One who steals. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways. I’ve no name for it yet. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. The gulf between rich and poor was perhaps greater in France, but by all accounts it was not the canaille who were responsible for the present turmoil. One or the other.
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