4 minutes 48 seconds| The reverb drums presented problems in the mixing, but the soaring coda makes this one of my favorite pieces.
No precise time stamp for this composition can be found. The date last modified and start date for the SWF are both around May 2013, but this is too late. In my music projects folder, which contains images generated for defunct SWFs and early thumbnails, I find the date 2/03/12, which sounds correct.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 6| Later in this chapter, before Christmas dinner, Lucien tours his sister’s new home, which has been blessed earlier that day by a visiting cousin:
He strolled into one palatial room that, in more robust times, might have been called into service where a house full of people needed places to chinwag. Tchotchkes were objects of particular interest here, and a gallery of studio portraits of his young niece.
The uncle judged his sister’s child to be happy, although he was no judge of sincerity by appearance. He approached the outline of a mirror on one wall, which was covered with a white bed sheet. Lifting a corner of it, a waifish voice cautioned him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Lucien turned to see little Ainsleigh glaring at him.
“Auntie will know,” she told him. “She put it there.”
The confident relation pointed at a sepia tone picture across the room, which depicted a threesome of ankle-biters in their Easter best posing on a thick-pile carpet. Only the pretty girl, in a crisp starched dress, smiled directly into the camera. The two boys on either side of her looked like they had been dropped off by the photographer’s studio after lobotomies. Each stared solemnly (distractedly) at seeming objects in the room other than the camera; and from the perspective of a potential viewer of the portrait, they appeared preoccupied with the corners of the fake gold-leaf frame. “That’s me,” Lucien proclaimed cheerily. “The kid on the left.”
The niece was not persuaded. “Momma said I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
The uncle reached into his sweater vest and pulled out a wad of cards assembled one daylong Saturday at Kinko’s. “This is my business card,” he advised.
The child examined the piece of laminated card stock quizzically.
Her aunt just then appeared in the doorway behind her, limping with a bandage and sandal on one foot, which was the result of a mishap with a candelabrum earlier that morning. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she informed her cousin.
Ainsleigh skedaddled, but the herald remained in the doorway. “Momentous events are in motion here,” she confided, tossing a chary look around the room.
“This house shouldn’t have ghosts,” Lucien reasoned. “It’s brand new.”
Momentarily a tricky runner light at the top of the stairs flicked off and with an audible ping; both cousins reacted to the dimmer newel beneath it in the entryway.
“Relatively new,” Lucien amended his declaration.
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