Hazzley was thinking that dusting to the music of Beethoven was something she might try. Cleaning house was, after all, a soulless exercise: repetitive, boring, necessary once in a while. Sometimes, after vacuuming, her back ached, despite her efforts to stay fit. Someday she might hire a person to help. By then, half the rooms would be bare, so cleaning wouldn’t amount to much. For now, dusting to Beethoven sounded good.

Last spring, when Hazzley was visiting her daughter, Sal had taken her to a rehearsal at the National Arts Centre. Sal was a donor and entitled to bring a guest. Alexander Shelley was conducting the Emperor; Emanuel Ax was soloist. The two men had their sleeves rolled up during rehearsal, and Hazzley marvelled at the movement of hands, fingers, arms. Normally, you wouldn’t see this sinuosity of limb at a performance because the men would be in formal concert dress. What surprised her was the way Shelley’s arms created swanlike curves through the space around him. Hazzley had seen Bernstein conduct half a century ago, and he’d performed in a similar way, his body weaving unrestrainedly, from the tip of his toes upward. Hazzley had settled in, wanting the music to go on forever.

At that moment, Cassie entered the backroom with an order pad and pen. “Coffee, tea, wine?” she said. “Whatever you’d like to drink. On the house for your first meeting—a welcome to the café, though I guess most of you have been here before. Hazzley . . . well, I’ve known her a long time. She’s a regular, a bad apple.”

“Cake?” said Tom, but Cass shook her head. None left.

They all gave their orders except for Addie, who declined. She was depressed by the misunderstanding and wasn’t certain how to go about correcting it. She had nothing more to say about Sybil anyway. Except that she was alive, just barely. She also had nothing to offer about her personal life, about the topic of her own marital status or her separation from Tye. She and Tye were kinder people when living apart. Each of them considered their friendship—though it was fragile—to be an accomplishment. No bitterness. When together, they were sometimes capable of making each other miserable. Having thought of Tye, she was ready to divert.

“Tell us about your name,” she said, turning to Hazzley. “You were saying that was a bit of a story.”

Hazzley had begun to relax. The others were no longer angular shapes bent over the table. They were less tense, sitting back in their chairs, waiting for Cass to bring on the drinks. Hazzley had observed Addie’s expression after the long moment of silence. Understanding diversionary tactics, she stepped up to the rescue.

“I was born in England, second year of the war,” she said. “We stayed in London, Mum and I, except for a short period when I was sent away to a safe place in the country. I was so unhappy, I came right back to my mum. Dad was off being a soldier, but he managed a two-week leave, which somehow coincided with my November arrival.” Her eyes widened as she spoke. Addie, relieved of the need to fend off questions about Sybil, noted that Hazzley’s pupils were hugely dilated. Some people had large pupils naturally, but Addie couldn’t help wondering about a harmful flash of light searing the retina.