She walks into a room shaded in dark browns, punctuated with ripples of grey light that fold themselves around the odd shapes contained within but without illuminating any of them. As she moves further in she realises the pieces are mechanical instruments, a ghost orchestra of gears and cogs matched to notches in metal and paper, poised to play. The effect of the room is obviously meant to impress, to test the visitor as they wait for their audience. She examines each one slowly, tracing the delicate working of wood, the engraved silver, bronze and gold that signify makers, companies, owners and lovers in languages documented only in libraries. She pauses at one topped with tin automata, one sat with hands over a piano while the other is frozen halfway through a chord on a violin.
“That’s my favourite.” Says a man’s voice, quietly. “Although its repertoire is even more limited than most.”
She makes a show of finishing her inspection before looking back up again to see the source of the voice.