I placed it over the nameplate and took out my pencil, then began a brass rubbing.
Within moments, I had a stunning facsimile of the plate, which I placed carefully into my bag, between the pages of the notebook.
The exterior doors were open and his interior door,
a typical Victorian design of mahogany and opaque etched glass, was tantalizingly close.
I stood as near as I dared. I could hear nothing from within, and there was no visible movement.
I could almost make out the shape of a bookcase, and a painting. A cultured man. How much we had in common!
I stiffened. There: soft fingers on vibrating steel, and a chord shimmered into the air,
nebulous and milky, like light from an old, old star.
A voice: warm and low and gentle, a voice to cast spells, charm snakes, shape the course of dreams.
I could do nothing but turn toward it and lean closer. I pressed myself against the glass.
He was writing a song, working it all out— words, music, feelings.
What a rare privilege, to be permitted to eavesdrop on the very moment of creation!
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