The memory of Ellowa discovering one such journal flickered through her mind—her sister’s mocking laughter as she flipped through the pages, pointing out every flaw, declaring that even a child could produce more skillful work.
“I doubt they’re as bad as you claim,” Aurelise said kindly. “Most artists are their own harshest critics.”
“Oh, believe me, they’re quite atrocious,” Mariselle assured her with a self-deprecating smile. “But I continue to try. There are so many scenes in my head; I feel I must get them out somehow.”
She straightened, startled at this second bout of honesty. What was wrong with her today?
“I understand completely,” Aurelise replied. “I feel the same way about music. I practice for hours, yet my playing remains … well, Rosavyn once described it as ‘what one might hear if an inebriated squirrel dashed across the keys.’”
“Aurelise!” Rosavyn protested. “That was when you were ten years old! Your playing is enchantingly lovely now, as are your original compositions.”
Aurelise’s cheeks flushed pink. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course. In fact, I’m convinced you’re going to manifest some form of music-related magic.”
Something twisted in Mariselle’s chest as she watched this exchange. A sharp, unexpected ache. The easy affection between the sisters, the genuine support beneath the teasing, the clear regard they held for each other … it was utterly foreign to her experience with Ellowa.
“What about you, Lady Mariselle?” Kazrian asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Do you play any instruments? Or perhaps you sing?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied, composing her features carefully to hide the unexpected wave of emotion. “My sister Ellowa is the musical one in our family. I was always encouraged to focus on … other pursuits.”
Like being invisible and never, ever disturbing the careful balance of the Brightcrest household with anything as inconvenient as authenticity.
“Well, it’s true that Aurelise’s playing is truly lovely,” Lady Lelianna said, clearly sensing a lull in the conversation and attempting to steer it back on course. “Perhaps when you next visit, she might favor you with a performance.”
Aurelise’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no, Mother, I couldn’t possibly subject Lady Mariselle to my?—”
“I should like that very much,” Mariselle said warmly. She offered Aurelise an encouraging smile. “I find music deeply inspiring. Certain melodies create entire worlds in my imagination, scenes and stories unfolding along with the music.”
“Truly?” Aurelise leaned forward, her shyness momentarily forgotten. “That’s exactly how it feels to me! Colors and patterns and landscapes, sometimes so vivid I lose track of time completely.”
“Then you must play something for me next time,” Mariselle urged, surprised to find that she hoped therewouldbe a next time.
“I suppose I could,” Aurelise conceded with a tentative smile.
“Just not that dreadful Snowflake piece written by that raven-haired composer who mistakes perpetual solemnity for artistic depth,” Rosavyn interjected with a dramatic sigh.
Aurelise’s head whipped toward her sister. “But you love that one! I heard you humming the opening section yesterday morning in the hallway.”
“Only because you’ve forced me to hear it at least a hundred times,” Rosavyn countered. “It’s embedded itself in my mind like a musical parasite.”
“Which is precisely what makes it an excellent composition,” Aurelise countered triumphantly. “The hallmark of truly exceptional music is that it refuses to leave you, haunting your thoughts long after the last note has faded.”
Rosavyn rolled her eyes. “Fine. The piece is tolerable. There. Are you satisfied?”
“From Rosavyn, ‘tolerable’ is practically a standing ovation,” Kazrian explained to Mariselle with a conspiratorial grin.
“Rosavyn does hold rather exacting standards,” Lady Lelianna observed, but her tone held no reproach, and the smile she directed at her daughter was almost teasing.
“I simply see no point in false praise,” Rosavyn defended herself. “If everything is ‘exquisite’ or ‘magnificent,’ the words lose all meaning.”
“There’s a vast territory between false praise and soul-crushing criticism,” Evryn pointed out.
“A territory you’ve clearly never explored,” Rosavyn retorted. “Not when you described Lady Fawnwood’s hat as ‘the tragic aftermath of a ribbon factory explosion.’”
“To her face?” Mariselle gasped, then immediately regretted the outburst.
“Goodness, no,” Evryn replied, looking horrified at the suggestion. “I do possess some small measure of tact. I merely whispered it to Rosavyn during Lady Whispermist’s garden party two Seasons ago, and she laughed so suddenly she inhaled a mouthful of punch.”
