He claimed not to know his
crochets from his quavers. When I commented on the elegant length of his
fingers, said he never played; had no instrument on which to do so.
I believed him until the night
I, having escaped from Peregrine’s roadster, camisole unbuttoned but virginity
intact, passed by the Lodge and heard him playing.
On a whim I knocked at the
stout door. Music ceased, bolts were drawn. He was not pleased to see me. ‘Milady –‘
I
thought appeasing would be easy. But in
praising length had failed to appreciate their strength. Or his sexual bent.
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