CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I FOUND DIOMEDES IN HIS OFFICE. He was sitting on a stool, in front of his harp. It had a large and ornate wooden frame, with a shower of golden strings.
“That’s a beautiful object,” I said.
Diomedes nodded. “And very difficult to play.” He demonstrated, sweeping his fingers lovingly along the strings. A cascading scale resounded through the room. “Would you like to try?”
I smiled—and shook my head.
He laughed. “I keep asking, you see, in the hope you will change your mind. I’m nothing if not persistent.”
“I’m not very musical. I was told so in no uncertain terms by my music teacher at school.”
“Like therapy, music is about a relationship, entirely dependent on the teacher you choose.”
“No doubt that’s true.”
He glanced out the window and nodded at the darkeni
