Reaching around her, he picked up the lute. “Come with me.”
She followed him as he walked over to one end of the couch and sat. Snagging a footstool, he dragged it over to position it between his knees. “Have a seat here and put your back to me.”
“Okay.” She settled on the footstool, facing away from him.
He leaned forward and reached around her waist to put the lute in her lap. “I think you’re right,” he said in her ear. “A lot of what you already know from playing the guitar will be applicable to the lute, so it was a good choice. But there’s a lot that’s different as well.”
A subtle shiver ran over her, all but undetectable. She leaned back against him. “For one thing, a guitar has six strings, and this one has fifteen.”
“This is a Renaissance lute. Baroque lutes have even more strings. You won’t use a nail to play it either. You’ll use your fingers to pluck at the strings, or maybe for some songs use double-plucking. On the fretboard, you can also move the frets—they’re not fixed in place.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured. “I didn’t notice that.”
“Plus you hold it differently than you would a guitar.” Putting his arms around her, he positioned the lute against her chest and adjusted her arms and hands. “Like this.”
“Got it,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “What about my right hand?”
“Feel for your position by touching the soundboard with your little finger, and tuck your thumb in, which is the opposite of how you’d play a guitar.” He ran his fingers along her hand, readjusting as necessary. “More like that.”
“Ah. That is very different.”
The sense of her leaning back against his chest was messing with his concentration. Her slim, lithe body felt like a perfect fit in his arms. Huskily, he told her, “Put your hand over mine, so you can feel how mine feels in the correct position.”
Readily, she complied, lifting her hand away. As he positioned his hand over the strings, she laid hers lightly over the top, her sensitive, clever fingers fitting themselves along the backs of his.
He played a simple melody slowly, allowing her to feel how his hand moved along the strings as he plucked and double-plucked at them. “Do you see?”
“Yes.” Her reply sounded husky. She cleared her throat. “It’s a completely different technique than what I’m used to.”
“You’re not going to develop a solid technique in two days,” he murmured. “I can imagine that will be frustrating, especially since your violin playing is so flawless and transcendent. But all we need to do is to get you to produce something that sounds enjoyable to someone who doesn’t know how to play the lute herself. Perfecting your technique can come later.”
“I’m not used to the neck being so short,” she complained. “The only way to get comfortable with it is by practicing, and the only way to practice enough is over time.”
“True,” he replied. “But that’s where the battle spell should help. It should give you a feeling like an epiphany as the ability to play infuses your mind and body. It won’t last, and you’ll be drained afterward, but if Isabeau wants you to play in the evening, you should be able to go to bed shortly after you finish.”
“That’s if your spell works,” Sidonie said darkly. “You said you weren’t even sure you remembered how to play.”
“The memories are there,” he said. “I just have to access them. Besides, the only way we’ll know is if we try. Are you ready?”
Her shoulders tensed. “Yes. Will it hurt?”
“What, the spell itself?” Having been immersed in magic his entire life, he tended to forget how very little she knew of magic, spells, and Power. “No, not at all. It should feel exhilarating, like a surge of adrenaline.”
“Okay, good.” She relaxed again.
In order to cast the spell, he had to think back and immerse himself in the memory of playing. Aside from this night, he wasn’t sure when the last time was that he’d picked up a lute, let alone played one.
Thankfully the spell didn’t have to be based on the last time. It could be based on an earlier memory.
When he cast back far enough, a memory surfaced.
It had been a hot afternoon, and much of the court had been relaxing by the cool of a deep river. There had been food and wine, and people had napped, read, and talked while Morgan had leaned with his back against the trunk of a willow tree, looked out at the silver sparkles on the sunlit water, and let his mind wander lazily as he plucked the notes of one of his favorite songs.
He’d been happy then, at peace and relaxed. While there had certainly been challenges to face, he’d had absolute confidence they would overcome them. They’d still had so much to build in their thriving, young kingdom….
He didn’t realize that he had tensed, and his breathing had shortened, until Sidonie leaned her head back against his shoulder and tilted her face to him.
She asked, “What’s wrong?”
The breath from her words touched his cheek in small, warm puffs. He had to force a swallow before he could reply in a bare thread of sound. “This is difficult for me.”
She leaned her cheek against his and asked sympathetically, “Is the spell that difficult to cast?”
He had taken pains to make sure she had no idea who he was, but still a small snort escaped him. “No,” he said. “It’s not the spell. It’s the memories. I was… happy then.”
Immediately, she pushed the lute away, arched, and twisted. As she came to face him, she put her arms around his neck and hugged him.
“If this is difficult for you, then we won’t do it,” she told him. “I’ll think of something else. Maybe I can throw myself down a flight of stairs or something. If I have an accident, she can’t expect me to play so soon, can she?”
Both warmed by her concern and alarmed at the direction of her thoughts, he dropped the lute on a nearby cushion and pulled her closer. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are not going to injure yourself just because I don’t like looking back. The past is done, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. What is happening right now is the most important thing—now and what can be done for the future. And we can do something about that.”
“I don’t like the thought of you being in pain,” she persisted stubbornly. “You have done so much to help me, when the truth is you don’t owe me anything.”
“For God’s sake, Sidonie,” he said, exasperated as he cupped the back of her head. “Now is not the time to start refusing my help. Otherwise, you run the risk of undoing everything I’ve done for you already. Now stop arguing about this, and let me get back to casting that spell.”
Her body felt tight with tension. She told him, “And I don’t like the fact that after everything you’ve done for me, I still don’t know your name. You call me by name all the time, and I can’t do the same with you.”
His arms tightened. “We’re not having that conversation again.”
“I don’t see why not. You should at least promise to tell me who you are after we know Isabeau has accepted whatever cockamamie story you cooked up to explain how I got healed in an underground prison.”
“Are you always so stubborn and single-minded?” he demanded.
Even as they argued, he realized he didn’t want her to know who he was. He didn’t want her to look at him with the same kind of fear that he saw in other people’s faces when they looked at him.
The man who played music by a river was as dead as the others in his memory. He had become someone much harder, more cruel, and ruthless. The shadows gave him a sort of anonymity, a certain distance from the man he had become, and he was not in a hurry to give that up.
When she laughed, she sounded genuinely amused. “Stubborn and single-minded are my middle names. I also have a growing problem with OCD, and you know why? Because I can’t let go of things, and I can’t relax. I never give up on anything, ever.”
He could believe that. All those qualities had gotten her where she was. She was tenacious, strong-willed, exasperating. Talented.