She sat up. The moon was full, glowing bright white through the skylight above. Rising from the bed, she walked to the wall lined with instruments, scanning its contents, passing over the guitars until her gaze settled on a handcrafted ukulele. Fashioned out of pale maple, it was more finely made than even her Taylor. A leather strap embossed with roses was fastened to each end.
She thought of the missing song pages. They might not turn up before tomorrow night, and even if she managed to find them, she had less than twenty-four hours to learn three other songs besides.
What if I rewrite it tonight?She had the final pages and therefore knew how it ended. She also knew it was a waltz. She could write new lyrics, fashioning them in the style of the Song Mage’s other songs, with her own personal twist. The king was mad; he likely wouldn’t even notice. His Mage had been dead for ages, after all, with the music hidden away inside Claw’s stomach.
It was a backup plan, at least.
But it’s been so long since I’ve written a song. What if I don’t remember how?
Still. She couldtry.
Emeline took the ukulele down from the pegs. Sinking onto the gold velvet cushions inside the bay window, she started tuning it. As her fingers picked the strings, Emeline thought of Pa. Of who they used to be to each other. Of the terrifying power of forgetting.
She started to play, her voice testing out words:
“Breathing slow and steady
Sleep has settled in
I trace the pathways, midnight blue
That run beneath your skin”
She tweaked it as she went, rearranging words and lines. Matching them to chords.
“Some spirit I have lost somewhere
I search for it in vain
Some beauty I’ve forgotten
Since you forgot my name”
It took her all night. By morning, she had a nearly finished song and her whole body glowed from the inside out. It had been too long since she wrote something of her own. She’d forgotten how it felt.
It feels like this,she thought, smiling as her attendants got her ready the next morning.Bathing and scrubbing her. Combing out her hair until it shone like a river in the noonday sun.
It felt like the world had come to a standstill. Like everything weighing her down was suddenly featherlight. Like she was equal to whatever task lay before her.
It made her wonder why she’d ever stopped.
TWENTY-FIVE
EMELINE BUSTED HER ASSlearning the remaining songs that day. Realizing the king’s minstrel had mere hours left before her final demonstration, Calliope took pity on Emeline and stayed well past sunset to ensure her pupil knew them by heart.
After her lessons, Emeline returned to her rooms, ate dinner, and went through every song one final time. The last song—the waltz she’d rewritten—was by far the roughest. It needed more practice.
Two hours before her demonstration and tired of pacing her rooms, Emeline pulled the ukulele strap over the shoulder of her dove-gray dress—one with delicate white trilliums embroidered along the collar—and went for a walk.
Her bare feet trod the cool floors of the Wood King’s halls and her voice echoed softly as she strummed, treading out the song. When she arrived at the glass-domed room where her singing lessons took place, she stepped inside.
Standing beneath the dome, she recalled Grace’s impromptu waltzing lesson at The Acorn and let her feet find the rhythm. With the ukulele in her arms, Emeline closed her eyes, making her feet go through the steps while she hummed the tune, trying to smooth down the roughness.
When she finally stopped, satisfied, someone cleared their throat.
Startled, Emeline opened her eyes. Hawthorne stood half in shadow at the entrance. No lamps were lit; only starlight illuminated them. But she could still see his charcoal knit sweater, and the dark hollow at the base of his throat.
“You keep rushing the first beat. Try drawing it out more.”
