After a while the cold of the stone reminded him of the existence of his fingers. Spread out on the granite. Big. More than octaves-wide. If he could make music—silent music—on zinc counters, table edges, the wheel of an automobile, he could play a stone wall too, without bothering anyone. There was another French piece he knew, meant for a dead princess not for a live princess mourning, but it seemed close enough to be right. It was full of grief but intricate, composed, shape-making.
