A creature of passions, a weather vane, that’s what Arturo was. She’d heard her father say as much. He had not meant it as a compliment, but Alba found the image enticing. To be able to turn and be swept away by one’s heart as swiftly as a leaf is carried by a current, rather than taking root like an oak: this seemed to her exciting and commendable. Yet his frenetic energy was different from his anger, and this strain of darkness, of sharp rage that spiked beneath the notes, was not something she enjoyed.
