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. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. I was orphaned a long time ago.
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