Exeter Cathedral
"Cathedral choir director Eleanor has trained voices for forty years. When composer David arrives to premiere a new work, she shows him what sacred music truly demands."
Exeter Cathedral had been singing for nine centuries, and I'd been directing its choir for the last forty years. Medieval settings, contemporary commissions, voices raised in a space designed for exactly this purpose. Every note was a conversation with everyone who'd sung here before.
"Ms. Blackwood?"
The composer in my vestry was nervous—they always were before premieres. David Morton had written a setting of the Magnificat that had attracted considerable attention; now he had to hear actual voices bring it to life.
"Dr. Blackwood. And your score is complicated."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's a challenge. Challenges are why I do this job." I handed him back his manuscript. "The lower register changes in the second movement need work. Our basses are good, but they're not machines."
"They're not supposed to be machines."
"Then write for humans. Come to rehearsal tomorrow. Listen to what voices actually do."
He came to rehearsal. Sat quietly while I worked with the choir, adjusting his composition in real time to fit real capabilities. Most composers argued; David listened, made notes, treated my suggestions as improvements rather than criticisms.
"You're right," he said afterward. "About the second movement. About all of it."
"I usually am."
"That must be frustrating. Being right and having to convince everyone."
"It's exhausting. But the music rewards patience."
He stayed for the week before the premiere. Came to every rehearsal, took every note, learned more about choral writing in seven days than, he claimed, in seven years of study. And somewhere in the process, the professional relationship became something warmer.
"Why sacred music?" he asked one evening. We'd moved from the cathedral to a pub nearby, professional distance abandoned.
"Because it's honest. People have been singing these words for millennia. The emotions are universal—grief, hope, gratitude, awe." I sipped my wine. "And because the space requires it. Exeter wasn't built for concerts. It was built for worship."
"Do you worship?"
"I believe in the music. Whether that counts as worship depends on your theology." I met his eyes. "Why did you write sacred music?"
"Because I wanted to feel part of something larger. Pop songs are ephemeral. This—" He gestured toward the cathedral. "This persists."
"It persists because people choose to maintain it. The building, the choir, the tradition." I touched his hand. "We're the ones who make it last."
The premiere was a triumph. David's Magnificat soared in the space it was written for, voices doing exactly what voices were meant to do. When the applause faded, he found me in the choir room.
"Thank you."
"You did the work."
"You made the work possible." He stepped closer. "Eleanor. I've had pieces premiered in concert halls worldwide. None of them felt like this."
"This is what sacred space provides. Not religion—connection."
"I want more of it. The space. The work." His hand found my face. "You."
We kissed in the choir room, centuries of music watching from the walls. His mouth was warm, certain—the kiss of someone who'd found what he'd been composing toward.
"My cottage is nearby," I said.
"Show me what directors go home to."
The cottage was music made domestic—scores everywhere, recordings organized by composer, the evidence of a life devoted to sound. David looked around with obvious appreciation.
"This is you."
"This is what happens when music is your life for forty years."
"This is exactly where I want to be."
We made love while the cathedral waited nearby, our bodies finding harmonies that required no rehearsal. David touched me with composer's attention—understanding how themes developed, how phrases built, how climaxes required proper preparation.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for conducting."
"You're built for drawing music from people." He moved inside me with careful rhythm. "Let me hear what you sound like."
We came together while nine centuries of sacred music blessed us from nearby, both of us finding completion that felt like the final chord of something magnificent. When I cried out, it was with the voice I'd trained for decades—controlled, powerful, designed to fill sacred spaces.
"Stay," I said afterward.
"For how long?"
"For more commissions. For more premieres." I touched his face. "For everything we haven't written yet."
He stayed. The Magnificat became the first of many collaborations—his composition, my direction, both of us building something that the cathedral would remember. The music world calls us partners; we call ourselves something simpler.
The choir still sings. The space still resonates. And now there's a composer who became a partner, who learned that sacred music requires more than notes—it requires people who make the singing possible, and love that makes the people whole.