She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ’ ‘You ain’t never!’ ‘Back to your post, Trodger,’ ordered the harassed captain.
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