Page 29 of Twin Crowns

Ansel was staring at her. “Will you grace me with a song?” He gestured at the pianoforte that sat gleaming in the middle of the room. “You did promise me on our first date.”

“I did...,” said Wren vaguely.

Ansel beamed. “And now we have the perfect opportunity.”

“I would hate to drown out the rain,” she said quickly. “As you said, it makes for such a soothing backdrop.”

“Leave the rain to the roses. I would rather bask in your musical talent.”

Wren sipped her tea, thinking. Panicking. She was no musician; shehad never evenseena pianoforte before today. “I’m afraid I’m feeling quite shy, Ansel.”

There was a noise from the corner of the room. Tor was clearing his throat.

“Come, my flower,” cajoled Ansel. “It would cast such brightness on this dreary day.”

Wren hesitated. “I don’t—”

“I would like to hear it, too,” interrupted Tor.

Wren threw him a withering look.

He smiled blandly at her. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, Your Highness. I only meant to help the prince convince you. You spoke so passionately of your pianoforte upon our arrival, I have been looking forward to hearing you play.”

Ansel chuckled. “Well, there you have it. You wouldn’t disappointtwoGevrans on this rainy day, would you?”

“Three,” said Tor. “Elske is particularly fond of music.”

“Is she indeed?” said Wren dryly.

“That and the midnight moon.”

Wren swallowed her gasp. Was he blackmailing her? Well! The soldier’s smile broadened, a challenge brewing in those stormy eyes, and Wren found—to her surprise—she very much wanted to meet it.

“Well, then. Who am I to disappoint such an eager audience?” She rose to her feet. “I just need a moment to... prepare.”

She turned, keeping her back to the Gevrans as she slipped a stealthy hand into her drawstring pouch. A pinch of sand would have to do. And even then, the spell was not without its risks. For one thing, it wasn’t one of her usuals. She had never practiced this kind of spell before. Andfor another, an enchantment could not make something out of nothing. It would only alter that which was already there, to grow it or to take it away. But if Rose had music in her bones, then perhaps Wren did, too. After all, she spent every Bealtaine, the witches’ summer festival, dancing late into the night. Shen always teased her about her sense of rhythm, but didn’t enthusiasm count for something?

She lingered beneath the oil painting of her parents.

“The pianoforte belonged to my father,” said Wren, recalling what Thea had once told her. “They say he played every morning before breakfast. Sometimes he would wake the birds with the sweetness of his song.” She rubbed the grains between her fingers and cast a hurried whisper into the world.“From earth to dust, in doubt I pray, please give my fingers notes to play.”Her fingertips tingled as the sand disappeared. She turned around and strode purposefully toward the piano. “Let’s see what creatures I can wake with mine.”

Ansel draped himself over the lid. “What composition will you grace us with, my flower? You had mentioned you were an admirer of Nella Plume.” He gestured to the sheet music; inky black blobs that all looked the same to Wren. “But I see you have been practicing Claude Archer’s ‘Flight of the Melancholy.’”

“Oh, who wants to be melancholy on such an already dreary day?” Wren slid onto the music bench. “I thought I might offer one of my own compositions instead.”

Ansel raised his eyebrows. “Oh.”

Wren flexed her fingers above the keys. Was she supposed to press the little black ones first or the big white ones? Or both at the same time?

“It’s a work in progress.” She smiled sweetly. “Please be forgiving.”

“Of course.”

The floorboards creaked as Tor moved closer.

Wren placed her hands on the keys. She held her breath and pressed down, wincing at the discordant clang. Her fingers twitched. They found their way to a different chord, this one harmonious. After that, another, and then another. Nimble fingers skipped up and down the pearly keys, moving so quickly she had to snap her head back and forth to keep up. The result was a brisk melody buoyed by a merry staccato. It was a bunny rabbit hopping in a meadow, a butterfly taking flight in spring. Wren’s shoulders sagged with relief. She tossed a smirk over her shoulder at Tor.

He had pushed for a song—and she was giving him one.

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