“Are there islands for sale?” Grace asked. “I bet there are, doesn’t Richard Branson own one? And that billionaire who got locked up for flyin... twelve-year-old French girls to it. Have we got internet?”“There’s a satellite receiver,” said Mo, “but no service. It must need a subscription.”“Oh. Cyan, how many bitcoins have you got left?” Grace tried sending the thought as a concept, as she’d been practising: a pile of coins with ‘B’ on them, and ‘remainder’. Hopefully her hair wasn’t that. They got on with the washing up.Shortly afterwards they heard the piano. Someone was playing a Chopin nocturne."I didn't know Mark played the piano," said Anthony."Nor did I, darling," said Frances, "but he sounds pretty good. Open the door so we can hear better."They listened. "He plays beautifully," whispered Frances. "It's full of emotion but not overdone."Anthony nodded and put his arm round her shoulder. There was a murmur of conversation from the drawing room and then the two of them. More

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