In the wee morning hours when the last Unmentionables have slunk into the dark for whatever serves them as home, a small thin figure stands in a mostly silent building. Moonlight covers him. From here, the whimpering of the cellars cannot be heard.
Stop-go-coast, a clicking stick rises in a bony hand. The orchestra holds its breath.
Now. Downbeat, uptempo. May I? Ah, my dear, youdance... divinely.
The steps are broken and the arms are unevenly strung; but somewhere there are marble floors, silver earrings and twinkling velvet sky, where soles sliding across stone leave no flakes of blood behind.