“Emeline Lark?” The woman’s ochre eyes folded into half-moons.
Emeline nodded, scanning the room. There was no sign of the tithe collector.
“I’m Calliope.” The woman clasped her small hands in front of her. “Your singing instructor.”
“Oh.” Emeline stopped scanning. This was the woman Hawthorne had been temporarily filling in for. The one who’d been waylaid by shadow skins on her way to the city.
Emeline forced a smile as she stared at the spot near the music stand where Hawthorne had stood these past two days. Feet planted firmly. Arms tightly crossed. Watching her sing.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
This was good, she told herself. What had she been thinking, anyway? That she and Hawthorne could befriends? The idea seemed absurd to her now. All they ever did was argue.
No, the more distance she had from the tithe collector, the better.
“Shall we begin?”
TWENTY
CALLIOPE WAS AN ALTOGETHERdifferent sort of teacher. Where Hawthorne stopped Emeline mid-song, making her repeat the trouble spot until she smoothed out the snags, Calliope waited until she finished, then pointed out her weaknesses, offering suggestions. Hawthorne demanded, pushing Emeline to her limit. Calliope coaxed, allowing Emeline to find her own way.
Emeline was happy to have Calliope’s guidance, but by the end of their lesson she found herself craving the pressure. She missed the stern intensity of Hawthorne. She yearned for that moment when their voices aligned in a harmony so perfect, it made her body hum.
No,she thought, remembering the look on his face as he wrenched himself out from under her voice’s spell.Not that.
“Very good,” said Calliope, looking to the sun’s position in the sky. It was late afternoon, and their shadows stretched long across the dome. “I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.”
That’s it?Emeline watched her instructor pull on her yellow coat. They’d only gotten through one new song today.
Before she could beg for more time, Calliope said, “Oh, Emeline? I noticed there are some sheets missing. From the last song.” She tapped the stack of music resting on the sapling standwith the tips of her willowy brown fingers. “Do you happen to know where they are?”
“What?” Panic flickered through her. Emeline stepped forward and shuffled through the pages. “That can’t be right …”
“I’m certain they’ll turn up,” Calliope said kindly, her hands starting to fasten the buttons of her yellow coat. “Perhaps they’re in your rooms.”
Before leaving, she flashed Emeline a quick smile, then turned on her heel and went out.
Alone, Emeline came to the last song—or rather, what was left of it.
It was as Calliope said: several pages were missing, including the title page. Hoping they’d gotten mixed in with earlier songs, Emeline went through the whole stack, sorting out each song, stacking them in separate piles on the floor.
Over and over, the last song came up short. Only the two final pages were there; the first four were gone.
Emeline’s heart pounded against her ribs.
Don’t panic. Calliope’s right. They’re probably in my rooms.
Emeline went and searched. She turned over furniture. She checked under the bed, in the armoire, and on the desk.
She didn’t find them.
Dread crept through her body like frost across a pane.
If she couldn’t find the missing music, she couldn’t sing the last song. And if she didn’t sing all the songs for the king in two days, Pa would never be free. And who knew what the king would do to Emeline.
Where else could it be?
She’d brought the music to Hawthorne’s house the night he made her dinner. It was possible she’d dropped a few sheets in her rush to leave. Perhaps they were there.
