Much made a small, strangled sound in his throat, a faux-protest, as though the loss of closeness was too much for him to bear, and it drew an amused smile to Qebhet's lips. She set the jar of honey down on the kitchen bench, then, her hand still laced comfortably with his, started unhurried for the door. "They used to play at the clubs and speakeasies during the Prohibition days. People called that part of 133rd Swing Street then... a dozen or more jazz clubs just in the one block."
Outside, the evening was perfectly mild, the glow of summer still hanging in the air. A good night for dancing, Qebhet thought, as they started down the steps. "I never saw them play when they were alive. I'm not even sure if they did play together... perhaps they only found each other in death. Perlie likes to tell everyone he played trumpet with Duke Ellington..." Her smile quirked up at one corner. "Perlie tells a lot of tall tales. But perhaps they're true."