Working is something that had to be borne, at first, and now it's something she simply does. But everyone takes breaks, and lunching at her desk is something Narcissa prefers not to do too often, especially on days where the weather plays along for a few hours.

She's walking through a park, brown paper lunch bag in bags, with the sort of understated elegant briskness that gets people out of her way but doesn't appear hurried when music catches her ear. Buskers are lovely, and this one is rather good - enough that she alters her path to find the source and hopefully a bench near it.

Imagine her surprise when she sees just who is playing that guitar.

"...Orpheus?"

Surely not. She's dreaming. Overwork has affected her brain.