She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five. 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. So I set out to find you, even if it cost ten times sixteen thousand. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner.
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