Vredech flinched away from the pain in the Whistler’s voice but he could do no other than reach out and help; the pastoral demand set his own concerns to one side. He snatched at Nertha’s words. ‘Nothing can withstand that kind of scrutiny, Whistler,’ he said. ‘It’s like a child asking “Why?” after everything you say.’ Then, half to himself, ‘Even healthy flesh becomes diseased if you pick at it long enough.’ He copied the Whistler’s own dismissive gesture. ‘Play your flute. I’ll tell you what happened to me.’
The Whistler moved as if to speak, then turned his gaze back to the fire. Slowly the flute came to his mouth and he began to play the three notes that Vredech had heard at their first meeting. Over and over, each time different, sometimes poignant, lingering, sometimes angry, someti
