"I live in the mountains, thank you very much," said Aspen with feigned dignity, still near the window, watching the grey-bellied clouds. A flash of lightning sent her back toward the piano as Avram picked out the fugue, and she leaned in the curve of the wood, her elbow light against the top. Bach, just as appropriately somber as what she'd been playing. "No, I haven't. Is there something up?"