(no subject)

There are strong, familiar chords coming from the piano in the church--something both bombastic and moody, a musical tantrum in a minor key; perhaps it's Tchaikovsky or Moussorgsky, but more likely it only has the sound of a long-dead Russian composer.

The woman at the piano pauses every so often to brush back her long hair, her lips pursed in deep annoyance.

In a hallway in some part of the mansion, there is an ornately decorated black pysanka--lying in pieces on the floor.

Typist: Borrowing an old crackplot.