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 felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. “Is it any one you know?” Brendon asked. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. They had been married for well over one hundred years.
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