She’s practically jumping up and down like a little kid. “Do you think they’ll be coordinated to music?” she asks as we join the crowd moving outside where the fireworks are about to begin. “Absolutely they will be,” I assure her. Her smile is radiant. “Something by Mussorgsky, maybe, or Elgar. Dvorak, perhaps, or Mahler?” She has a nearly encyclopedia knowledge of classical music, thanks to Susannah. But when she plays for herself, she prefers twentieth-century jazz. Just one more way that Amelia is her own person. “Uh, yeah, any of those would be good.” I’m looking ahead toward the double doors. The crowd is bunching together in front of them. There’s some sort of hang up. Patience runs thin in a group where everyone is accustomed to going first. Already, the grumbling is starting. From the corner of my eye, I spot Davos leaving through a small side door. He’s maintained his distance from Amelia ever since I warned him off but I’ve kept an eye on him all the same.
