Her eyes lingered on the beautiful instrument—rich red in color, well-loved, yet beautifully kept—lying contentedly against the green velvet of its case. “Do you play?” Quincy jerked her eyes away from the instrument to find Lord Arch watching her, his mouth drawn in a very familiar straight line. “Only for myself, now that Ezekiel is dead,” she answered truthfully. “How delightful,” he said, smiling, his handsome face giving way to the refined wrinkles of his age. “Why don’t you play for yourself now, and I’ll just listen?”
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