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She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. Her place was not filled; she had been simply noted as absent, and she did a comforting day of admirable dissection upon the tortoise. I’ve got too much work. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife.
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