A halfway-det night's sleep seems to have cleared up my foul mood, and I rise eager to greet the day.

  The first night is always a cert and dance, and it's my favorite show to put on. In the pys we put on, I never have any speaking roles, having been deemed a piss poor actor by just about anyone who has ever boro my awkward attempts. Usually I help with props and effects, which is fun in its own way I suppose.

  But music is my heart and soul, my raison d'être. I py every single instrument we have between us (admittedly with varying degrees of petency, but I hold my own even on my worst ones). I've had so many good teachers through the years and twenty-six years to do nothing but practice.

  My absolute favorite is our beautiful standing pedal harp. It has a rger-than-average resonator box that gives its bass end a stunning riess. It's older than I am by more than forty years, and I keep it spotlessly .

  It's not my harp per se, but it was doo the Warblers by its previous owner Luca, a gruff and tankerous old man who spent the better part of two decades begrudgingly teag me how to py it and also how to restore any ceivable damage that may befall it. He was a master of his craft – still is, I assume, just not traveling with us anymore – and I only dream of one day attaining his level of skill.

  Luca went off to live in the hills of west Chavalia with the long-lost love of his young life st summer. He seemed so happy whe him again by a tiny random town well off the beaten path. He may have smiled more times that week than I'd ever seen in my whole life.

  I still 't believe he left the harp, but I guess it's hard to move without some extra hands and it needs a lot of space so that nothing would bump into it and damage it.

  This m, I'm oup duty, which I vastly prefer to going back out and w the streets to drum up i. It's harder work to put up our stage pieces and rger instruments than to wander around pying my lute and singing, but I don't care much for being the ter of attention. I mostly sing harmony and rarely have solos. It's more fun for me to weave myself into a grand tapestry of sound. There's something so profound about being both lost in the rger picture yet als the foundation without which the solos would souy and hollow.

  I've just finished helping three other Warblers move the piano into pd am sidering going to help the street vendors set up when I see Suzanne and Jean approag, waving toward where I'm sitting down to catch my breath. I wave back.

  "We're just ing back for some food and water before we head back out there," Jean says as he es up to stand in front of me.

  "How's it looking out oreet?" I ask.

  "Pretty damn good. It seems like there's a lot of i."

  "Acc to Yuxuan, there's even supposed to be a few high-profile guests that are ing," Suzanne adds excitedly. "He said he vassed up in the really nice part of town and got some seriously fancy-looking people to say they would drop by."

  "I hope they don't expect there to be a separate area away from all the 'on folk' so they won't get their clothes dirty," I say, shooting her a dubious gnbsp; "I doubt anyone of status will stay for long in an outdoor lot that's standing room only."

  Jean leans in spiratorially. "I heard a rumor that the king himself is going to make an appearance."

  That actually makes me ugh out loud. "There's no way that's true. Even if it is, I doubt he'd e without a bunch of guards, and that would really put a damper on a party."

  "Hey." Jean holds up his hands and shrugs. "It's just a rumor I heard in town. I 't vouch for the credibility of the source."

  "If there's even half a ce the king might be in the audience, I should make sure my dress is ," Suzanne says, chewing on her lip. She walks off in the dire of our tent, presumably to ascertain the dition of her dress, and probably to wash it even if it isn't dirty.

  I don't believe the rumor for a sed, but that doesn't mean I won't be double cheg my skirts for stains before I ge tonight. Maybe I'll put my hair up, too… It couldn't hurt.

  ******

  Jean was right – there's quite a crowd gathered by the time we've even started pying our first song.

  The sky is still light, but thanks to some scattered torches, the area will be well lit long after the sun goes down. Ale and wine are flowing freely, and there's no short supply of food courtesy of the street vendors. I sampled some of their fare earlier duriup, and I must say, Dimos is not culturally g in the fvor department. Veilsung in general has some of the best food I've ever tasted, and it certainly has the spiciest.

  Sihe city's popution predominantly sists of serpent folk, who are obligate ivores, there's not much to speak of in the way of vegetables or even bread. We mao find at least one or two vendors that cater to a broader variety of diets, though.

  I sit in front of my harp, watg our director, Eliza, for the signal to get started with our opening song. She climbs up onto her pedestal to address the crowd.

  "Ladies alemen, boys and girls, old friends and friends we have yet to meet," she calls. "Wele to a night of musid revelry the likes of which you've never experienced before! We have a long night ahead of us, so let's not waste any more time, shall we?"

  With that simple introdu, she turns towards us and nods, aart to py.

  Now, one of the hings about having so many members in our troupe is, not everyone o py in every song. During our shows, we take turns leaving the stage area and going into the crowd to start group dances and drum up some excitement when there seems to be a lull. Our repertoire is extensive, and there's a host of songs y without one instrument or another, and sometimes we hand off an instrument to another's capable hands wheuation calls for it.

  When it's my turn to walk out into the throng of revelers, my favorite thing is to find someone who is watg by the sidelines and pull them into a danbsp; I've met so many iing strahis way. Even the ohat start off stiff and uain usually loosen up and start talking, ughing, and generally having a good time by the time I leave them to head back up to the stage. I also try to find a different partner for them before I go back, so that they might keep enjoying themselves after I'm gone.

  By the third time I leave the stage, night has fallen. As I'm looking around by the light of the torches, I spot him, and my stomach sinks. He's staring straight at me, off to the side, but not far from the stage. People are giving him a wide berth, and there's a ring of muffled whispers and double-takes happening in the crowd just outside his bubble of empty spabsp; I see several flustered people giving him slight bows when they notice him standing nearby.

  Yesterday left a bad taste in my mouth, but I decide now to give him a sed bsp; We got off on the wrong foot, but first impressions aren't everything, right?

  "Khysmet," I call out to him and walk over to where he's clearly been waiting for me.

  I figured he was someone of note by his dress and general demeanor, but it's made abundantly clear by the number of people that flind stare when I call out his name. I suppose I'm expected to call him "Lord Khysmet", or whatever honorific applies to him, but he didn't tell me to, so… I'll correct my nguage if he tells me to, but until he does, I'm just going to keep using just the name he gave me.

  "Miss Catarina." He nods politely at me. "So o see you again."

  Is it nibsp; I don't know if that is the word I'd choose.

  "Wele to the party," I say. "Enjoying yourself yet?"

  I've been having a great day, and I'm determio stay perfectly cordial throughout this enter, no matter what he says to me.

  He grins at me with dubious siy.

  "Not yet, but I sehat's about to ge," he says vaguely. "You know, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself, but you do look genuinely happy onstage."

  My left eye twitches. He's testing my resolve early, but I'm not going to back down. Maybe the hing he says won't be so horrible, and I pretend he didn't talk for the first twenty seds of versation.

  "Yes, well," I say, "what I say? I love what I do."

  "Care to dance?" he asks. "I'm a bit rusty, but I'm sure you'll make up for my deficits. You seem quite good from what I've observed."

  I chuckle, a bit darkly. "Oh, I'm not good at all, just very enthusiastic."

  I don't necessarily want to dah him, but I'd rather not refuse ht.

  "Do you mind a partner who doesn't really know what she's doing?" I ask, hoping he does.

  He grins. "I don't believe you're as bad as you say. And even if you are, I've been told I'm quite good at leading. I should at least be able to steer you away from stepping on my feet."

  He holds out a hand. I sigh internally. I suppose there are worse fates. Relutly, I take his hand, and he leads me a short ways away from the edge of the crowd.

  The bubble of measured, respectful distance kept by everyone else follows us onto the dance floor, though a couple people are a bit too tipsy to notice Khysmet's presence right away. The song being pyed is upbeat, but a slower tempo, atles one hand on my waist while using the other to start guiding my steps.

  "You are pretty good at leading," I ent while being pulled back from a spin.

  "And you're very enthusiastic," he responds, catg me when I'm ing in too hot on my return spin and bringing us back to the previous step sequeh seemingly no effort.

  I shoot him a reproachful look, trying to evaluate if that's supposed to be sarcastic or not. This time I'm going to say "not".

  "Your toes are still intact, aren't they?" I say. "t yourself lucky."

  He smiles. "True enough. You know, I saw you switstruments with four people just iime that I've been here," he says. "How many do you py?"

  "More than four, but not quite thirty."

  His eyebrows raise at that information. "Really? Impressive."

  "I have a lot of time to practice, is all." Despite myself, I feel my cheeks warm at the slight praise. "Are you much of a music lover, Khysmet?"

  "I've always sidered it a bit frivolous," he admits.

  Somehow, I'm not surprised. It's something I've heard many times before, from many different people. Enough times that my answer has bee essentially standardized. I tell him the same thing I have told tless others before him, and will likely repeat a thousand more times in my lifetime.

  "All art is frivolous," I say. "It only serves to make the world more beautiful and iing, doesn't it? But if you're incapable of appreciatiy for its own sake, if you don't do things and seek enters for the sheer joy of experieng the full breadth of what life has to offer, are you even living, or are you a walking corpse?"

  There's a short pause before he answers. He uses this time to spin me again, and again catch me on my somewhat clumsy return. When he does answer, his words are measured and pensive.

  "Yes," he says, "I think I see what you mean. I suppose I could use a bit more frivolity in my life."

  I grin, pleased at his receptivity. “You should e back for the rest of our performahen. Tomorrow night is a py, but I guara will be plenty frivolous, too.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a py,” he admits. “I just might take you up on that.”

  I hesitate for a moment before saying this. It's something I've been chewing on si night, all through today. But he's been a good boy who hasn't said anything rude sihe start of our versation, so I'll throw him a bone.

  "I… I apologize for yesterday," I say hesitantly. "Fetting angry that you called a carriage for me. It was a longer way back here than I realized. So really, thank you."

  After getting it out, I find that I do in fact mean it. I hope that es across in my words.

  "Not a problem," he says. "After all, you couldn't have known that I live here, and therefore know how far away different pces are."

  His sarcasm is so polite and smooth it hardly registers as such, and that makes it so much worse. My hackles rise and my face heats up, but I remember that I'm supposed to be apologizing here, so I keep my reply perfectly polite and reasonable.

  "I just don't appreciate being uimated, is all," I expin. "I've been alo night in more cities than you've ever visited in the first pbsp; It get ugly, but trust me, I hold my own." I let some smugness leak into my expression. "I'm not nearly as fragile as I look, you know."

  "No…" He pauses, flig his to while his red eyes trail slowly and deliberately down my body in a way that makes me gd I did decide to go with my best dress after all. Then they slide back up to meet my gaze once more. "I imagine you're not."

  I blink vapidly. Well, that was suggestive. There's a heat in his gaze that's pinning me in pce, ae my general distaste for the man, it's tugging on something low in my gut. My face heats up fast, and I'm floundering to find something to say. I'm just about to open my mouth in the hopes that something es out when he suddenly yanks me flush against his body and spio the side.

  Through my fusion all I think is, He smells nibsp; Like bergamot and mahogany. Then I look around and notice a couple dang haphazardly a few inches away. They must have almost just run into me in a drunken haze.

  They ugh and twirl until one of them looks up and the color drains from his scaled fabsp; He bows deeply and stutters an apology before dragging his giggling partner bato the crowd.

  I prise myself away from Khysmet's side, still clutg his hand and shoulder as though we might keep dang, even though we're not even swaying anymore, and give him an evaluating once-over.

  "Okay," I say, "who are you, really? Everyone here clearly reizes you, so you must be pretty widely known."

  He chuckles. "It's not important. You're leaving in a week, so what does it matter who I am?"

  I roll my eyes, not having the slightest patience for this. "Yeah, I get it, you want to be mysterious and dramatid everything, but no really, who are you?"

  He's got that pained expression again, where he's clearly trying to cover a smile that's probably at my expense. I'm on the verge of actually letting him have it when he gives in to my demanding gre.

  "Okay. I'll tell you who I am," he says. "Just not until the ime I see you. Then, I promise I will. Is that acceptable?"

  My lips purse. It’s not acceptable, but there’s not much I do about it.

  "Fine," I cede, rolling my eyes. "I'll allow you to be needlessly mysterious for tonight." I jab one finger into his chest sternly. "But you better e back to at least oher show, because if you try to pull that thing where you never see me again and I'm always left w, I'm not going to be happy."

  "Wouldn't want that, would we?"

  I'm gring at him and trying to proje aura of someone you shouldn't mess with, and he's staring back at me like there's nothing in the world he enjoys more than messing with me. Before I attempt to issue a more crete threat, he breaks eye tact with a sudden gnce behind me.

  "Hmm. I think you're wanted bastage."

  I jump and turn around to see that Eliza is in fact gesturing for those of us in the audieo make our front. I drop Khysmet's hand like a hot coal, and he releases his hold on my waist to graciously let me step away.

  "Um. I have to go," I say, as though he wasn't the oo point that out in the first pbsp;

  "Of course."

  I give a slight, awkward curtsey. "Thank you for the dance."

  "My pleasure. See you again soon."

  I push this enter out of my mind a bay position on the harp. I'm fog so hard on not thinking about it that I miss a couple cues. I definitely don't look for him the rest of the times I go into the audience, but if I did, I wouldn't have seen him again anyways. By the time the festivities are finally over, I'm not thinking about him so hard that I barely talk at all through preliminary up. For a reason I 't begin to fathom, for the sed night in a row sleep is impossible to e by.