Somewhere in the house, she stood still. Farrell knew it with his eyes on his flowing, melting left hand, as he knew it when Ben put down his book. Outside in the dark, Briseis whimpered at the kitchen window. The bass line was retarding perfectly, treading almost painfully along his tendons, balancing, walking his nerves like a high wire, while the treble danced in his scalp and skirled just under the skin of his cheeks. He thought about Ellen, and the thought was kindly. I’m nice when I’m playing. I am really a nice fellow when I’m playing.

When he finished and looked up, she was standing with her hand on Ben’s shoulder, the other hand slowly unweaving her long braid. Farrell discovered that his hands and lips were cold. He said, “Sometimes I can do that.”

She did not answer, but Ben grinned at him and said, “Hey, you play good.” He held an invisible microphone close to Farrell’s mouth. “Mr. Farrell, would you talk to us just a bit about the technique required for a proper interpretation of Dowland’s music?”

It was an old game, one they had not played since his arrival. Farrell let his face go loose and silly. “Was that Dowland I was doing? Oh, man, I always think it’s that other one, you know, what’s that other limey? William Byrd, yeah. You sure that wasn’t William Byrd?”

“All that kind of fairy music sounds the same to me,” Ben said blandly. “Mr. Farrell, what about your legato? I’m sure every young lutenist in the country would be agog to learn the secret of developing such a silky, liquid, voluptuous legato.”

“Yeah, I bet they would,” Farrell said, chuckling. “Tell them I said they could all suck Clorox.” He stood up to go to bed and had almost reached the stairs when Sia called softly, “Mr.