Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed.
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