She looked at him. "You remember?"
"I remember most things people say when they are telling the truth."
Matilda placed her fingers on the keys and played the opening theme quietly. Then she moved into the final variation as written: the melody returned in polished repetition. It was beautiful; it was also empty. She stopped.
Robert said, "You dislike it."
"I dislike what it says."
"Music says things?"
"Always."
"And what does this say?"
"Matilda considered that: nothing changes. That after everything, the melody returns exactly as it began."
"A comforting idea."
"A dishonest one." Robert looked at her. "You do not believe people return unchanged, do you?"
"No." His answer came too quickly to be social performance. Matilda heard it; he realized she had.
Neither spoke for a moment. Then she played the opening theme again, softer this time, and altered one note. The change was small, but the harmony shifted around it.
Robert listened. "That is better."
"It is not finished."
"Neither are most people."
She turned toward him. "That sounds suspiciously wise."
"Please do not repeat it. I have worked hard to appear frivolous."
She laughed; the sound surprised them both. Robert's expression changed, and for one brief second, he looked almost vulnerable.
Then footsteps approached from the corridor. Godfrey Beckham entered without ceremony, carrying a stack of newly prepared title pages. Mrs. Canning remained visible beyond the door.
Beckham's gaze moved from Robert to Matilda, then to the blank page on the pianoforte. "Still unfinished."
"Yes," Matilda said.