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. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. It is impossible. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen. She handled it half fearfully, and set it carefully down again. Then her fingers moved. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning.
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