"I can sing that," she answers promptly, though he doesn't seem quite as interested in that possibility. Beth assumes that's because it's easier to do, at least in theory, and thus he might actually have to pull out a violin, if he ever finds one. I'm very good at avoiding work.

If she wasn't already pink-cheeked from the cold, she probably would be now, as he directs the conversation back her way. "I just like music." And doodling, and collages, and interior design--if you can call pasting drawings and magazine cutouts onto the walls of a prison cell any of those things. She shrugs. "Do you sing at all?"