Laurence has always enjoyed music, if not precisely appreciated it the way a true connoisseur might, and he listens now with interest; it is like and not like the music he has heard on occasion since they came to Peking.

It does not move him the way he expects, but it does not follow he is unmoved; indeed, the clear notes and gentle melody have approximately the same effect on him as a gentle rain on dry desert grass. He feels something unspooling in his mind and chest and shoulders, a wash of tranquility soothing the weeks and months of strain and its toll.