The Englishman was asleep, breathing through his mouth as he always did, awake or asleep.  Suddenly Hana was claustrophobic, untired. She strode down the hall and leapt down the stairs. She pushed at the stiff swollen door and came into the library and then removed the boards from the French doors at the far end of the room, opening them, letting in the night air. Where Caravaggio was, she didn’t know. 

 

She grabbed the grey sheet that covered the piano and walked away to a corner of the room hauling it in after her, 

No light. She heard a far grumble of thunder. 

 

She was standing in front of the piano. Without looking down she lowered her hands and started to play, just chording sound, reducing melody to a skeleton. She was looking down as two men slipped through the French doors and placed their guns on the end of the piano and stood in front of her. The noise of chords still in the air of the changed room.Her arms down her sides, one bare foot on the bass pedal, continuing with the song her mother had taught her, that she practised on any surface, a kitchen table, a wall while she walked upstairs, her own bed before she fell asleep.