She smiled. “I can imagine it was,” she said. “Knights are not usually taught singing, although I have known some that were. I suppose it depends on where you fostered.”
“True,” he said. “I fostered at Kenilworth.”
“Ah. With the master knights.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Would it be too much to ask where you fostered?”
She plucked the string, listening to the note. “Prudhoe Castle.”
“And they trained you in music?”
She grinned. “Of course,” she said. “Why so shocked?”
He shrugged. “Because it’s a battle castle,” he said. “They are not known for their arts and music.”
She finished plucking the string, having reached a note that was satisfactory. “With their male fosters, mayhap,” she said. “But female wards are trained in the great arts. A truly refined woman knows many things, and the Lady of Prudhoe was determined we should be proficient in it all.”
“And you clearly learned your lessons,” he said. “Is that where you met your husband? Prudhoe?”
Her smile faded. “I explained the rules to you yesterday, my lord,” she said. “My name is Anosia. Someone told you that I am a widow, but beyond that, we do not speak of our past or our families. I am what you see—a muse for your entertainment and nothing more.”
Orion knew that. It was Aidric who had told him about Anosia, and he had heard it from Jareth, who had spoken to Anosia yesterday when she explained the value of a life at Aphrodite’s Feast for women with no other choices in life. He knew that she had been married to a knight who had perished at the Battle of Lewes, and he further knew that she had two small daughters. But that was really it. From his own observations, he knew that she was an elegant creature, beautiful and poised, and in his opinion, she had no business being in a place like this. A woman like that was meant to be married to a powerful lord and cherished.
“You are far more, lady,” he said quietly. “I knew that when I first saw you. You are far too fine for a place like this. You would make a wife a man could be proud of.”
She smiled, genuinely, at the soft flattery. “I was, once,” she said. “It is kind of you to say so. Now, would you like to hear my new song? I am only practicing, but I think I can produce a worthy sound.”
“You could not do anything else,” Orion said, sitting back in his chair. “Go ahead. I would like to hear you.”
With a modest, if not somewhat flirtatious, glance at him, she cleared her throat and began to strum the strings of the harp.
Underneath the moonlight, shadows begin to fall,
Whispers of thy heartbeat echo through the hall.
A love so passionate, burning like a flame,
But in the darkest moments, nothing feels the same.
She abruptly came to a halt, staring at the words, but just as quickly she began playing the notes again, gently strumming the harp. But no singing. Orion found himself watching her face as she read the music, seeing what looked like distress on her features. But she continued to play, very skillfully, until the song was finished. When it was over, she looked at Orion, smiling wanly.
“It is only practice, after all,” she said. “I will become more proficient the more I play it.”
“It is beautiful,” he murmured. “But why did you stop singing the words?”
She struggled to keep the smile on her face and finally gave up. “Those are words of pain, not of joy,” she said. “I do not wish to sing of pain.”
“Because you’ve had pain of your own?”
“Mayhap.”
He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazed steadily at her. “Do you never talk about yourself at all?” he asked. “Or do you truly feel like you’re nothing more than the furniture?”
Her brow furrowed. “Clearly, I am more than the furniture,” she said. “But there is safety in anonymity.”
“I understand,” he said. “But you… you’re not like the other women in this place.”
“And you’ve been around enough to know that?”
