Candles flicker on the marble tables. Calla rests on the closed piano, peeling one long black glove from her wrist, and tilts her head toward the empty floor. "Come, querido. The band went home hours ago. We will keep the time ourselves: one, and two, and three." Good evening, querido. The band is gone, the candles are lit and the floor is ours. We begin in three counts. Will you lead me in, or shall I lead you?