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She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. She directed the orchestra to tune again. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. Adieu! my charmer. Her eyes flashed and she withdrew the dagger, pulling away from him.
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