Soon after first light she was back in the dining hall, her fingers caressing the cirayla strings. Servants came and went; Irenya played on. She began to sing her own compositions, songs she had jotted down in her little notebook, destroyed along with her bag.
Duikin crossed her line of sight as he checked the servants’ work, moving a place-setting two centimetres here, repositioning a wine cup there. Irenya broke off and ran through a harmonic scale. He gave his customary greeting, a discreet tilt of his head. He never spoke or watched her. On a whim, Irenya plucked several bars of syncopated rhythm then swung into three-four time, the bass notes carrying the sweep of a waltz. Duikin did not look up, but he paused in mid-reach. For a few moments his fingers beat the time. She felt idioti
