*Horace*
Even with all our problems in bed, Rapunzel and I have a deep, thrumming awareness between us, a tension so taut that it overtook the music. Her bow quickens, and I think she went straight into playing something different, a piece less melancholy.
When she lifts her bow, I say, “Was that played allegro?”
“Yes, it was.”
“And the first was largo. Was that last written by Vivaldi?” I ask, trying out the new names that I am just beginning to store in my memory.
She beams. “Exactly! The Vivaldi piece is one of the first I learned as a child.”
“It sounds as if they were written by the same person,” I say. “As if he was trying to capture birdsong.”
“What a lovely thought.” She puts the bow aside and hoists up her instrument.
Instantly, I am on my feet, reaching out for the cello
