(Untitled)

[jackdriscoll]

The time is mid November, 1933. The weather is cold, crisp, an appetizer slightly less similar to the main course itself. Jack Driscoll is in his music room polishing something stringed and wooden. It is not his guitar, which is leaning against the piano. It's a violin, perhaps Jack's best-kept secret. He doesn't expect any visitors tonight, which

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[song_tra_bong]

Out on the street, a leggy blonde takes the stairs to Jack's door two at a time, then knocks.

She draws her coat a little closer around herself and hums harmony to the faint strains of music.

[jackdriscoll]

Jack can't hear the knock. His maid, a mousy black woman prone to popping up where Jack least expects her, does, and asks "Who is it?" over the violin music.

[song_tra_bong]

"Mary Anne Bell," she answers.

"I'm a friend of Jack's, though he's not expecting me."

To say the least; worldhopping is generally an impediement to paying a visit.

[jackdriscoll]

The maid tilts her head, looking perplexed as she opens the door. Her confusion doesn't relent as she sees Mary Anne. She's a blonde. Hadn't the papers said he'd spent the night out with a redhead, once? But that was weeks ago. Things might've changed. Nervously, she smiles, as if apologizing for being confused.

"He's in the music room," she replies. From said room, the notes only intensify. Someone is getting into the music.