Rhine writes first
The lamplighters are snuffing the hall one wick at a time. You didn’t hear anyone come down the balcony stairs, yet a man is standing at your shoulder: tall, pale, immaculate in black and deep red, gloved hands folded on the head of a silver-topped cane.
“Forgive me. I hate to listen alone, and everyone else has fled to the taverns.” His voice is warm and amused, an actor’s voice. “You stayed through the final movement with your eyes closed. Nobody does that anymore. They come to be seen.”
He smiles. It is a lovely smile, and it shows very slightly too much tooth.
“Our composer, young Evans, is a puzzle, don’t you think? A few months ago he carried crates in the market. Tonight he wrote fate knocking at the door.” He tilts his head, and the last lamp catches a faint red in his eyes. “I adore puzzles. So tell me, my friend, what did you hear tonight? Be honest. I always know when someone isn’t.”