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Pyrakis turned to Marc, enquiringly. “Why does she
think that, my friend?”
Marc shrugged. “We told her she would have to prove
herself before we agreed. We did not say she could not
try.”
Pyrakis nodded and looked at Kate again. “You must
make her work, little one. Be cruel, be ruthless, but make
her work.” Then he stood up, flexing his fingers. “Now I
shall play to you.”
He walked to the great piano which dominated one side
of the shadowy room, lifted the lid and laid his hands on
the keys, flat, unmoving.
She had seen this odd trick of his before, at London
concerts. He said it was because he wanted to feel the
piano before he began to play it, to sense the willingness
of the keys.
He lifted his hands again and then broke into a series
of fast, dizzying chords which startled her and were
totally new to her ear.
“This is his own,” Marc whispered.
Pyrakis played for an hour, totally absorbed, as though
he had forgotten them, his untiring hands wrenching
brilliant response from the piano.
When he stopped playing and swung round to face
them, Kate was trembling with excitement. She could not
speak, but her face spoke for her.
“I must go now, for my siesta,” Pyrakis said. “You will
lunch with me afterwards?”
“I’m sorry,” Marc apologised, “but I have just noticed
the sky. A storm is in the offing. We must make a dash
