“And you couldn’t have found the time to tell me between then and now?”
When they turned a corner, the hall fell silent.
SIXTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, EMELINE’Sattendants brought her to a domed room for her first singing lesson. The bowed walls were made of glass, giving her a bird’s-eye view of the city below. Cobbled streets glided snakelike beneath terra-cotta rooftops all the way to the city wall. Beyond it, the tops of the autumn-touched trees spilled outwards as the woods stretched as far as she could see.
Emeline looked north, in the direction of Edgewood, but there was no sign of her world.
Suddenly, someone cleared their throat behind her. Emeline stiffened, turning towards the sound.
Hawthorne stood in the center of the domed room, bathed in sunlight. He wore a navy-blue knit sweater and his hands were clasped behind his back. The usual thunder darkened his brow.
She crossed her arms at the sight of him, still angry that he’d refused to take a message to Joel.
“I’ve just been informed that the king wants a demonstration at midnight tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”Emeline’s arms fell to her sides. “But we haven’t even started.”
Hawthorne nodded. “There’s no time to lose.”
He turned to the delicate sapling growing in the center of the room. The tiny tree was shaped like a music stand. On its leafy branches rested a stack of vellum: the Song Mage’s sheet music. Elegantly inked bars and black notes scrolled across the milky surface, with lyrics written underneath. “If you can learn three or four songs before tomorrow, it should suffice. All he wants is proof—of your talent, and your obedience.”
Swallowing her disappointment, Emeline nodded. “Then let’s begin.”
They spent all morning in that domed room, with the sunlight flooding the crystal windows and the woods spilling out in all directions beyond the walls.
Emeline found herself pleasantly surprised by Hawthorne’s enchanting baritone. He was a little rusty—clearly he hadn’t sung in quite some time—but the rawness of his voice only made it more endearing.
She had never been here before, with Hawthorne in the Wood King’s palace, singing a dead man’s songs. Yet the moment he started singing, a dizzying sense of déjà vu struck Emeline. A memory prodded at her mind while he sang, but when she tried to reach for it, it eluded her.
Soon, they fell into a comfortable rhythm. Once Hawthorne taught her the notes and breaths, Emeline joined her voice to his, matching him note for note, breath for breath, memorizing the patterns and fluctuations.
Hawthorne sang verses; Emeline echoed them back. When she had trouble with a progression, he made her repeat it, mercilessly, until she got it right. When she got it right, he immediately moved on to the next part, never giving an inch.
He set the standard high, and Emeline met it.
See?she thought.You’re wrong about me. I’m not some fool in over my head. This is what I’m good at.
If she softened beneath the pressure he exerted, if she melted under the heat of his demands,it was only because her life—and Pa’s—depended on her learning these songs and pleasing the king.
It had nothing to do with the admiration burning in Hawthorne’s eyes. Nor the smile he hid when she hit a note exactly right. Nor the way he glanced sharply away when she looked up to find him staring.
Pitchers of water appeared at Hawthorne’s request, to keep her hydrated. Midday came and went. There were eleven songs in all. She wanted to learn three today, if she could.
When the late-afternoon sun shone through the glass, raising the room’s temperature from warm totoo warm,Hawthorne reached for the hem of his sweater and started tugging it off.
“We should stop soon. I don’t want to overextend you.”
As he pulled up the sweater, the shirt underneath came with it, giving Emeline a glimpse of toned abdomen. She looked away quickly, feeling suddenly too warm herself.
He wrenched the shirt down, then finished wrestling the sweater over his head.
“I sing for a living.” Emeline put her hands on her hips, staring intently at the floor. “I know my limits. I need to keep going.”
As if to contradict her, Emeline’s stomach grumbled loudly.
Hawthorne arched a brow, his hair gently mussed. He ran his fingers through it, smoothing it down. “It sounds like what you need is something to eat.”
