“Hearken,” says Lucinda’s chorus, “his arrival is a moonrise o’er this long fog-clad night!”

“Mind if I sit?” he says, and his eyes dance with irony.

“Nope,” she says, and nods to the only seat at the bar (her chorus is occupying the rest of them).

“So that,” he says, later, whiskily besoured, “is how I got out of the maze.”

She lets her smile turn a little wicked. “Listen. You want to maybe get something to go?”

“Sure,” he says smoothly. “Your place or yours?”

Lucinda laughs.

“Yeah, he’s married,” says her chorus.

“Oh,” she sighs.

“What?” he says.