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I examined her more closely, taking in the tiny mole on the corner of her mouth and the sharp look about her eyes. Like myself her body was plumper and rounder than someone of an equivalent lofty social class would have been on Earth. Such beauty standards were a living reminder this was not my country, let alone my planet.

Another was the language she spoke, soft and lyrical, but difficult enough that it required all my concentration to understand. Each of her words were slow and clear, meaning she probably saw my records and was attempting to stoop down to my linguistic level. How humiliating. My hands itched for my violin, but the chains inhibited their wriggling.

When she said nothing more, I said, “Why to be afraid?”

“Are you used to being in isolated environments?” She brushed a stray dark curl behind her ear.

“Not remember.” Again, the answer was almost pulled out of me.

Scribble. Scribble. A glance at the screen and then back at me. “Your records say you arrived in the village of Corish about half a year ago, is that correct?”

I meant to nod, but instead said, “Yes, last week is six months.”

“Your accent,” she said, “I don’t recognize it. Were you raised abroad before you arrived in Corish?”

“Yes.”

A frown followed by a wobbling pen. “When my children and I were outside your door, we could have sworn we heard singing. Was that you?”

“Yes.” Of course it was.

“What language was it in?”

“Even if I told you the answer, you wouldn’t recognize it.” This particular answer was rehearsed so many times it was practically done on autopilot, as perfect a show of grammar as poetry.

“I see.” She drew out her syllables. “Then who taught you to speak Ghyrslan?”

“I made deal.”

“Explain.”

“When I come, only have music.” I concentrated on getting my syllables right. “There was baker, her name Marsla. Marsla has daughter. Daughter not know words. Daughter goes to be tribute, but Marsla no want that. If I be tribute girl, daughter no leave home. I, also, will have a home, hot food and safe place.”

“How would this Marsla, you said her name was?” At my verbal agreement, she continued, “How would Marsla have known you would fit the requirements of a tribute girl?”

“She take me to hospital, there I take test.”

“You expect me to believe a baker from one of the poorest villages in this province had the means to get a stranger medically tested?”

“Her brother-in-law is village doctor.” I jingled the chains. “My records no say this?”

Her mouth formed a thin line. “Then what would you have to gain from agreeing to be virtually sold in place of a stranger?”

“Marsla’s husband is the teacher.” As she picked up her pen again, I continued, “No language means no hope of peace. I no choice but to read and speak Ghyrsla language, but need teacher. Is logic.”

More of that incessant tapping, likely recording things about my personality that were purely circumstantial. She looked at me again. It wasn’t some faux Mother Mary type of look to lure me into complacency, but neither was it cruel. This was merely a job for her. Nothing more, nothing less.

“If you fated mate, why you here ask me questions?” Female strigaix were an impossibility so that had to be what she was.

“My mate is Chief Inspector of the City of Fomora and you are still a flower. He thought it would be best if someone who was once a tribute girl oversaw your psychological evaluation.” Her honesty struck me dumb, giving her the opportunity to ask, “What is your name?”

“I am The Musician.”

From behind her, the shorter one stated, “That is a lie.”

I pouted, considering the pair of strigaix brothers. Like the vampire myths on Earth, they were beautiful. It was the sort of beauty that fascinated the Ancient Greeks into carving and painting figures dedicated to the male form. Different from the fabricated android-like appearance popular on Earth’s social media, it was their flaws which gave them their good looks.

The taller one on the right was lean and muscular with a nose a bit too large and eyes capable of peering into your soul. If he wasn’t so tall and imposing, I would have mistaken him for an academic or even an artist. The shorter one was bulkier with hard eyes and piercings on ears that were just a little too large. He wasn’t muscular in the way a gym rat would look, but like someone who regularly sought out street fights. The both of them stood still, but something told me when they walked, they likely had the grace of professional dancers.