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She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t understand. Has she ever been heartbroken? I’m not even sure she has a heart.
“You need to get it together or you’re going to lose your job. Ghildumal doesn’t just drop by dressing rooms to say hi. He’s going to switch you to the morning shift if you keep this up, or worse.”
I shrug.
“Do you even care?”
I don’t, but I can tell from the disbelief in her eyes that Rhovier does. If I fail, then she has nothing. She’ll have to go back to our family and live as the untalented one. Worse, because they’ll blame her for my failure.
“Music is everything to me.”
Music is all I have left. And in a weird way, it’s all I left of Sienna, too.
Maybe there’s some way I can pull from some happier memories and string together more pleasant songs. Or at least try to sing some of my older ones with conviction.
Or maybe I really want to be left alone.
“Rho, I get it. I’ll work on a new set,” I tell her, just to get her to leave. “Shut the door on your way out.”
Rhovier hesitates, but must see that I’m done talking. She leaves and slams the door behind her again, making the few zagfer remaining jump in fright. I ought to watch over them as they tune and clean the instruments, but I can’t work up the energy to move. I sit and stare at the wall until the last one leaves, and then I sit some more.
Finally, I tug the bracelet out of my pocket.
Sienna’s bracelet.
It hurts to breathe. How am I supposed to sing pleasant, happy songs when I can’t even suck in a breath?
“Little pavo,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
15
SIENNA
After a few days’ sales rush, business slows. Today I haven’t had much to do besides tune and polish the instruments, which were already tuned and polished. I set up a new ilya display, complete with new strings and a tuning fork, just to have something to do with my hands.
One customer comes in, looking for a jinrayaha.
I keep them in the back. Ridiculous, since they’re one of the most popular instruments, but I just can’t concentrate whenever they’re front and center. I lead him past a row of music books towards the far-left corner of the store.
He runs a reverent hand over the keys, playing a soft, delicate tune. It’s not the best—his hand is nimble and well-practiced, but he stumbles over the first few keys. But for a moment, his profile in the dimming light combined with the lingering notes of music in the air brings a ridiculous, painful lump to my throat.
He has an eyebrow piercing, a long, silver braid, and vivid green eyes. Typical chivdouyu with more personal expression than fashion sense. He can hardly bend to inspect the instrument’s keys; his leather pants are so tight.
He looks ridiculous.
He looks like—
“I can’t.”
“You can’tyet.” He smiles at me guilelessly.
He thinks I mean that I don’t know how to play it, because he launches into an explanation of the instrument that I kindly ignore. The truth is that I haven’t touched it since I played side by side with Ris.
I can’t play it and not think of him. More than the music, I can feel the heat of his breath against my neck. The anticipation of his body crowding mine. The promise of our music joining together, the tempo building to a joyous crescendo. He kissed just like that melody, wild and rhythmic and free, and there’s a part of me that will always be backstage with him after a show. When his hair was mussed, and his eyes were soft, and his smile was just for me.
It’s like a sickness, really. A temporary one, I tell myself firmly. The best healer is time.
If I stay busy enough, I can usually keep him out of my mind until nightfall. And if I’m exhausted enough, which Ezra, bless him, seems to have handled, I fall asleep quickly. It’s a good life.
