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“Princess,” I said, my mouth almost too dry to speak, “he sings like an angel. You should have heard his auditions. He’d make a superb assistant to Master Viridius, and an excellent tutor for you, if you would but—”

“Give him a chance?” she said, looking at me sidelong. “I am.

The music master and I are at war; I am giving this fellow fair

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warning of our vendetta, a chance to learn what a morass he’s walking into before he commits to it. In fact, I’ve had a real morass prepared just for him. I thought a literal approach would make things clearest. There he goes.”

The feather abruptly disappeared. Shouts rose from the center of the maze. I gaped at her, appalled. “He didn’t deserve that,” I said.

“All wars have casualties,” she said, her eyes fixed on the scene below.

I stared into the brown ooze meant for me. “What do you intend to do with this, uh, substance?” I said, tipping it, watching how it clung to the side of the pail.

“Isn’t it gloriously vile?” she squealed, turning away from the window and clapping her hands. “It’s fermented fish heads. It symbolizes how unpalatable I find the idea of music instruction.

We shall spill it upon this final villain and be rid of two noxious things at once.

“We must hurry, though,” she fretted, “or it won’t be ready when he walks in.”

He.
I stared into the mesmerizing ferment and had an inkling of an idea. Maybe I could still salvage this, giving the princess a lesson by stealth and revealing my identity only when the thing was done.

I rose and smiled at her. “If you want to set this up so it falls on his head when he opens the doors, you’ve been going at it from the wrong side.”

She fetched the chair from the hallway; I climbed upon it and showed her how one might balance the pail on top of the double 9

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doors, slightly ajar. The princess laughed and capered, delighted with me, and even I could not help taking a sober satisfaction. I felt safer with the bucket where she couldn’t reach it.

“Of course, anyone might spot the trap through the crack,” I said, stepping down and studying the setup from another angle.

“You’ll want to draw your victim’s attention toward something else. What if you sat in his line of sight, playing your instrument?”

She made a rude face. “I think not.”

“You don’t have it with you?” Had I trapped us in here without it?

She scorned to answer, but turned toward a hanging tapestry and pulled it aside, revealing a door. She quit the schoolroom; I hesitated, and then followed her into a much larger salon with tall windows and chairs grouped into conversational clusters.

In front of the windows stood a harpsichord, covered against dust.

“Is that your instrument?” I asked.

She snorted, an unexpected sound from such a highborn girl.

“It’s Viridius’s. He doesn’t let me touch it. He has not forgiven me for filling it with frogs.” When I blinked at her uncomprehend-ingly, she said, “It has been
war
, Seraphina.”

She turned and flounced off toward the windows. I stared after her.

I was beginning to dread the possibility of getting this job, but it shamed me to think I might be defeated by fear in this final trial, which had nothing to do with my musical abilities. I took a deep breath and whipped the sheet off the harpsichord.

Princess Glisselda turned at the sound and raised an eyebrow

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at me. I sat at the keyboard and let my fingers say hello, thrilling at the texture of the notes.

“What instrument does Viridius have you playing?” I said.

“Dulcimer?”

“How did you know?” she asked.

“That’s the usual first instrument for fashionable young ladies,” I said, indulging in a few arpeggios. “But there’s a reason it’s called the dull-cimer.”

“That’s what I said! I made that exact joke!” she cried. “And the old tyrant barked at me that it was the easiest instrument to learn and I was tone-deaf as a boiled beet.”

Ouch. Clearly, both sides fired volleys in this war.

Glisselda crossed the room, her arms folded and a scowl crumpling her elfin face. “I know what you’re up to, and it isn’t going to work,” she said.

I looked up from the keys. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“You’re just like the rest of them,” she cried. “Grandmamma, and my mother, and everyone. Music is supposed to teach me dis-cipline, they say! The dullness of the dulcimer will make me mild and discreet and dispassionate!”

I put my hands on my knees, facing her. “You’re not interested in music even a little.”

“Absolutely not,” she said fiercely.

I tried to smile, but my heart was sinking. “So what are you interested in?”

I had her answer narrowed down to three before she even opened her rosy mouth. She would say gowns or balls or boys. I was already thinking of ways to relate any of these three to mu-11

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sic—gowns was hardest—and so I didn’t hear her answer at all.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said stupidly.

She glared poison at me but repeated her answer: “Statecraft.”

We stared at each other a long moment, Princess Glisselda’s mouth a tense line, her fingers worrying a bead on her bodice. I sensed I had been handed a bright pebble of truth and that she was waiting to see what I would do with it.

Statecraft.
Statecraft.

“You know,” I said, speaking slowly so my thoughts could get a sufficient head start on my speech, “music is not as irrelevant to statecraft as you might suppose.”

She rolled her eyes theatrically.

I pushed on. “No, really. Music teaches you about harmony, about resolving tension and finding balance—and that’s just the notes. The kind of negotiation one must undertake with one’s instrument, well. A diplomat could only hope to listen so closely and respond with such sensitivity.”

I turned from her and played a few experimental chords. “If you’re too timid with your instrument, it takes advantage. The notes will sound incompetent even if you play them right. If you are too harsh”—this seemed a likelier problem for our princess; I slammed out a few samples—“it exacts a subtle revenge in timbre.

Sometimes an unsubtle revenge, depending on the instrument.”

I looked at her sidelong; she was staring at the harpsichord lid, her gaze unfocused.

“Any instrument would wish to be spoken to respectfully,” she said quietly.

I nodded. “And authoritatively. It’s a balance. Luckily for the

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beginner, the harpsichord is a forgiving, easygoing partner. You may hit the wrong key, but it won’t be out of tune, and the timbre is fairly constant no matter how much you bang on it.”

The princess seated herself beside me on the bench, watching my hands work, her brows drawn in thought. “
Forgiving
and
easygoing
are qualities one misses in Viridius,” she said at last. “And—

and quite possibly myself.”

The chords were transposing themselves toward a piece I knew, though I wasn’t sure of it yet. Princess Glisselda kept watching my hands as the song revealed itself to be Viridius’s
Suite
Infanta
, which he’d written in her honor when she was just a tod-dler. I’d always thought it a strange piece, all merriment on the surface with a hidden sharpness underneath, like a knife wrapped in ribbons, but as I played it now I began to understand. Princess Glisselda recognized it, of course, and sat up a little straighter.

At last she interrupted me: “Show me what you’re doing.”

“Of course,” I said, and began to show her the basic melody with the right hand. She didn’t catch on right away, but she worked at it, brow furrowed and tongue protruding in concentra-tion. I’m not even sure how long we sat there, going over that line, but when she got it, she looked up at me in triumph.

And then said, incongruously, “Here he comes.”

There was a crash and a shout from the next room. The princess leaped to her feet and bolted through the tapestry into the little schoolroom; I followed right on her heels. I’d been so en-grossed in teaching that I’d forgotten all about Orma.

Of course, it wasn’t Orma. It was Master Viridius, red-faced and shouting. The fermented fish had spattered his bald head, 13

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doused his ample stomach thoroughly, and drenched the bandages on his hands. In his confusion at being attacked from above, he had landed hard on the floor. Princess Glisselda was extending her slender hand to him, trying to help him up, her lips pressed tightly together in a vain attempt to disguise her amusement. He lashed out with his canes whenever she got near him. I darted around behind him and propped him up to sitting.

“Well?” he sputtered, brushing me off. “How was she?”

I stammered, “Sh-she—”

“Superior to you, you old walrus,” Princess Glisselda cut in, as if the question had been directed at her.

From the way they were glaring at each other, I suddenly realized it had.

“Your exacting standards were met, one hopes?” he sneered at her, accepting my silently proffered handkerchief and dabbing at his doublet with it.

“She let me play your harpsichord,” she said sweetly, batting her eyes at him. He paused in his dabbing and glowered at me.

The little princess hopped around the puddle of fish ooze on the floor, making her way toward the door.

“You knew,” I called after her before she disappeared com-pletely. “You knew I was the candidate all along.”

She paused in the doorway and smiled. “Well, of course I did.

Diplomacy is only part of statecraft, Seraphina. There’s also spy-ing. Besides,” she said, drawing a curlicue in the fish sauce with the toe of her slipper, “did I ever explicitly state otherwise?” She flashed me an impish smile and took off down the hall, skipping by the sound of it.

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I helped Master Viridius to a chair, my mind racing. He met my eye, looking unexpectedly sheepish. “She told me this morn-ing,” he said. “You were the only one who would be given a chance, and even then she made no promises. I had no idea what idiocy she had in store for the others, or what games she would play with you, and I am sorry. Unfortunately”—he sighed heavily—“she’s part of the job. I can’t teach her anymore; it raises my pulse and gives me palpitations.”

“She is a spirited individual,” I said, measuring my words in case she had tiptoed back and was listening to us. I would have put nothing past her at that point.

Master Viridius was trying to stand; I helped haul him to his feet. He propped himself upon his canes and said, “Congratula-tions, Maid Dombegh. Report to me in three days. I shall arrange your quarters by this evening; move in when you like. We’ll see to it that your door locks.” He smiled mirthlessly. “That brat once filled my harpsichord with frogs. You never know what she’s ca-pable of.”

Capable
was an apt description of this princess. I wouldn’t forget.

I tried to help him to the stairs, but he waved me off. As I watched him hobble away, I heard steps behind me and turned to see a page boy—the same impudent rascal who’d directed me up-stairs—leading Orma toward me.

“Here you go, Scholar,” said the lad, holding out an arm as if formally presenting me. “Your student, whole and unharmed.”

“I wasn’t worried,” said Orma.

The boy laughed. “More fool you,” he said, turning on his heel and scampering off.

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I met Orma’s eye. “Princess Glisselda sent that page boy to call you away, didn’t she. And then she lured me up here after you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I received a personal invitation to the Queen’s private library. It was quite a fortuitous coincidence.”

Quite. The princess must have been listening to our conversation in the antechamber.

Orma’s nostrils flared; he had a keen nose. “Did your audition involve fermented fish sauce? That’s quite an expensive delicacy in—”

“Yes,” I said, laughing at him. “The princess learned so much from me that she required a light snack.”

“You got the job, then?”

I met his eyes. He wasn’t happy—dragons don’t work that way—but there was something there, something I wasn’t imagin-ing. Some satisfaction, maybe, that he had taught me well. “I got the job,” I said, my voice breaking a little.

If he was surprised by the emotion, he gave no indication. He said, “I’m perplexed that my calculations were so far off. I’m miss-ing something obvious. If I can predict that you’ll surprise me with such consistency, then surely—”

I felt an unaccountable surge of affection for the old dragon then, and I threw my arms around him, even though I knew he hated being touched. He couldn’t quite get used to having non-scaly skin. He tensed and held very still, waiting for me to release him.

“Speaking of surprises,” I said, smacking him on the chest

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where I’d felt an odd flatness under his doublet, “you’re unexpectedly rectangular just now.”

A human might have been sheepish about it, but Orma simply shrugged. “I didn’t have a chance to finish the book I started.

But it’s not a problem—you got the job. You can bring it back for me when I’m done.”

I laughed, disinclined to be cross with him, and together we left the castle. Golden leaves drifted around us down the long hill into town, and our shadows stretched before us across the surface of the world.

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© 2012 Rachel Hartman