He found most of them in the music room.
Sara was at the piano, which William hadn't anticipated, playing something slow and careful in the manner of someone who'd studied an instrument years ago and was relearning the connection to it.
The sound carried into the corridor, and people had apparently followed it — Seraphine sat near the window, her expression carrying something rare and open; Mira sat with her characteristic precise posture that carried, today, a quality of actual rest; Thomas was in the chair nearest the fire.
William stood in the doorway.
The music was simple, technically modest, played with the specific quality of someone who wasn't performing for anyone and had stopped caring whether they should be.
Sara's hands moved through phrases that weren't quite practicing and weren't quite playing, something in between that had no formal name but that everyone in the room recognized.
