Seraphina(16)

Everyone else washed once a week, if that, but no one else was susceptible to scale mites or burrowing chibbets. I dried myself and rushed to the bookcase for my pot of salve. Only certain herbs emulsified in goose grease stopped my scales from itching; Orma had found a good supplier in the one dragon-friendly part of town, the neighborhood called Quighole.

I usually practiced smiling while I slathered my scales with goo, figuring that if I could smile through that, I could smile through anything. Today I really didn’t have the time.

I pulled up my chemise and wrapped a cord around the left forearm so the sleeve couldn’t fall open. I put on a kirtle, gown, and surcoat; I wore three layers at minimum, even in summer. I threw on a respectful white sash for Prince Rufus, hastily brushed my hair, and dashed into the corridor feeling less than ready to face the world.





Viridius, sprawled on his gout couch, had already started conducting the castle choir by the time I arrived, breathless, breakfast rolls in hand. He glared at me; his beetling brows were still mostly red, though the fringe of hair around his head was a shocking white. The bass line stumbled, and he barked, “Glo-ri-a, you gaggle of laggards! Why have your mouths stopped? Did my hand stop? Indeed, it did not!”

“Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled, but he did not deign to look at me again until the final chord had resolved.

“Better,” he told the choir before turning his baleful eye on me. “Well?”

I pretended I thought he wanted to know about yesterday’s performances. “The funeral went well, as you’ve probably already heard. Guntard accidently broke the reed of his shawm by sit—”

“I did have an extra reed,” piped up Guntard, who did double duty with the choir.

“Which you didn’t find until later, at the tavern,” quipped someone else.

Viridius silenced them all with a scowl. “The choir of idiots will desist from idiocy! Maid Dombegh, I was referring to your excuse for being late. It had better be a good one!”

I swallowed hard, repeating This is the job I wanted! to myself. I’d been a fan of Viridius’s music from the moment I laid eyes on his Fantasias, but it was hard to reconcile the composer of the transcendent Suite Infanta with the bullying old man on the couch.

The choristers eyed me with interest. Many had auditioned for my position; whenever Viridius scolded me, they appreciated how narrowly they had escaped this fate.

I curtsied stiffly. “I overslept. It won’t happen again.”

Viridius shook his head so fiercely his jowls waggled. “Need I underscore to any of you amateur squawkers that our Queen’s hospitality—nay, our entire nation’s worth—will be judged by the quality of our performances when Ardmagar Comonot is here?”

Several musicians laughed; Viridius quashed all merriment with a scowl. “Think that’s funny, you tone-deaf miscreants? Music is one thing dragons can’t do better than us. They wish they could; they’re fascinated; they’ve tried and tried again. They achieve technical perfection, perhaps, but there’s always something missing. You know why?”

I recited along with the rest of the chorus, though it turned my insides cold: “Dragons have no souls!”

“Exactly!” said Viridius, waving his gout-mangled fist in the air. “They cannot do this one thing—glorious, Heavensent, coming naturally to us—and it is up to us to rub their faces in it!”

The choristers gave a little “Hurrah!” before disbanding. I let them flow out around me; Viridius would expect me to stay and speak with him. Of course, seven or eight singers had pressing questions. They stood around his gout couch, fondling his ego as if he were the Pashega of Ziziba. Viridius accepted their praise as matter-of-factly as if they were handing back their choir robes.

“Seraphina!” boomed the master, turning his attention to me at last. “I heard complimentary words about your Invocation. I wish I could have been there. This infernal illness makes a prison of my very body.”

I fingered the cuff of my left sleeve, understanding him better than he imagined.

“Get the ink, maidy,” he said. “I want to cross things off the list.”

I fetched writing implements and the roster of tasks he had dictated to me when I first began working for him. There were only nine days left until General Comonot, Ardmagar of All Dragonkind, arrived; there was to be a welcoming concert and ball the first evening, followed a few days later by the Treaty Eve festivities, which had to last all night. I’d been working for two weeks, but there was plenty left to do.

I read the list aloud, item by item; he interrupted me at will. He cried, “The stage is finished! Cross it off!” and then later, “Why haven’t you spoken with the wine steward yet? Easiest job on the list! Did I become court composer through masterful procrastination? Hardly!”

We arrived at the item I’d been dreading: auditions. Viridius narrowed his watery eyes and said, “Yes, how are those going, Maid Dombegh?”

He knew perfectly well how they were going; apparently he wanted to watch me sweat. I kept my voice steady: “I had to cancel most of them due to Prince Rufus’s inconveniently timed demise—dine he with the Saints at Heaven’s table. I’ve rescheduled several for—”

“Auditions should never have been put off until the last minute!” he shouted. “I wanted the performers confirmed a month ago!”