At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it. 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. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. He spoke the automatic thought that entered his mind.
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