As the quartet struck up again, this time with the wild fiddle strains gentled into those of Bach, Lucy spotted Dash headed toward Sophie. She watched as he said something to the prickly woman, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Looking at the ground. Waiting. Sophie looked ashen. She pursed her lips tightly, took a step back. Dash pulled a hand out of his pocket to wave it in apology, saying something else. But Sophie caught his hand midair, lifted her chin, and—this much Lucy could decipher across the room—said a simple “Yes.” And they stepped out on the dance floor. Curious, Lucy opened her
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