The backstage wall lamps of Buckingham Palace are covered with a milky white glass shade, the light gentle as if shaved off the sharp edges of moonlight.
The music from outside is progressing to the second movement, with brass and strings layering one upon another, like a curtain woven with golden threads, enveloping the entire Buckingham Palace.
Arthur leans in the shadow at the right side of the stage, his gaze crosses the half-concealed curtain, quietly watching the performance outside.
The stage is brilliantly lit, yet the place he occupies is dark and quiet.
The strong contrast between light and dark feels as if Arthur is sitting in Scotland Yard's interrogation room, only tonight, the one being interrogated is not a criminal, but art.
He is listening intently when suddenly someone softly calls his name behind him: "Arthur."
The voice is low, gentle, sounding like dew falling into a deep pool, stirring a ripple of water.
