And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. The program was to include a Bach cantata, her favorite piece from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and for the first time ever, a student composition, a Concerto, by a precociously talented fellow student named Martin Chen. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town.
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