The Golden Song
The Golden Song The music came through the wall at three in the morning, the way music does when it has nowhere else to go. Arthur Penhaligon pressed his ear to the damp plaster of his Bloomsbury flat and listened to a violin playing something that had never been written on paper. It was a song made of gold and broken glass, each note a fragment of something he had nearly forgotten—nearly, but...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 4 Views 0 Anteprima