“Beloved Dido, descend not to death.
Forget your faithless prince of Troy.
Behold: Faithful Belinda has a secret.”
She pulled a bow at her shoulder, and the cloth unrolled, a cape decorated with strips of purple and violet silk. The room had become brilliant with sunlight, and the colors shone like fine vestments.
Georgiana played a celebratory resolution. There was no more music. The last page of Mary’s handwritten score was on her music stand. Uncertainly, she looked up at Mary. The story was clearly unfinished.
Mary lifted Georgiana’s hand from the keyboard. “Rise, Queen Dido.” Georgiana stood, her eyes very wide, and Mary took both her hands and sang:
“The Fairy Queen commands me.
Thy engagement must be honored.
I, secret princess of Troy, and a sprite, replace him at the altar,
so Troy’s ships and men shall defend Britannia.”
She fell silent. Their cheeks were flushed, their gazes transfixed. A hundred past hints rushed into my mind—they would have been declarations for a more sensible onlooker—and, finally, I understood Mary’s brave love.
Shocked whispers spread among the courtiers. They quieted as Mary recited, no longer singing:
“Let us not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.
Queen, will you take a princess as your bride?”
Georgiana took a shaky breath, but her answer was steady. “Love looks on tempests and is never shaken. I am yours.”
Mary finished in a whisper that filled the silent room:
“What may express my love or my dear merit?
Nothing, sweet girl; yet music as prayers divine.
Thrill my heart that throbs with unwonted fervor,
Chasten mouth and throat with immortal kisses,
Till I yield on maddening heights the very
Breath of my body.”
She kissed Georgiana, a gentle brush of the lips which drew loud gasps from the audience.
Those folded forces of the draca world erupted in an invisible structure mitered of form and melody—twin aspects of these wyves of song. It grew high as the hills and hung, trembling, then careened upon itself and vanished.
On the terrace, the iridescent small draca burst into harmonious song.
As if that were her release, Mary turned to the audience, presented a dazzling actress’s smile, and bowed elaborately, pulling an exceedingly distracted-looking Georgiana into the bow beside her. That pretense of performance was necessary. Their entire lives would be performance, an endless fiction. How unfair, and yet how inspiring that love triumphed regardless.
Their bow was met with silence. The courtiers’ heads swiveled, seeking guidance. Then from the corner, the mad King’s voice croaked querulously, “Britannia is saved, then? That is good.”
The Prince Regent rose from his seat. “Well said, father. A brilliant debut.” He began clapping, and the courtiers burst into applause.
Darcy and I stood as one, but he had my hand tight in his, so we could only add our voices to the approval. With his other hand, he dug a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
