It's a late spring evening. The tall windows are open and a light breeze flares the curtains; the sun is low to the west across the Hudson. The fifth-floor apartment is painted a stark white, the white broken by bookcases everywhere that stretch from floor to ceiling, and by Harold's upright piano. There are no gewgaws around and only one portrait, of an Italian forebear of Nika's.

Nika is entertaining. It's what she Ekes to do best, and does best in the world. She has gathered six or eight friends, mixing them up as thoroughly from the many worlds she and Harold ...

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