A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Then—then we shall be together. This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know. “Where?” “To that ball. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned.
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