It stings, though I cannot blame him for the sentiment. Distance is my only shield. What might happen if I allowed it to fall? Betrayal, deception, disappointment, suffering. My grip tightens around the handle. I fight the urge to pry it free of the door. At the moment, it is all that holds me up. “It feels like you’re giving up on me,” I whisper.
“No, Sarai.” The sound emerges warped. “I haven’t given up on you. How could I? You are an exceptional violinist, one of the greatest the world has ever known. It has been an honor and a privilege to teach you.” The lines mapping his face deepen, sadness pressed into his expression as a seal is pressed into wax. “I stayed these past years because I hoped you would find your way back to music. But every year I grow older. There are others I might teach and shape into accomplished musicians such as yourself.”
I hear him plainly, but I fear how things will change. My legs itch to flee. I might haul open the door, dash down the hall until I reach my chamber, its shadowed interior. But I think of these past five years. Ibramin has met me for lessons every week despite me having failed to touch my violin. He deserves my patience, my understanding, my respect.
“Do you already have someone in mind?” I ask, releasing the handle and wandering back to my seat. I perch on the edge, hands fisted in my lap.
“There is a boy from Mirash whose teacher claims he has advanced beyond her capabilities. The boy’s family requests that I take him under my instruction. He is four years old.”
The age at which I myself began taking lessons.
It shouldn’t matter. Ibramin is not bound to teach me forever, and it is not fair to demand that he stay. But it feels like a betrayal that he is choosing this boy, who has all the potential in the world, over me: a failure.
But I am nothing if not polite. I straighten in my seat, saying, “The boy would be beyond lucky to have you as a teacher.”
The old man rubs the curved body of the violin: shoulders, waist, the swell of a woman’s hips. “If you decided to pick up your instrument again,” he says, “I would stay. I would do all that I could to help you return to your previous proficiency.”
Even the thought threatens tears. “It’s too painful,” I whisper.
“I know.” Wheeling his chair closer, he reaches out, rests his dry, papery hand atop my fist. Though he says nothing else, Ibramin understands. He loved my brother as a son.
Few knew of Fahim’s gift. Ibramin built my brother’s musical foundation as he had built mine, hours and days and weeks and months and years. At age fourteen, Fahim was invited to debut with the Ammaran Philharmonic. He told me it was the happiest day of his life.
A week later, Father bid that Fahim begin focusing seriously on his duties as heir. No more violin. The hours dedicated to practicing wouldnow be spent learning about trade, policy, war. I remember the sound of Fahim’s weeping through the shared wall of our bedrooms, that heartbreak of unrealized dreams.
And after? A measured slide into a darkness none knew. I do believe something died in my brother that day. No matter the ease of his smiles, no matter the frequency of his laughter, there would forever be an absence, a hole in his spirit.
“Father should not have made Fahim choose the crown over music,” I whisper, suddenly overcome with anger on my brother’s behalf. Could there not have been space for both love and duty, freedom and obligation?
Ibramin’s eyes widen at the unexpected statement. But he says, “Music is grief, yet it is also healing and wonder and joy. Remember that. Remember the ways it has shaped you. Remember how it nurtures and heals.”
I stare at the curve of his fingers on mine, their ends toughened by calluses. With a pained swallow, I push to my feet. “I appreciate your concern, sir, but I must be going. I wish you safe travels. Best of luck with your endeavors.”
Melancholy veils his gaze as he responds, “May the Lord of the Mountain shine upon you, Sarai.”
Back in my chambers, I set my violin case on the ground and flip the locks. The instrument is a masterpiece of curved red wood and ebony fixings—a gift from Father. My pinky catches the thin, tightly wound E string, gently plucks. Its high, tinny ring draws the fingers of my left hand into a subtle curl, as though they seek their home atop the fingerboard.
The piano’s opening chords of Lisandro’s Sonata for Violin return to me now. Drawing the violin onto my lap, my fingers begin to move. I shift into third position, then sixth, picking through a complex run of sixteenth notes. Eventually, I falter, unable to remember what comes next.
I kneel in place for a time, staring at my violin, before returning it to the case and closing the lid. What is the point of returning to music if my life will end?
Which reminds me. I approach my desk, where my journal lies open. Twenty-eight days remain. The sight sobers me, and I hurriedly shove the blasphemous evidence into the desk drawer.
With the ball to commence in a few hours’ time, I begin to prepare. Father believes I will change my mind about Prince Balior, and so continues to uphold the image of celebration. I slide on my breezy, sky-colored gown as though it is armor. Silk slippers, threaded with the smallest opals. A pearled clip to secure my elaborate braid, and kohl to frame my eyes.
Reaching behind my vanity, I remove a small box, inside which rests a slender, arrow-shaped bracelet hammered from lead—the twin to the bracelet Notus wears. If we are betrothed, it is customary for the woman to wear a piece of jewelry gifted to her by her husband-to-be, as a symbol of their commitment to one another. It will also serve to reinforce my engagement to Notus in the eyes of Prince Balior.
Mouth pursed, I pluck the bracelet from the box and slide it onto my wrist as a knock sounds from the door. “Just a minute!”
I open the door to reveal a tall, slender man clothed in a robe so lavish, I am convinced the gods snipped the sunset sky into strips of pink, ginger, and violet and wove them into this exceptional garment. A full, well-groomed beard frames his jaw. It is dear to me, this face, yet I have not seen it in months.
“Amir.” I’m forced to grab the doorframe before my knees give out from shock. “I thought you weren’t arriving until next week!”
“Our mounts were fast.” His teeth flash in a grin I have sorely missed. “I thought we might surprise Father.”
“He will be pleased that you have returned early.”
As we regard one another, I fight the urge to retreat and slam my door shut.
