“That scene at rehearsal yesterday.” He clears his throat, turns away, and unwinds the bow, leaving the hairs limp again. I hate the idea of what him grabbing a cloth to clean the resin from the strings means. Is he really done? Already? “Where Kenneth tries to confess and fails?”
Disappointed more with every wipe, I murmur, “Yeah?”
“Are you interpreting Harriet to already be in love at that point?”
My heart thumps, cracking the reverie. Straightening, I force the understanding this isHarrietwe’re talking about, not me, into my head. “She is.”
Lex continues cleaning and doesn’t look up at me. “But in the scenes we get to next week, with the kiss, she runs and then laments her feelings.”
“Mhm. She’s been in love for several scenes now. It’s whyJo is so stricken. Only Jo sees it. In the quietest moments. Not even Harriet realizes. It’s not something readily depicted until last night’s scene, and it’s not something Harriet thinks is real or possible. She’s in love, but she doesn’t think she deserves that right, not with Kenneth, not with anyone. Not like that.” I sigh, letting my gaze drift off the boy with the violin. “‘Cruel heart, cruel fate, cruel world. Like all else in this maddened plane, so too is love’,” I quote a line from her following lament, then explain, “It’s bitter. What place would she have with a lord, and what place does she have now with Jo while Kenneth haunts her? Yet again, she feels robbed.” Holding the neck of the ukulele with one hand at my side, I find a braid to toy with and half-shrug. “I thought about leaving it less obscure, but it’s not fun when you have to state everything in a play. What’s the point in that?”
A hard pause fills the mere space between us, and I find Lex’s eyes. They stare through me. “What?”
I stare back. “What?”
“How would you go about leaving it less obscure? That kind of interpretation can’t exactly be provided with expressions and actions alone. Not clearly.”
I freeze.
But only for a second.
Determination snaps suddenly through his eyes, then he puts the violin back and steals my baby guitar away. When the instruments are settled, he snatches my hand and drags me down out of the little music cove.
I flush with his hand around mine, repeating, “What?”
He doesn’t say a word as he tows me down to the foyer then hooks around to stomp down a hall. The ballroom streams into view, and he leaves the doors open as he throws on blinding lights. I squint against them. He drops me off at the piano.
“Play a measure of ‘Daring’,” he commands.
“Huh?”
“Do it.”
Frowning, I lift the cover and take a breath, unsure where things are going. The full sounds pound out, and I stop them abruptly after a single measure, throwing him a scowl.
“Now ‘Left Behind’.”
I huff, and the sorrowful notes pour free.
His breath tightens when the final sounds drift away. “Now your mother’s song.”
I flinch. I know the one he’s talking about, butwhy? That has nothing to do with the play. “I don’t understand—”
He fixes me with a hard look, desperate and pleading, and I wince.
Carefully, I play out a measure of my mother’s song, realizing moments too late that there’s something distinct about each. Something characteristically similar. Just like all writers and artists have a style that shifts and changes over time, so do composers. The edge of the period in whichThe Magpie Girlwas written hasn’t left me yet.
Slowly, I bring my gaze up to Lex’s eyes.
They stare at me, wide and loud.
Heknows.
Lex
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe if Mr. D’plume didn’t say anything. Maybe if Calypso didn’t word her answer to my question the way she did. Maybe if I didn’t get the feeling Calypso was the authority where the play is concerned in spite of Mr. D’plume. Maybe if she didn’t instantly seem so connected to Kenneth. Maybe if she didn’t so perfectly match Harriet. Maybe if her songs and the play’s didn’t feel justso.
