You see, I inherited the guardianship of a mysterious woman who, as it turns out, was a patient at Hurstwell. Between you and I, though, the aid position was merely a ruse. I entered Hurstwell Pauper Lunatic Asylum voluntarily-as an aid. Vivienne: Very true, but it wasn’t because of hearing that song.

We’ve heard you spent time at a local asylum, possibly as a patient. I know I’ve heard it, and it has something to do with that woman. Its minor trills, the other-worldly cadence of it… Call it a dream. There’s just something enchantingly spooky about the song.

I’ve heard it off and on throughout the years, and even though no one else admits to it, I’d be willing to wager they’ve heard it too. Quite a lovely piece, with the rhythmic calm of Mozart yet the more robust and textured style of Liszt as well. The one I used to hear at night as a child. The world sings, and I hear music.īut I suppose you’re talking about the song. My brain is so accustomed to measuring seconds by beats and making patterns out of notes that it naturally filters everything about me into an orderly rhythm that becomes a sort of song. But it’s not so much a recognizable composition out of thin air, but a symphony of everyday sounds. So is it true that you hear music when none is playing? I feel the tremble of a beat, I think in terms of measures and tempos. I rehearse and perform so much that when I lift my hands from the keys, I still hear music playing. I wouldn’t know what it was like to have a day-an hour, even-without music. I’ve played classical pianoforte since I could stand, learning from my father. Won’t you tell us a little about your performance background? Welcome to Novel PASTimes, Miss Mourdant. As an Amazon affiliate we use links that if clicked will benefit our blog.

Lady jayne disappears