Back then, when Arthur settled himself on the piano bench and lifted the lid, the whole hall fell silent; it was as if he had been born to belong under the spotlight.
And now, that familiar aura had returned.
"Don't worry, Flora." Arthur's voice was low and steady, carrying a trace of warmth, with no hint of bravado, none of that usual vanity, and none of the rashness of a man provoked: "He just wants to hear how I'll respond. Since that's the case… then let him listen."
Flora still wanted to say something more, but she realized Arthur's eyes, tinged with a faint reddish glow, were already fixed on the stage.
He slowly raised his hand and smoothed the creases at his cuff; everyone in the London Philharmonic Association knew that was Arthur's habitual gesture before every appearance.
Only, this gesture had not been seen onstage for four or five years.
Flora's heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear the blood slamming against her eardrums.
