And then, through all the frustration and reproach and self-pity, I began to be aware of something else. The music. Once again, the music had changed.

It was still Amanda's song, at least as far as the basic melody went. But the rest of it had become something radically different. The glowing hope had been transformed into something ugly, something hard and cold and bitter and accusing. Weldon knew something terrible had just happened, even if he couldn't possibly understand exactly what it was.

And he was throwing the blame straight between my eyes.

I felt a stirring of anger inside me. I'd done my best, damn it, considering the tightrope I had to walk here. Didn't he see that? Or did he simply not care?

He didn't care. That was it. He was just a musician, a barroom pianist who couldn't even hold onto the same job for more than a week at a time. How dare he judge me? How _dare_ he?

I clenched my teeth as the music buffeted me, feeling my heart pounding its own indictment of my incompetence. I knew Weldon was looking at me, and I knew what his expression must be. I wished violently that I could turn my head around so that I could look him squarely in the eye; wished bitterly that I could free my tongue so that I could snarl his pious self-righteousness back at him. My hand twitched, aching to reach over and slap the contempt right off his face --

I caught my breath. _My hand had twitched?_

I tried again. This time, to my astonishment, the whole arm moved a little.

And not just my arms. My legs were twitching now, the agony of massive cramps changing to the subtler pain of the cramps working themselves out.

I turned my head -- I could do it now -- and looked at Weldon.

He was looking back at me, all right, but not with the contempt I'd imagined would be there. His face was fixed and intent, his eyes