“Alcibiades, I think we’ve found the maddest girl and the only sane girl in one,” he says, and then looks back at me. “You’re not making a very good argument for marriage, you know.”
“I told you,” I say. “My lady won’t ever love you.”
“You’re very devoted to her cause,” he says. “Are you sure you aren’t doing this for love of her?”
“No,” I say quietly. “I just need her out of the way.”
The next day, I’m so tired that I have to walk to the palace double-quick, or I’ll sit down and fall asleep on the street. Thea said she wouldn’t have anyone but me modify her green silk dress for the ball—I think she meant to make Stepmother feel I was valuable, but Stepmother’s hatred for me is matched only by her belief in my speed. I had to sew all night to meet her demands. Now my eyes itch and ache with weariness, and all I can think is that maybe Lord Anax will let me sit down in his chair a moment, or even just curl up in a corner.
I’m so busy dreaming about that corner that I walk straight into a footman. It’s the same one who tried to throw me out yesterday.
“Lord Anax is in the second-best drawing room,” he says after a short, stiff pause.
“Take me to him,” I say, trying to sound authoritative. The drawing room may have a sofa.
The drawing room has gilt mirrors on the walls, a statue of Persephone in the center, and two sofas with plump purple cushions.
It also has a piano. When the footman eases the door open, Lord Anax is sitting at the piano with his back to us, pounding out a rollicking dance tune as if his life depends on it. The footman opens his mouth to announce me, but I shake my head and slip inside silently.
The sofa is soft as newly risen bread dough. I sink into it. Lord Anax is slamming out the notes of the song as loud and as fast as he can, but I’m asleep in moments.
When I wake up, he’s playing a different song—slower, more intricate, with a multitude of trills. He stumbles over every one, and though he manages to keep his playing gentle enough to suit the piece, the whole thing feels shapeless.
He hits the final chord a little too fast and loud. Then he looks over his shoulder at me. “Should I be flattered or insulted that I sent you straight into the arms of Morpheus?”
I stand and walk to his side, digging into my pocket. “I have a letter for you.”
“Of course. Did you think it was any good?”
“What?”
“My playing.” He’s staring at the piano keys, and his voice is light, but I can hear the tension underneath. “Did you think it was any good?”
I consider the question. He’s never punished me for telling the truth yet.
“It wasn’t terrible,” I say. “But it wasn’t good. It wasn’t anything, really.”
He laughs softly. “Did you like it?”
I shrug.
“Don’t be tactful now. You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking,” I say, “what does it matter if I liked it or not? You won’t stop or start playing for love of me. You don’t care what I think, and I don’t care what you play.”
“I would have been a piano player,” he says abruptly. “If I weren’t the duke’s son. I know it’s not genteel, but if I weren’t my father’s son, I wouldn’t be a gentleman.”
“You’d get tired of it,” I say.
“No.” He stares at the keys. “I’d never get tired of music. But I’d never be much good at it either.” Gently, as if he’s closing the doors of a shrine, he lowers the lid back over the keys. “Just as well I’m the duke’s son and everyone has to flatter me.”
I remember this morning, how I yawned and immediately whispered, I’m so happy to be awake, Mother, as I stirred the porridge. I remember Koré looking at the dress I sewed for Thea and saying, I’m glad you’ve found something that stupid girl is good for, Mother.
“You’re not alone,” I say. “Everyone has to flatter somebody to survive. Besides, I didn’t mean you’d get tired of music. Being a commoner isn’t easy, you know. You’d get tired of the work.”
“Do you?”
“Every day. But unlike you, I don’t have a choice. Here’s your letter. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He catches my wrist. “Maia,” he says, “thank you. Thank you for telling me the truth about my music.”
“Just for that?” I ask.
“You’re the first one, can you believe it?”
I feel the opulent room weighing down on me, as heavy as the smiles I craft for Mother.
“Yes,” I say. “I can believe it.”
His music really is terrible.
But it echoes in my head, all the rest of the day.
If you weren’t a servant,” asks Lord Anax, “what would you do?”
It’s the sixth day of my strange mission; Lord Anax is wrinkling today’s letter between his hands.
“My lady wrote that,” I say wearily.
“I know,” he says. “I asked you a question.”
“Oh.” I pause and think it over. “What does it matter?”
“Well, I told you what I’d do, if I weren’t my father’s son. What would you do, if you weren’t a servant?”
He should ask: if I weren’t my mother’s daughter, or if my mother had not loved me quite so much. But no matter how I enjoy telling him the truth, that is not something I dare say to him.