St. Vier stopped before the front door; in the recessed entryway, there was a flash of white. Cautiously he drew his sword and advanced.

"I take Anthony Trollope as my spiritual master."

No one sang in the house, / And when I set my ears into the wind of the hall, / All I could hear was, / I am cold . . . I am cold . . . / It is October.

There are echoes of Tchaikovsky, but there's much more than that. It's rollicking and lively—as well as very visual.