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Her pulse thudded angrily in her temples. She hated being told what to do with her time. How to do it, when to do it. What she was and wasn’t allowed.
She choked on her rage as she swallowed it down. Voice deceptively mild, she asked, “And the rest of my time?”
“What of it?”
“I talk to your court and I sleep within your walls. Am I to be confined within them the rest of the time?”
He shook his head. “Spend your spare time where you wish. If you’re asking for permission to continue your street performances, I’ve no objection. In fact, I wholeheartedly approve of your bid to win the affection of the masses. But, little songbird?” He stood, crossed the space between them so he towered over her. “Do not forget that what is yours is also mine, and there will come a day when I will expect what you win to be given back to me.”
Anxiety clawed at her insides, and something in her snapped. She was tired—so Ferrian-fucking tired—of always living on the cliff’s edge of fear. She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze. “What is mine is mine. Anything you succeed in taking from me will only ever be stolen.”
She turned on her heel and grabbed her bag. The sound of his laughter followed her out.
Chapter Sixty
Happiness
Carelessness was not the easiest state to induce. Carelessness was not an emotion, and emotions were the thread with which Songweavers wove. She had to come at the problem from the side, and it was difficult since Alaric had only given her one song to do it with.
After thinking on the problem the remainder of the morning and half the afternoon, she’d settled on the right song—he’d never said it had to be a short one—and set about having a piano located and moved to the dining hall. She preferred the guitar, but playing it meant being on display. It meant having to see the people she played for, and being seen by them in return.
The benefit of the piano was that one could hide behind it. She didn’t want to see or be seen because she didn’t feel the message of her song, and the hypocrisy would be written on her face. She walked into the dining hall five minutes after the nineteenth bell.
Part of the intentional lateness was spite, but most of it was not wanting to have to talk to anyone before she’d sung them into a better mood. She wore another of Chalen’s creations, the pants and shirt a gaudy array of shining silver this time, so she practically shimmered as she walked into the room.
The piano had been staged in the center of the room, and therefore in the center of the dozen tables arrayed throughout it. She walked confidently through those tables, a smile on her face that could be directed at everyone or no one. The space was loud, filled with the idle chatter of so many people.
She didn’t attempt to quell their speech with words. At least, not with words spoken directly to them. She slid onto the padded piano bench, her fingers finding position on the keys, and played. She didn’t even attempt subtlety. She was not, as she recalled, being paid for subtlety.
Magic rose, crested, and poured out of her in a tidal wave as she played the happiest song she knew. Because happiness was what made people careless. Happiness and safety, acceptance and security. Only once material danger and mental despondency were removed did a person feel like they could be careless.
So she sang of those things, and she convinced people they were true, and her magic echoed out a single resounding promise: Happy. For tonight, you are happy, and because you are happy you will feel free and honest.
And because she didn’t know what Alaric would do with her if she failed, she emptied herself into that promise, squeezing every drop of her Songweaving power into the words, until she felt hollowed out. Had she bothered to look up at any point in the performance, had she not given herself, as she always did, to the music, she might have discovered that everything she had to give was, perhaps, too much.
Because when she played her final note, the hall maintained silence for all of a second before breaking into chatter all at once. It was as if a floodgate had been lifted on the mouths of the people surrounding her, as if they were all drunk senseless except they were perfectly coherent enough to speak and couldn’t wait to do so. Laughter rang around her, undignified peels of it she doubted the hall had ever heard the like of.
No one seemed content to remain in their chairs. They stood and milled about, wreaking havoc on the poor servants attempting to navigate their way through the mess. She stood from the piano and nearly knocked over a woman she’d never seen before.
The woman giggled, like she was twelve instead of the thirty or so Clare guessed her at, and nearly spilled the glass of wine in her hand. “I loved your song. It was so…so…happy. Honestly, I thought what I heard about your performance at the prince’s nameday celebration had to be exaggerated, but you’re wonderful.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. The area around the piano was growing more and more crowded, and Clare could feel the space shrinking in on her. She moved, needing to get out now.
“Wait”—the woman grabbed her wrist—“we haven’t even gotten to?—”
Clare jerked her hand free so viciously the woman stumbled, spilling her drink on her skirts.
The woman frowned, staring down at the red stain. “Ordinarily, I would be very upset about this, but I’m too happy tonight.”
A hand brushed the small of Clare’s back and she jumped, spinning, to find the crowd of people had pressed in so closely she could barely spin a stationary circle. Her heart pounded, her body unpleasantly aware of everyone’s breathing, everyone’s scent, everyone’s presence.
The world narrowed to a pinprick and all she wanted was out. Out of the press of bodies, out of the attention and then?—
The two people closest to her were shoved aside and Numair was in their place. The crush of bodies filled in around him like water filling a tide pool, shoving him against her, his chest flush against her back.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s okay.”
