FREDERIK. Letter?… [Covering the letter with his hand.] From whom?…
MARTA. From … At a time like this, I thought … I felt … that Annamarie … that there should be some message…. Every day I expect to hear …
FREDERIK. No.
PETER gestures to MARTA—pointing to the picture and letter, now covered by FREDERIK'S hand.
MARTA. [Hesitating.] Are you certain?
FREDERIK. Quite certain. [She curtsies and leaves the room. FREDERIK, as though relieved to see her go, jumps to his feet, and, tearing the letter in smaller pieces, lights them in the candle, dropping the burning pieces on a tray. As the flame dies out, FREDERIK brushes the blackened paper into the waste-basket.] There's an end to that!
PETER crouches near the basket—hovering over it, his hinds clasped helplessly. After a pause, he raises his hand, until it points to a bedroom above. An echo of the circus music is very faintly heard; not with the blaring of brasses, but with the sounds of elfin horns, conveying the impression of a phantom circus band. The door of WILLIAM'S room opens, and he comes out as though to listen to the music. He wears a sleeping suit and is bare-footed. He has come down stairs before FREDERIK sees him. FREDERIK quickly puts aside the photograph, laying it on the desk, covering it with his hand.
FREDERIK. [Gruffly.] Why aren't you in bed? If you're ill, that's the proper place for you.
WILLIAM. I came down to hear the circus music.
FREDERIK. Circus music?