The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows.
London grey outside — the specific, committed grey of a city that had made its peace with the absence of sun and was now thriving in it — and against that grey, the interior of the penthouse caught the morning light in warm amber panels across the hardwood floor.
The hardwood floor that currently had a problem.
The problem was Frau Muller.
Specifically, the problem was that Frau Muller was attempting a yoga swing — the aerial silk looped at the anchor point above the living room's high ceiling, her thick body suspended at the midpoint of a backbend that her body was providing extensive commentary on — and the commentary had just reached its conclusion.
"Veronica—"
The gasp.
The silk swung.
"Veronica — it is too — I cannot—"
She fell.
