, crystalline shafts of slate and gold, cutting through the towering mullioned windows of Blackwood Sanctuary. The storm had passed, leaving behind a churning, turquoise ocean that hurled sixty-foot sprays of white foam against the monolithic black granite cliffs below. Inside the private circular music salon, the air was warm and smelled of aged cedar, beeswax, and resin. Maya stood before the…
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