Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(156)

He stared at me but said nothing.

My heart sank. “Aren’t you curious, even a little?”

“No,” he said.

He rose as if to go. I stood, too, and paced toward the windows, despairing. I couldn’t make him stop taking destultia, or force him to be my friend. He could walk out of the room and refuse to see me again, and there was nothing I could do about it.

From behind me came the sound of a bench scraping on the floor, and then a few tentative notes on the harpsichord, like a child might make, cautiously approaching the instrument for the first time.

I kept my eyes on the rivulets running down the glass.

There was a chord, and then another, and then a small explosion of sparkly notes—the opening strains of Viridius’s Suite Infanta.

I turned sharply, my heart in my throat. Orma’s eyes were closed. He played the first three lines, then faltered and stopped.

He opened his eyes and looked into mine.

“One thing they can’t remove without damaging other systems is muscle memory,” he said quietly. “My hands did that. What was it?”

“A fantasia you used to play,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “I’m still not curious. But …” He stared at the rain. “I begin to wish I could be.”

I gestured to him to move over on the bench. He made room for me, and we sat together the rest of that afternoon, not talking, but letting our hands walk over the keys and remember.




This book was a beast to write. The following people ensured I was not eaten: Arwen Brenneman and Rebecca Sherman, whom I can never thank enough; Phoebe North and the Glassboard Gang; Naithan Bossé and Earle Peach, who got me thinking about harmonics at just the right moment; Inchoiring Minds and Madrigalians; Becca, who showed me the taiga; Tamora Pierce, who knows about battling Grendels; Rose Curtin and Steph Sinclair, consultants to the clueless; Iarla ó Lionáird; Jacob Arcadelt; Josquin des Prez; Bessie, my trusty bike; and my mother, who’s always happy to talk about art.

I gratefully acknowledge the late Douglas Adams, to whom I owe the idea of an inside-out house, and Pink Floyd, to whom there are more sly allusions in this book than I can count.

Finally, thanks to Jim, Dan, Mallory, and the fabulous folks at Random House, who have been unflaggingly supportive and kind. And to Scott, Byron, and úna, my heart and home.