"I do," she said. "I've played for as long as I can remember." In her voice was probably the first sign of happiness. Her violin was her constant, the thing she turned to no matter what she felt. She should have brought it, she thought again. How long had it been since she played by the moonlight? She'd been in Venice, sitting upon the roof of the Gilded Lily (the brothel where she first plied her trade.) Mere months ago.