Seraphina(99)

Ululations and an explosive burst of drumming greeted me.

The troupe were all in motion, a circle within a circle, each turning a different direction. For a moment I could focus on nothing; it was a blur of colored scarves and shimmering veils, brown hands and jingling strings of coins.

The circles opened, dancers spinning off tangentially, revealing Abdo in the center, in a bright green tunic and trousers, his feet bare, his arms undulating. The others shimmied at a distance, chains and coin scarves jingling. He whirled, his arms spread wide, the fringe upon his belt making a halo at his center.

For the first time, I understood the point of dancing. I was so used to music being the vehicle for expression, but here he was speaking to me not with his mind but with his body: I feel this music in my very blood. This is what it means to be me, right here, right now, solid flesh, ethereal air, eternal motion. I feel this, and it is true beyond truth.

The heavens seemed to turn with him, the sun and moon, time itself. He whirled so fast he seemed to stand still. I could have sworn I smelled roses.

With a crash of drums he froze, still as a statue. I wasn’t certain whether Porphyrians applauded, but I went ahead and clapped. That broke the spell; the dancers smiled and broke formation, chattering among themselves. I approached Abdo, who awaited me with shining eyes.

“That was beautiful,” I said. “I think your audience will love you, whether they want to or not.”

He smiled.

“I’ve put you on the program late, when people will need something to wake them up. There’s food and drink for performers in the little room off the—”

“Madamina!” cried an old man. It took me a moment to recognize him as the one who’d wanted to meet me after Prince Rufus’s funeral; he was draped with silks now. I assumed he was the grandfather Abdo had mentioned. “Your pardon!” he said. “You are come to here, try to speak at Abdo, but he cannot speaking at you without help. Your pardon.”

“He—what?” I wasn’t convinced I had understood.

I looked to Abdo, who looked annoyed. He made a number of hand gestures at the old man, who gesticulated back urgently. Was he … deaf? If so, how did he speak such fluent Goreddi in the garden? He finally convinced the old man to go, which I found astonishing. He was ten, maybe eleven years old, but the old man was deferential.

All the dancers were. He was the leader of this troupe.

He smiled at me apologetically, and I heard his voice in my mind: Loud Lad and Miss Fusspots. I know what I’m to do. I will not fail you.

You can’t talk? I thought back, not wanting to blurt out the obvious.

He gave a pained, small smile, threw back his head, and opened his mouth as wide as he could. His long tongue, his gums, his palate, everything, as far into his throat as I could see, gleamed with silver dragon scales.





That night simultaneously dragged on forever and passed in a whirlwind blur. Kiggs had stationed the Guard everywhere there was space; there were a few out of uniform casually assaulting the buffet table, and one onstage spooking my musicians. The royal cousins and I spotted each other watching the Ardmagar; Glisselda danced with him three times, or danced near him with Kiggs. Dame Okra engaged him in chitchat near the refreshments table; I stood onstage behind the curtain, scanning the crowd through the gap. Nobody did anything suspicious—well, Princess Dionne smiled a lot, which was unusual, and gossiped with Lady Corongi, which was not. The Earl of Apsig danced with every lady in the room; he seemed never to grow tired.

Viridius was there in a wheeled chair, several young men keeping him supplied with wine and cheese. That much rich food would leave him foul-tempered and incapacitated for a week; I did not understand how he calculated that it was worth it.

The symphonia cleared the stage while Lars and Guntard brought out the harpsichord for Princess Glisselda’s performance. She was suddenly beside me in the wings, giggling and clutching at my arm. “I can’t do this, Phina!”

“Breathe,” I said, taking her hands to still them. “Don’t speed up during the arpeggios. Keep the pavano stately. You’re going to be wonderful.”

She kissed my cheek and stepped into the light, where she abruptly transformed from a nervous, squealing little girl into a dignified young woman. Her gown was the blue of Heaven; her golden hair, the sun. She held herself poised, raised a hand to the audience, kept her chin high and proud. I blinked, amazed, but I should not have been surprised by this calm, commanding presence. She was still growing into it, but the foundation was something she seemed naturally to possess.

Musical ability, on the other hand … well. She was breath-takingly mediocre, but it didn’t matter. She made up some ground on the performance end with sheer poise and presence, and she absolutely put Viridius in his place. I watched him from behind the curtain. His mouth hung open. That was satisfying on several levels.

I watched Comonot, too, since no one else seemed to be doing it. Dame Okra had been distracted by her least favorite person, Lady Corongi, and was eyeballing her suspiciously. Kiggs, off to the left, smiled warmly at his cousin’s performance. I felt a pang; I looked elsewhere. The Ardmagar—whom I was ostensibly watching—stood at the back with Princess Dionne, not speaking, watching the performance, a glass in one hand, the other arm around the princess’s waist.

She didn’t seem to mind, but … ugh.