Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. John was ecstatic to hear that she had made the coveted first chair position in Orchestra. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. “No. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. Blueskin will go with you,—for fear of a mistake. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. You promise me you’ll never grow old, you hear?” “I promise. . Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table.
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