“It’s a beautiful instrument,” Honoria agreed, “but we did Mozart last year.”
“We do Mozart every year,” Sarah drawled from the piano.
“But I didn’t play last year,” Daisy said. She shot Sarah a peevish look. “And this is only your second time in the quartet, so you can hardly complain about what you do every year.”
“I believe I may kill you before the season is out,” Sarah remarked in much the same tone she used when saying, I believe I shall have lemonade instead of tea.
Daisy stuck out her tongue.
“Iris?” Honoria looked over at her cousin at the cello.
“I don’t care,” Iris said morosely.
Honoria sighed. “We can’t do what we did last year.”
“I don’t see why not,” Sarah said. “I can’t imagine anyone would recognize it from our interpretation.”
Iris slumped.
“But it will have been printed in the program,” Honoria pointed out.
“Do you really think anyone saves our programs from one year to the next?” Sarah asked.
“My mother does,” Daisy said.
“So does mine,” Sarah answered, “but it’s not as if she pulls them out and compares them side by side.”
“My mother does,” Daisy said again.
“Dear God,” Iris moaned.
“It’s not as if Mr. Mozart wrote only one piece,” Daisy said pertly. “We have loads from which to choose. I think we should play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. It is my absolute favorite. It’s so sprightly and gay.”
“It has no piano part,” Honoria reminded her.
“I have no objection,” Sarah said quickly. From behind the piano.
“If I have to do it, you have to do it,” Iris practically hissed.
Sarah actually pulled back in her seat. “I had no idea you could look so venomous, Iris.”
“It’s because she doesn’t have eyelashes,” Daisy said.
Iris turned to her with complete calm and said, “I hate you.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Daisy,” Honoria said, turning on her with a stern expression. It was true that Iris was extraordinarily pale, with the kind of strawberry blond hair that seemed to render her lashes and brows almost invisible. But she’d always thought Iris was absolutely gorgeous, almost ethereal-looking.
“If she didn’t have eyelashes, she’d be dead,” Sarah said.
Honoria turned to her, unable to believe the direction of the conversation. Well, no, that was not completely accurate. She believed it （unfortunately）。 She just didn’t understand it.
“Well, it’s true,” Sarah said defensively. “Or at the very least, blind. Lashes keep all the dust from our eyes.”
“Why are we having this conversation?” Honoria wondered aloud.
Daisy immediately answered, “It’s because Sarah said she didn’t think Iris could look venomous, and then I said—”
“I know,” Honoria cut in, and then, when she realized Daisy still had her mouth open, looking as if she was only waiting for the right moment to complete her sentence, she said it again. “I know. It was a hypothetical question.”
“It still had a perfectly valid answer,” Daisy said with a sniff.
Honoria turned to Iris. At twenty-one, they were the exact same age, but Iris had not had to take part in the quartet until this year. Her sister Marigold had kept the cello part in a death grip until she’d married last autumn. “Do you have any suggestions, Iris?” Honoria asked brightly.
Iris crossed her arms and hunched over herself in her seat. To Honoria, it looked as if she were trying to fold herself into nothingness. “Something without the cello,” she muttered.
“If I have to do it, you have to do it,” Sarah said with a smirk.
Iris glared at her with all the fury of a misunderstood artist. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, believe me, I do,” Sarah said with great feeling. “I played last year, if you recall. I’ve had an entire year to understand.”
“Why is everyone complaining?” Daisy asked impatiently. “This is exciting! We get to perform. Do you know how long I have been waiting for this day?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Sarah said flatly.
“About as long as I have been dreading it,” Iris muttered.
“It is really quite remarkable,” Sarah said, “that the two of you are sisters.”
“I marvel at it every day,” Iris said flatly.