One of her own? The pleasing sounds bellowed and
echoed through the more or less empty mansion. She did not hear
him enter the room.
Her fingers settled on the last chords of the score. Peter
smelled the sweet fragrance of her long white-blond hair,
brightened and warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the
French windows behind her. Coming closer, his shadow gave him
away and she turned her head to greet him.
"Hello," she said, through the last fading chords of her music.
"That was wonderful. It's as if this entire house is joyful and
alive when you're playing." He casually rested a hand on her
shoulders, a simple expression of admiration.
She turned her cheek to his hand, and he went to move it, but
before he was able to she stood and stretched. He took her seat
then, resting his hands on his lap. Looking past her and through
the windows, toward the hills that rolled beyond his estate, he
could see Hoover Tower in the distance, rising high above the
treetops of the Stanford University campus. Three weeks earlier
he had been there to give the commencement speech to the
graduating class. Afterward, at the reception, a striking young
girl had introduced herself. Her name was Ivy, she said, and she
proceeded to tell him about the speech and language interface
that she was developing for the Wallaby Joey computer.
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