Overture (Fic)
Me @ Wonderstorm: a PIANO? seriously? piano? okay, I guess… (Piano. What the actual hell.)
—
The royal soirée was warm, stuffy, and, considering the company involved, interminably boring.
It should have been a golden opportunity—artists, writers, musicians, and even a scholar or two had been invited to mingle with the Katolian royal court. At an event like this, catching the eye of the right person could mean gaining a patron who’d set you up for life. Crown Prince Harrow was already swarmed by hopefuls looking to present him with samples of obsequious drivel.
Lissa wandered through the collection of adjoining rooms, wineglass in hand. The setting had been artfully arranged to be ideal for the gathering—comfortable chairs and low couches encouraged intimate conversation, scattered tables were packed with spreads of bite-sized pastries and cut fruit, and servants circled discreetly with selections of wine at the ready. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been in Katolis long enough to have discerned which of its wealthy elite might take an interest in her work, so engaging with any of them was a gamble. Scholarship was generally more difficult to find interested patrons for than the arts, as well—there might be little here for her if she didn’t want to spend the next ten years writing insipid genealogies.
The crowd of guests mercifully thinned out as she got further from the prince. The rooms became less unbearably warm, the scent of so much mingled perfumes less cloying. She paused in one that was nearly empty to sip her wine and take a few breaths. The lone bored servant stationed there ignored her.
In the corner of the small lounge was a piano. Lacking anything else to hold her interest, Lissa stepped over to examine it. She wasn’t truly a musician, but she knew quality when she saw it—the piano was a fine piece, plain in its ornamentation but with solid construction and elegant shape. She didn’t recognize the dark wood of the body, but the keys were Neolandian ivory. An almost unspeakable level of luxury—she’d only ever seen wooden ones, before. She ghosted her fingertips over them, barely touching the surface.
“Do you play?”
She whirled guiltily, feeling like a child caught where she shouldn’t be. Gray-eyed Viren stood behind her, sleek in his high-collared coat rich with embroidery—she hadn’t expected to see him, especially not this far from the prince’s side.
Had he followed her?
“Only a little,” she said, shaking that thought away. “I’m better with more portable instruments.”
”Portable?” he echoed curiously, moving closer to stand beside the piano and idly running a hand over the polished wood.
“Most of the old stories in Del Bar are meant to be told with music,” she explained. “It’s an essential piece—the story isn’t properly understood without it. You wouldn’t have seen many wandering bards hauling around something this size, so the music has to be adapted for it. I do lute, mostly, instead—keeps things as close to the original form as possible.”
”You don’t think we should use every tool at our disposal to build the past into an improved future?” he teased, gray eyes dancing with mischief.
She laughed, familiar with this kind of irreverent scholastic banter, and matched his playfulness in her response. “More that I think we need to remember the past accurately, if we’re to truly build on it at all.”
“Maybe you’re right.” His face faded to seriousness and his eyes grew distant for a moment—then his focus and smile returned. “Nonetheless, will you play something? For me?”
“I suppose,” she said, taking a seat on the bench and smoothing her skirts. She kept her face tilted down, ostensibly focused on the keys but hopefully also hiding her sudden flush.
The ivory was cool and smooth under her fingers. “Some people call this one ‘In the Hall of the Mage-King.’ It’s from a story about a wicked mage who lures a young woman to his castle, intending to ensnare her as his bride.” She glanced up at him. “No offense intended.”
His mouth quirked against a laugh. “None taken.”
She closed her eyes—she’d always found it easier to play from memory when she didn’t look at the keys—and began slowly. The music was a simple, repeated melody, meant to gradually increase in speed and flourishes according to the musician’s skills and taste. That was part of why she had chosen it, to give muscle memory a few measures to return before she tried anything fancy.
Or has that story just been on your mind, lately?
Her brow furrowed slightly as she concentrated harder on the music, sweeping away all other thoughts. She hit fewer false notes as she continued, her hands moving faster and with more confidence. When she felt she’d shown off enough, she shifted smoothly into a coda, winding the music back down to slow simplicity, and finally silence.
The last notes still hung in the air as she looked up. At some point, he had shifted to lean his elbows on the piano’s frame. His head was cocked to one side, watching her.
“Beautiful,” he said quietly.
They suddenly seemed very close. She met his eyes and held them, refusing to be the first to back down even as her heart hammered and she felt heat creeping up her neck.
He straightened abruptly, faint color rising in his cheeks. “I mean—that was lovely. Thank you for indulging me.” He glanced toward the door and sighed. “I should get back to Prince Harrow and make sure he hasn’t gotten into trouble.”
“Absolutely,” she replied, with deadpan earnestness. “I can’t believe you left him alone with a pack of poets. That’s practically treason.”
He laughed, bowing slightly. “Good evening, then, Lissa.”
She inclined her head in return. “Good evening, Viren.”
He stepped toward the door, then realized he’d forgotten his wineglass and returned to retrieve it, nodding at her sheepishly. He paused, his fingers twisting on the glass’s stem. “And what happens to the young woman, in the story?”
“Oh,” she said, keeping her voice light, “There are a few versions, and no one knows which is the original. In most of them, she escapes with the mage’s sundered heart, ending his cruel reign. But in a very few, very old texts—she falls in love, and becomes his queen.”
“You should tell me the whole thing, sometime. The nice version.”
She tilted her head to look at him for a moment—storm-gray and tarnished gold, iron-hot pride and wolf-winter hunger. Beautiful, indeed.
“Maybe I will,” she said, and smiled.
—
The piano is one of the first furnishings he buys for their home—it’s a more modern upright construction, for the smaller space, but still finely made and tuned to perfection.
He coaxes her to cover her eyes as he leads her into the room, and laughs at her delighted gasp when she opens them. Whirls her around the sunlit room in his arms.
She plays it daily. The lute rests in the corner, forgotten.