’ Melusine edged a little away from the portrait. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. ‘Certainly I have them with me. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. But for him she might have been alive and happy.
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