Restaurant Owner Challenges Chef, Then Her Piano Talent Shocks Everyone

Anna ran toward Belladonna as the first notes of the charity gala drifted through its doors.

Detective Reyes caught her at the barricade. “You cannot go inside. We don’t know whether Mark is armed.”

“Then stop the concert.”

“Victor’s attorneys say the warrant is defective. The fire marshal is ordering an evacuation, but Sloane’s security controls the doors.”

Through the tall windows, guests raised champagne beneath the chandelier. The scaffolding had been disguised with black curtains and gold flowers, as if it belonged to the evening’s design. A chamber ensemble played near the grand piano. Paul Dessen stood at the side of the stage, repeatedly checking his phone.

Emma arrived behind Anna, carrying the score of The Unbroken Table. “The service tunnel.”

Reyes blocked them. “Mark knows every entrance.”

“So do we,” Anna said. “And a public evacuation may make him drop the chandelier.”

Reyes looked toward the roofline, where engineers waited without access. She made a decision she would later describe in official reports as tactical necessity. “You enter with my team through the bakery. You do exactly what I say.”

Luis opened the chained bakery door. He and twelve kitchen workers had accepted Victor’s temporary contracts so strangers would not control the building. “The west exit is clear. The cellar door is wired.”

“Where is Mark?” Reyes asked.

“I saw a caterer go upstairs carrying a silver case. Celeste’s old office.”

Anna pictured the office overlooking the chandelier canopy through a maintenance window. From there, Mark could reach the suspension controls installed during renovation.

Reyes divided her team. Two officers moved toward the stairs; others began quietly opening emergency exits. Anna and Emma were ordered to remain in the bakery.

They obeyed until Victor’s amplified voice announced that Sloane Capital would preserve Belladonna by separating art from “personal grievance.”

Victor introduced Paul as the new manager of the Bell music catalog.

Paul leaned toward the microphone.

The chandelier trembled.

Only Anna noticed at first. Its lowest crystals chimed against one another. Above the ceiling, a motor groaned. One support cable had begun unspooling.

“Evacuate now,” she told Reyes over the radio.

Before the detective replied, every dining-room door locked with a mechanical thud. The lights dimmed. Mark’s voice replaced Paul’s through the sound system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, forgive the interruption. Belladonna has always believed in dramatic evenings.”

Guests turned toward the balcony. Mark appeared behind its brass rail, no longer disguised. A dark bruise covered one side of his face from the staged transport assault. In his hand was a remote control.

Panic rose. People pushed at the doors.

“Please remain calm,” Mark said. “The central fixture is presently held by one cable instead of four. Sudden movement would be unwise.”

The room froze.

Victor stared upward. “What have you done?”

“What you planned to do more quietly.” Mark looked at the curtained scaffolding. “You were going to remove my archive and let my daughters accuse me with it.”

“Your archive?” Anna whispered. Even now, he called stolen evidence his.

Reyes’s officers reached the upper office, but Mark had sealed its corridor with a steel fire door. Engineers reported that cutting electricity might activate the cable brake—or release it, depending on how the controls had been altered.

Mark instructed Victor to climb the scaffolding and retrieve the microfilm. Victor refused until Mark pressed a button. The chandelier dropped six inches. Crystals screamed; guests crouched beneath tables.

Victor began to climb.

Anna understood Mark’s design. Once Victor removed the evidence, Mark could drop the fixture, killing his accomplice and witnesses while destroying the microfilm. Another fire, another tragedy explained as structural failure.

She entered the dining room through the kitchen doors.

Emma caught her arm. “Together.”

They walked side by side into the light.

Mark saw them. His expression softened with terrible satisfaction. “There you are.”

Anna took the stage microphone from Paul, who retreated without protest. “Open the exits.”

“After Victor gives me what your mothers hid.”

“He’ll give you nothing. The microfilm proves he participated in your fraud. He needs it destroyed as much as you do.”

Victor paused halfway up the scaffolding.

Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Continue.”

“If I remove the canopy, the load shifts,” Victor called. “You could kill everyone.”

“That concern arrives late from a man who financed arson.”

A murmur passed through the guests. Victor looked toward the news cameras he had invited to record his announcement. They were still broadcasting.

Anna raised the microphone. “Every word is live, Mark.”

“Good. I have been edited by cowards long enough.”

Emma approached the piano. “Then tell the whole truth. You escaped to destroy evidence because you know the tapes convict you.”

“The tapes prove Elise and Beatrice conspired to steal my company.”

“A company bought with Anna’s royalties.”

“Royalties I created. Markets I built. Audiences I delivered.”

Mark’s obsession with recognition remained the one lever stronger than caution. Anna placed The Unbroken Table on the piano rack.

“You never heard the work they wrote together,” she said. “You found documents, contracts, and recordings, but the final inheritance opened only when Emma and I played. They knew you could take objects. They built something you could not unlock because cooperation was a language you never learned.”

Mark looked at the score as if it were a personal insult.

“Play it,” he said.

Emma stared at Anna.

“You wanted a comparison,” Mark continued. “The prodigy and the fraud. Let everyone hear which daughter deserved what I gave her.”

It was the gala challenge again, enlarged into madness: perform beneath a weapon, accept his judgment as the measure of worth.

Anna sat beside Emma.

“We are not playing against each other,” she said.

The sisters placed their hands on the keys.

The opening was quiet enough that the frightened room had to listen. Beatrice’s theme began in Emma’s lower register, steady and restrained. Elise’s answer entered beneath Anna’s right hand, restless with syncopation. At first the voices seemed to dispute the same memory. One insisted on order; the other broke each boundary. Then the music widened. Their hands crossed. Anna carried Beatrice’s line while Emma took Elise’s, each entrusted with what had belonged to the other’s mother.

Above them, engineers studied the vibration of the chandelier. Music could not repair a cable, but the performance held the crowd still and gave officers time to open the western doors manually.

Victor reached the canopy. He inserted a tool beneath its rim.

Paul moved toward the nearest exit.

Luis blocked him with a dessert cart. “You’re staying for the last course.”

The music reached the passage Anna and Emma had never played cleanly in rehearsal. Their forearms overlapped; a fractional hesitation could tangle the rhythm. Anna heard Emma breathe and remembered the lie she had not yet forgiven. Trust was not belief that another person had never failed. It was the decision to place a living moment in their hands after understanding that they had.

Anna yielded the beat.

Emma caught it.

The themes joined.

Inside the piano, the old studio mechanism responded through wires running beneath the floor. A panel in the balcony wall opened behind Mark—not the hidden drawer, but the original acoustic shutter. His voice, previously contained in the office, carried directly into the dining room without speakers.

He looked back.

Reyes heard the change and ordered officers to breach the weakened panel.

Mark pressed the remote.

The chandelier dropped again.

Victor screamed and clung to the scaffolding. The crowd surged toward newly opened exits. Engineers shouted that the final cable was tearing.

Anna and Emma stopped playing.

“Keep going!” Reyes’s voice came through Anna’s earpiece. “The mechanism has engaged a counterweight. The piano controls the original stage hoist.”

The Bell Theater’s old stage hoist responded to musical cues, and Mark’s renovation had attached the chandelier motor to it. The duet’s final measures activated successive brakes.

Anna played.

Emma joined.

They drove into the last movement while crystals fell like ice around the scaffolding. Guests crawled toward the exits. Victor tore the canopy free and reached inside. He withdrew a metal film canister.

Mark shouted, “Throw it down!”

Victor held it against his chest. “This is my immunity.”

“It is your confession.”

“Then we both lose.”

Mark aimed a small pistol through the balcony rail.

Reyes’s officers breached the office at the same moment. Mark fired. The shot struck the scaffolding brace beside Victor, who dropped the canister. It fell toward the marble floor.

Luis pushed the dessert cart beneath it. The canister landed in a bowl of melted chocolate and remained there.

The absurd rescue would later become the most replayed moment of the broadcast.

Mark turned his pistol toward the piano.

Emma saw him first. She moved to shield Anna, but Anna pulled her down. The bullet struck the music rack, sending fragments of wood across the keys. The score slipped, pages scattering.

The melody stopped one chord before the final brake.

The chandelier cable snapped.

For an instant the fixture fell freely. Anna saw two tons of glass descending in the piano’s polished reflection.

Emma found the missing notes without the score. Anna struck the bass chord with her. The old counterweight engaged like thunder beneath the floor. A secondary chain caught the chandelier ten feet above the tables. The violent stop tore crystals loose but held the iron frame.

Reyes tackled Mark. The pistol skidded through the balcony rail and struck the stage far from anyone. Officers restrained him as he fought with the desperation of a man who could not imagine a world continuing without his control.

“I built this house!” he shouted.

Anna stood beneath the suspended chandelier. Blood from a small cut marked her cheek.

“No,” she said. “You locked the doors. Other people built the way out.”

Victor descended into handcuffs. Paul attempted to claim he had been coerced, but Luis’s dessert cart carried more than the rescued film. Its service camera had recorded Paul disabling the exits and telling Victor that Mark’s escape would make their plan easier. Faced with the footage and Sloane’s willingness to blame him, Paul admitted forging Emma’s authorization and supplied the original debt files.

Every guest survived. Three suffered fractures and dozens had cuts. The released bank guard helped engineers secure the secondary chain, and the chandelier was lowered before dawn.

The microfilm survived the chocolate. It documented foreign registrations, payments to Victor, medical bribes, Ward’s assignments, and Mark’s purchase of the accelerant used at Elise’s apartment. One frame contained the original unaltered fire order, signed by Mark. Another proved Sloane knew Belladonna’s debt was secured without beneficiary approval.

Victor faced charges for fraud, obstruction, endangerment, and conspiracy. Paul later pleaded guilty to forgery and fraud. Ward reversed his recantation and described Mark’s orders, including the syringe intended for Anna.

This time, no single witness carried the case. The evidence formed a structure of independent parts: tapes, microfilm, bank records, video, fire analysis, and Mark’s live admissions before hundreds of people.

The trial lasted nine weeks.

Anna learned that justice resembled kitchen work: repetitive, procedural, and dependent on every ingredient being labeled correctly.

Celeste testified for three days. She did not hide her part in changing the rehearsal notice or trapping Anna at Belladonna. Mark’s attorney called her a liar, an accomplice, and a woman saving herself.

“I am all three,” she answered. “A liar for seven years, his accomplice, and alive because Anna stopped me from dying. None of that changes the records he ordered me to create.”

Daniel sat behind the prosecution table. When Celeste finished, she looked toward him but did not ask whether he was proud. He placed his hand against the courtroom glass as deputies led her away.

Professor Hale testified without minimizing his failures. The conservatory had stripped him of an honorary title for concealing evidence. Under oath, he admitted fear for Anna had become fear for himself.

“Did Mr. Bell force you to lie?” the prosecutor asked.

“He threatened and manipulated me,” Hale said. “But no. He offered me a cowardly choice, and I accepted it.”

That distinction restored more of Anna’s respect than any excuse could have done.

Emma’s testimony addressed the stolen composition. She explained exactly which pages she altered and which credits she accepted. Mark’s lawyer tried to portray her confession as revenge by a neglected daughter.

“I loved my father,” she said. “That is why his explanations worked for so long. Love made me vulnerable to him; it did not make his crimes less real.”

Anna testified last. Mark watched her with an expression that shifted between ownership and contempt. The prosecutor asked why she used the surname Lane.

“Because Laurent brought questions I could not survive answering then,” she said. “Lane was the street behind the hospital. I chose it because it led somewhere.”

The defense displayed records of her panic attacks and asked whether trauma distorted memory.

“Yes,” Anna replied. “That is why I am not asking the jury to convict him from memory. I am asking them to examine what he wrote, paid for, recorded, and did in front of witnesses.”

Mark decided to testify against his attorneys’ advice. For two hours he spoke about sacrifice. He had turned Elise’s obscure company into a profitable enterprise, Emma into a global pianist, Belladonna into an institution. He claimed the fire was unintended and the gala weapon a bluff to stop Victor from destroying evidence. He described himself as a father whose severe methods had been misunderstood by ungrateful daughters.

The prosecutor placed the wager video on the courtroom screen.

“Play better than Emma, and this restaurant is yours,” Mark’s recorded voice said. “Fail—and leave with nothing.”

“Why did you make that offer?” she asked.

“It was rhetoric.”

“Because you knew the restaurant was purchased with Anna’s royalties?”

“Because I knew she would not play.”

“You believed fear had permanently silenced her.”

“I believed I understood my daughter.”

“You had never acknowledged her as your daughter.”

Mark looked at the jury. “A father knows.”

Anna felt Emma’s hand find hers.

The verdicts came on the fourth day. Mark was found guilty of felony murder in Elise’s death, arson, kidnapping, attempted murder, conspiracy, fraud, theft, obstruction, and reckless endangerment. He was acquitted on the count involving Beatrice’s medication because causation was unproven.

Anna did not resent the acquittal. Justice had not invented certainty where it did not exist.

Victor was convicted separately. Paul and Ward received reduced prison terms for cooperation. The psychiatrist lost his license and pleaded guilty; compromised officials resigned or were charged.

At sentencing, Mark faced his daughters.

Emma spoke first. “For years I thought perfection might earn kindness from you. When it failed, I blamed myself. I no longer measure love by what I can perform for someone.”

Anna carried Elise’s red mitten in her pocket. “You said my mother stole from you. What she took was the right to decide her life. What she left me was not your restaurant or money. She left proof that fear can end with the person who recognizes it.”

Mark did not apologize. The judge sentenced him to life without parole, and his final appeal failed. Neither daughter visited. Emma sent one letter stating that silence was now a boundary, not a punishment. He never answered.

Celeste pleaded guilty to conspiracy, evidence tampering, false reporting, and fraud. Prosecutors acknowledged her cooperation, rescue of the security archive, and decision to testify. The court sentenced her to eight years, with eligibility for supervised release after five.

Anna attended the hearing but did not provide a forgiveness statement.

Outside court, Daniel asked whether she hated Celeste.

“Sometimes,” Anna said. “Sometimes I remember she gave me the key. Both memories are true.”

“She doesn’t expect you to forgive her.”

“That may be the first honest expectation she has had.”

Daniel nodded. He began visiting Celeste every Sunday. Their conversations were painful and imperfect. She learned to let him describe the harm her choices caused without converting his pain into a request that he comfort her. When she was released after five and a half years, she worked for a nonprofit assisting families of coercive-control victims. She never used her work as evidence that her debt was paid. She understood some debts become responsibilities rather than balances.

Anna met her once after release at Elise’s memorial. Celeste placed twelve blackbird tarts beside the wall.

“Why twelve?” Anna finally asked.

“One for every month I told myself I would confess before another year passed.”

They stood in silence.

“I cannot give you absolution,” Anna said.

“I know.”

“But you returned.”

Celeste wept. Anna did not embrace her, nor did she walk away. For that day, presence was enough.

The civil court voided Sloane’s debt and confirmed the trust’s ownership. Foreign copyrights were reversed over three years. Six other composers or their families received restitution; one elderly composer finally heard his symphony performed.

Anna and Emma could have sold Belladonna for a fortune. Instead they converted ownership into a worker-benefit corporation. The trust retained the building and artistic archive; employees received profit shares and elected two board members. No Bell family member could serve as sole executive.

“A structure designed around distrust,” one business columnist wrote.

“A structure designed around memory,” Anna corrected.

Luis became the youngest kitchen operations manager in Belladonna’s history. He completed culinary school at night, developed a menu based on his grandmother’s coastal recipes, and continued campaigning against truffle oil with unnecessary intensity. The pastry chef, Mara, became executive chef after Anna realized leadership did not require controlling every plate. The older security guard directed employee safety and installed a backup system no owner could erase alone.

The chandelier was never returned to its original grandeur. Engineers salvaged the iron frame, but hundreds of crystals had shattered. Emma proposed replacing them. Anna chose to suspend the repaired frame with deliberate empty spaces. Beneath it they installed a small plaque:

WHAT BREAKS CAN STILL HOLD LIGHT.

Belladonna’s first-year profits funded the Elise and Beatrice House, offering legal services, temporary housing, music instruction, and culinary training to people rebuilding after coercion or workplace abuse. Judge Miriam Cross became its founding director after completing the ethics review required by her former board role. She accepted no ceremonial title and insisted residents help design every program.

Professor Hale returned to teaching beginners.

He declined the conservatory’s offer to restore his honorary title. His left hand weakened, so he taught children with the right and invited them to correct his impatience.

Anna did not forgive him in a single scene. Their reconciliation accumulated through small, verifiable acts. He answered every question about Elise, gave Anna his archives without conditions, and never asked her to say he had done his best. One winter afternoon, she found him teaching a frightened child to stop in the middle of a piece and breathe.

“Silence is part of the music,” he told the girl. “It is not proof that you failed.”

Anna sat beside him after the lesson.

“Mama wrote that I was playing because she asked me to,” she said. “I know the fire wasn’t my fault. Knowing and feeling are taking different routes.”

“They often do.”

“Will you help me finish The House of Rain?”

Hale’s eyes closed briefly. “If you allow me to turn pages.”

“Only pages.”

It was enough.

Emma’s old career ended. Awards were withdrawn, her label terminated its contract, and venues feared protests.

She accepted neither script.

For eighteen months, Emma performed no paid solos. She returned royalties, sold her apartment to fund restitution, and taught accompaniment at the House. Supporting others required attention applause had never taught her.

When she finally performed publicly, she chose a small municipal hall. The program listed Lanterns in the Flood by Anna Laurent, reconstructed in part by Emma Bell, with a note explaining the history. Anna owned the composition and approved every word.

Emma walked onstage to uncertain applause. She waited until it ended, then said, “This work is not evidence that I deserve forgiveness. It is evidence that credit belongs where labor began.”

She played without hiding behind perfection. A note in the final variation landed slightly hard. She let it remain part of the performance.

Anna listened from the last row.

Afterward, Emma found her outside beneath the hall’s plain marquee. “Was it honest?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“The tempo in the second movement was cowardly.”

Emma laughed. It was the first laughter between them that contained no surprise.

Their sisterhood grew in practical ways. They fought about foundation budgets, holiday meals, and whether Mark’s surname should remain attached to archival records. Emma learned not to conceal uncomfortable facts until she could package them. Anna learned that asking for time was not abandonment. When either used their childhood defenses—Emma appeasing, Anna withdrawing—the other named it without turning the pattern into a verdict.

They visited Beatrice’s grave together. Emma brought white roses. Anna brought rosemary from Belladonna’s kitchen.

“I was angry at her,” Emma admitted. “For knowing about you and leaving riddles instead of taking me away.”

“You can love someone and know they failed you.”

“Is that what you feel about Elise?”

Anna considered. “She kept my father’s identity secret. That gave him room to create his own story. She also tried to correct it and died protecting me. I don’t need her to have been perfect before I miss her.”

They placed the duet between the two women’s names—not the original, which remained safely archived, but the copy scarred by Mark’s bullet. Its broken music rack had left a dark groove across the final page. Anna kept the mark because survival did not require evidence to look untouched.

Five years after the gala, the city restored the old Conservatoire Lumière. The opening festival invited Anna to premiere the completed House of Rain. She declined three times.

The fourth invitation came not from the board but from twelve students at the Elise and Beatrice House. They wrote that they wanted to hear how the unfinished melody found its answer.

Anna agreed.

The composition took nearly four years to finish. She did not attempt to recreate the nineteen-year-old who began it. The early movements retained their fierce, crowded harmonies. The later sections introduced kitchen rhythms: knives against boards, oven timers, spoons tapping copper. Elise’s seven-knock pattern moved through every register. There was a passage for Beatrice built from the notes hidden in Emma’s necklace, a restless variation for Celeste that refused easy resolution, and a quiet chorale for Hale in which the left hand gradually yielded its theme to the right.

The final movement belonged to two pianos.

Backstage before the premiere, Anna wore black trousers and a white jacket cut like a chef’s uniform. Her brown hair was tied high. The scar on her wrist remained visible.

Emma stood beside her in a simple dark dress. “You’re shaking.”

“I am considering escaping through the loading entrance.”

“I checked. Luis is guarding it.”

From the stage, the audience settled. There were critics, musicians, Belladonna employees, House residents, and families of the composers whose work had been restored. Daniel sat in the front row. Celeste occupied a seat near the rear, invited by Anna under one condition: no private meeting afterward. Hale waited beside the first piano, prepared to turn pages.

Miriam appeared in the wings. “The fire inspection passed. The exits are open. No one owns the doors.”

Anna breathed.

She and Emma walked onstage.

The applause rose. Once, it would have sounded like judgment. Now Anna heard individual people within it: Mara’s sharp whistle, Luis clapping too fast, a child from Hale’s class calling her name. Applause was neither proof of worth nor a threat of its withdrawal. It was weather. It arrived, and it passed.

When silence came, everyone remained.

Anna sat at the first piano. Emma took the second.

The House of Rain began with one note.

It was the note Anna had left suspended at Belladonna on the night Mark challenged her, the question interrupted when Hale spoke her name. This time she allowed it to resolve.

Music carried her into the apartment she had feared remembering. She saw rain on glass, Elise crossing the room with the blue case, smoke beneath the door. But memory continued beyond the place trauma always stopped. She remembered her mother wrapping a wet blanket around her, pushing her toward the service stairs, and saying, “Keep the rhythm, darling. Five, then two.” Anna had tapped the pattern along the wall through smoke. A firefighter heard it and found her.

Her music had not prevented rescue.

It had led rescue to her.

Tears blurred the score. Hale turned the page without touching her shoulder. Emma entered with Beatrice’s theme and held the tempo until Anna could see again.

They played the history without pretending harmony erased conflict. Mark’s motif appeared as a rigid march and broke beneath its own repetitions. Celeste’s variation did not resolve into innocence; it changed into a sequence of accountable steps. The mothers’ themes met, separated, and returned through the hands of their daughters.

In the final measures, Emma stopped.

Her silence was written into the score. Anna continued alone, playing Elise’s seven knocks. Then Anna stopped too.

From opposite pianos, the sisters began the last theme together.

It was not loud. It needed no chandelier, wager, or revelation. The melody moved like a table being extended, place by place, until every earlier voice found somewhere to rest.

The final chord faded.

Anna kept her hands on the keys.

No one moved for several seconds. In that quiet she understood her mother’s phrase at last. Love remained when applause ended, but love was not merely the people who stayed. It was the freedom to remain herself when they did not. It was truth without spectacle, boundaries without cruelty, memory without captivity.

Then the audience stood.

Anna looked at Emma. Her sister was crying openly, making no attempt to protect a perfect image. Hale’s hand rested on the closed score. In the back row, Celeste bowed her head. Daniel held hers. Luis had both arms around Mara and was pretending not to sob.

Anna stood and accepted the sound without surrendering to it.

After the concert, she did not attend the critics’ reception. The people she loved returned to Belladonna, where the kitchen had prepared Elise’s stew, blackbird tarts, and entirely too much bread. Guests sat at one long table beneath the repaired chandelier. Its missing crystals cast irregular constellations across the walls.

Hale raised a glass of water because his doctor forbade wine. “To the women who left us instructions complicated enough to require seven years, two vaults, a duet, and a structurally irresponsible lighting fixture.”

Miriam gave him a disapproving look. Everyone else laughed.

Emma stood. “To the people who told the truth before it was safe, those who told it after it was late, and those who learned the difference.”

Celeste did not raise her eyes, but she lifted her glass.

Anna had prepared no toast. She looked down the table at employees who had become owners, at a teacher who had returned without demanding restoration, at Daniel living beyond captivity, at Celeste carrying consequences without disappearing, and at the sister who had once seemed to possess Anna’s stolen life.

Nothing had been returned unchanged. Elise and Beatrice were still dead. Seven years could not be refunded. Emma could not unknow the applause she accepted, Celeste could not undo the notice she changed, and Hale could not reopen the vault on the morning courage failed him.

Healing had not made those facts smaller.

It had made their lives larger around them.

“To open doors,” Anna said.

Glasses rose.

Later, after the last guest left, the sisters sat at the grand piano where the story had become public. The bullet-damaged rack had been repaired but not replaced. Anna’s old gray apron still hung in the kitchen.

“Do you remember what you told Father before you played?” Emma asked.

“That he shouldn’t gamble with a woman he knew nothing about.”

“He knew facts about everyone. He mistook that for knowing them.”

Anna touched the keys. “What will you do tomorrow?”

“Teach at ten. Argue with Miriam about the youth-orchestra budget at noon. Ruin the tempo of your second movement at three.”

“You are banned from the second movement.”

“Worker-benefit corporation. You cannot ban me unilaterally.”

Their laughter traveled into the empty dining room.

At the main entrance, Luis switched off the gold sign but left the hallway lamp burning for the night crew. Beyond the windows, rain began softly over the city. It no longer sounded to Anna like the night of the fire. It sounded like water on a roof that held.

Emma played five quick notes and two slow ones.

Anna answered.