A halfway-decent night''s sleep seems to have cleared up my foul mood, and I rise eager to greet the day.


    The first night is always a concert and dance, and it''s my favorite show to put on.  In the plays we put on, I never have any speaking roles, having been deemed a piss poor actor by just about anyone who has ever borne witness to my awkward attempts.  Usually I help with props and effects, which is fun in its own way I suppose.


    But music is my heart and soul, my raison d''être.  I can play every single instrument we have between us (admittedly with varying degrees of competency, but I can hold my own even on my worst ones).  I''ve had so many good teachers through the years and twenty-six years to do nothing but practice.


    My absolute favorite is our beautiful standing pedal harp.  It has a larger-than-average resonator box that gives its bass end a stunning richness.  It''s older than I am by more than forty years, and I keep it spotlessly clean.


    It''s not my harp per se, but it was donated to the Warblers by its previous owner Luca, a gruff and cantankerous old man who spent the better part of two decades begrudgingly teaching me how to play it and also how to restore any conceivable damage that may befall it.  He was a master of his craft -- still is, I assume, just not traveling with us anymore -- and I can only dream of one day attaining his level of skill.


    Luca went off to live in the hills of west Chavalia with the long-lost love of his young life last summer.  He seemed so happy when he met him again by chance in a tiny random town well off the beaten path.  He may have smiled more times that week than I''d ever seen in my whole life.


    I still can''t believe he left the harp, but I guess it''s hard to move without some extra hands and it needs a lot of space so that nothing would bump into it and damage it.


    This morning, I''m on setup duty, which I vastly prefer to going back out and working the streets to drum up interest.  It''s harder work to put up our stage pieces and larger instruments than to wander around playing my lute and singing, but I don''t care much for being the center of attention.  I mostly sing harmony and rarely have solos.  It''s more fun for me to weave myself into a grand tapestry of sound.  There''s something so profound about being both lost in the larger picture yet also forming the foundation without which the solos would sound empty and hollow.


    I''ve just finished helping three other Warblers move the piano into place and am considering going to help the street vendors set up when I see Portia and Jean approaching, waving toward where I''m sitting down to catch my breath.  I wave back.


    "We''re just coming back for some food and water before we head back out there," Jean says as he comes up to stand in front of me.


    "How''s it looking out on the street?" I ask.


    "Pretty damn good.  It seems like there''s a lot of interest."


    "According to Yuxuan, there''s even supposed to be a few high-profile guests that are coming," Portia adds excitedly.  "He said he canvassed up in the really nice part of town and got some seriously fancy-looking people to say they would drop by."


    "I hope they don''t expect there to be a separate area away from all the ''common folk'' so they won''t get their clothes dirty," I say, shooting her a dubious glance.  "I doubt anyone of status will stay for long in an outdoor lot that''s standing room only."


    Jean leans in conspiratorially.  "I heard a rumor that the king himself is going to make an appearance."


    That actually makes me laugh out loud.  "There''s no way that''s true.  Even if it is, I doubt he''d come without a bunch of guards, and that would really put a damper on a party."


    "Hey."  Jean holds up his hands and shrugs.  "It''s just a rumor I heard in town.  I can''t vouch for the credibility of the source."


    "Oh man, if there''s even half a chance the king might be in the audience, I need to make sure my nicest dress is clean," Portia says.  She walks off in the direction of our tent, presumably to ascertain the condition of her dress, and probably to wash it even if it isn''t dirty.


    I don''t believe the rumor for a second, but that doesn''t mean I won''t be double checking my skirts for stains before I change tonight.  Maybe I''ll put my hair up, too…  It couldn''t hurt.


    ******


    Jean was right -- there''s quite a crowd gathered by the time we''ve even started playing our first song.


    The sky is still light, but thanks to some scattered torches, the area will be well lit long after the sun goes down.  Ale and wine are flowing freely, and there''s no short supply of food courtesy of the street vendors.  I sampled some of their fare earlier during setup, and I must say, Dimos is not culturally lacking in the flavor department.  Veilsung in general has some of the best food I''ve ever tasted, and it certainly has the spiciest.


    Since the city''s population predominantly consists of serpent folk, who are obligate carnivores, there''s not much to speak of in the way of vegetables or even bread.  We managed to find at least one or two vendors that cater to a broader variety of diets, though.


    I sit in front of my harp, watching our director, Eliza, for the signal to get started with our opening song.  She climbs up onto her pedestal to address the crowd.


    "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, old friends and friends we have yet to meet," she calls.  "Welcome to a night of music and revelry the likes of which you''ve never experienced before!  We have a long night ahead of us, so let''s not waste any more time, shall we?"


    With that simple introduction, she turns towards us and nods, and we start to play.


    Now, one of the nice things about having so many members in our troupe is, not everyone needs to play in every song.  During our shows, we take turns leaving the stage area and going into the crowd to start group dances and drum up some excitement when there seems to be a lull.  Our repertoire is extensive, and there''s a host of songs we can play without one instrument or another, and sometimes we hand off an instrument to another''s capable hands when the situation calls for it.


    When it''s my turn to walk out into the throng of revelers, my favorite thing is to find someone who is watching by the sidelines and pull them into a dance.  I''ve met so many interesting strangers this way.  Even the ones that start off stiff and uncertain usually loosen up and start talking, laughing, and generally having a good time by the time I leave them to head back up to the stage.  I also try to find a different partner for them before I go back, so that they might keep enjoying themselves after I''m gone.


    By the third time I leave the stage, night has fallen.  As I''m looking around by the light of the torches, I spot him, and my stomach sinks.  He''s staring straight at me, off to the side, but not far from the stage.  People are giving him a wide berth, and there''s a ring of muffled whispers and double-takes happening in the crowd just outside his bubble of empty space.  I see several flustered people giving him slight bows when they notice him standing nearby.


    Yesterday left a bad taste in my mouth, but I decide now to give him a second chance.  We got off on the wrong foot, but first impressions aren''t everything, right?


    "Khysmet," I call out to him and walk over to where he''s clearly been waiting for me.


    I figured he was someone of note by his dress and general demeanor, but it''s made abundantly clear by the number of people that flinch and stare when I call out his name.  I suppose I''m expected to call him "Lord Khysmet", or whatever honorific applies to him, but he didn''t tell me to, so… I''ll correct my language if he tells me to, but until he does, I''m just going to keep using just the name he gave me.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Miss Catarina."  He nods politely at me.  "So nice to see you again."


    Is it nice?  I don''t know if that is the word I''d choose.


    "Welcome to the party," I say.  "Enjoying yourself yet?"


    I''ve been having a great day, and I''m determined to stay perfectly cordial throughout this encounter, no matter what he says to me.


    He grins at me with dubious sincerity.


    "Not yet, but I sense that''s about to change," he says vaguely.  "You know, I wouldn''t have believed it if I hadn''t seen it myself, but you do look genuinely happy onstage."


    My left eye twitches.  He''s testing my resolve early, but I''m not going to back down.  Maybe the next thing he says won''t be so horrible, and I can pretend he didn''t talk for the first twenty seconds of conversation.


    "Yes, well," I say, "what can I say?  I love what I do."


    "Care to dance?" he asks.  "I''m a bit rusty, but I''m sure you''ll make up for my deficits.  You seem quite good from what I''ve observed."


    I chuckle, a bit darkly.  "Oh, I''m not good at all, just very enthusiastic."


    I don''t necessarily want to dance with him, but I''d rather not refuse outright.


    "Do you mind a partner who doesn''t really know what she''s doing?" I ask, hoping he does.


    He grins.  "I don''t believe you''re as bad as you say.  And even if you are, I''ve been told I''m quite good at leading.  I should at least be able to steer you away from stepping on my feet."


    He holds out a hand.  I sigh internally.  I suppose there are worse fates.  Reluctantly, I take his hand, and he leads me a short ways away from the edge of the crowd.


    The bubble of measured, respectful distance follows us onto the dance floor, though a couple people are a bit too tipsy to notice Khysmet''s presence right away.  The song being played is upbeat, but a slower tempo, and he settles one hand on my waist while using the other to start guiding my steps.


    "You are pretty good at leading," I comment while being pulled back from a spin.


    "And you''re very enthusiastic," he responds, catching me when I''m coming in too hot on my return spin and bringing us back to the previous step sequence with seemingly no effort.


    I shoot him a reproachful look, trying to evaluate if that''s supposed to be sarcastic or not.  This time I''m going to say "not".


    "Your toes are still intact, aren''t they?" I say.  "Count yourself lucky."


    He smiles.  "True enough.  You know, I saw you switch instruments with four people just in the time that I''ve been here," he says.  "How many do you play?"


    "More than four, but not quite thirty."


    His eyebrows raise at that information.  "Really?  Impressive."


    "I have a lot of time to practice, is all."  Despite myself, I feel my cheeks warm at the slight praise.  "Are you much of a music lover, Khysmet?"


    "I''ve always considered it a bit frivolous," he admits.


    Somehow, I''m not surprised.  It''s something I''ve heard many times before, from many different people.  Enough times that I have a prepared response that I know by heart, one that I''ve workshopped over the years to amount to something I think really expresses how I feel about my work.


    "Most art is frivolous," I say.  "It only serves to make things more beautiful, or more interesting, doesn''t it?  But I''d rather die than live in a world that doesn''t appreciate beauty for its own sake, that doesn''t do things for the sheer joy of experiencing the full breadth of what life has to offer.  Wouldn''t you?"


    There''s a short pause before he answers.  He uses this time to spin me again, and again catch me on my somewhat clumsy return.  When he does answer, his words are measured and pensive.


    "Yes," he says, "I think I see what you mean."


    I hesitate for a moment before saying this.  It''s something I''ve been chewing on since last night, all through today.  But he''s been a good boy who hasn''t said anything rude since the start of our conversation, so I''ll throw him a bone.


    "I… I apologize for yesterday," I say hesitantly.  "For getting angry that you called a carriage for me.  It was a longer way back here than I realized.  So really, thank you."


    After getting it out, I find that I do in fact mean it.  I hope that comes across in my words.


    "Not a problem," he says.  "After all, you couldn''t have known that I live here, and therefore know how far away different places are."


    His sarcasm is so polite and smooth it hardly registers as such, and that makes it so much worse.  My hackles rise and my face heats up, but I remember that I''m supposed to be apologizing here, so I keep my reply perfectly polite and reasonable.


    "I just don''t appreciate being underestimated, is all," I explain.  "I''ve been alone at night in more cities than you''ve ever visited in the first place.  It can get ugly, but trust me, I can hold my own."  I let some smugness leak into my expression.  "I''m not nearly as fragile as I look, you know."


    "No…" He pauses, flicking his tongue out while his red eyes trail slowly and deliberately down my body in a way that makes me glad I did decide to go with my best dress after all.  Then they slide back up to meet my gaze once more.  "I imagine you''re not."


    I blink vapidly.  Well, that was suggestive.  There''s a heat in his gaze that''s pinning me in place, and despite my general distaste for the man, it''s tugging on something low in my gut.  My face is on fire and I''m floundering to find something to say.  I''m just about to open my mouth in the hopes that something comes out when he suddenly yanks me flush against his body and spins me to the side.


    Through my confusion all I can think is, He smells nice.  Like bergamot and mahogany.  Then I look around and notice a couple dancing haphazardly a few inches away.  They must have almost just run into me in a drunken haze.


    They laugh and twirl until one of them looks up and the color drains from his scaled face.  He bows deeply and stutters an apology before dragging his giggling partner back into the crowd.


    I prise myself away from Khysmet''s side, still clutching his hand and shoulder as though we might keep dancing, even though we''re not even swaying anymore,  and give him an evaluating once-over.


    "Okay," I say, "who are you, really?  Everyone here clearly recognizes you, so you must be pretty widely known."


    He chuckles.  "It''s not important.  You''re leaving in a week, so what does it matter who I am?"


    I roll my eyes, not having the slightest patience for this.  "Yeah, I get it, you want to be mysterious and dramatic and everything, but no really, who are you?"


    He''s got that pained expression again, where he''s clearly trying to cover a smile that''s probably at my expense.  I''m on the verge of actually letting him have it when he gives in to my demanding glare.


    "Okay.  I''ll tell you who I am," he says.  "Just not until the next time I see you.  Then, I promise I will.  Is that acceptable?"


    My eyes narrow.  "Fine," I concede, rolling my eyes.  "I''ll allow you to be needlessly mysterious for tonight.  Obviously there''s not much I can do about it anyway."  I jab one finger into his chest sternly.  "You better come back to at least one other show, though.  If you try to pull that thing where you never see me again and I''m always left wondering, I''m not going to be happy."


    "Wouldn''t want that, would we?"


    I''m glaring at him and trying to project an aura of someone you shouldn''t mess with, and he''s staring back at me like there''s nothing in the world he enjoys more than messing with me.  Before I can attempt to issue a more concrete threat, he breaks eye contact with a sudden glance behind me.


    "Hmm.  I think you''re wanted back onstage."


    I jump and turn around to see that Eliza is in fact gesturing for those of us in the audience to make our way up front.  I drop Khysmet''s hand like a hot coal, and he releases his hold on my waist to graciously let me step away.


    "Um.  I have to go," I say, as though he wasn''t the one to point that out in the first place.


    "Of course."


    I give a slight, awkward curtsey.  "Thank you for the dance."


    "My pleasure.  See you again soon."


    I push this encounter out of my mind and get back to my position on the harp.  I''m focusing so hard on not thinking about it that I miss a couple cues.  I definitely don''t look for him the rest of the times I go into the audience, but if I did, I wouldn''t have seen him again anyways.  By the time the festivities are finally over, I''m not thinking about him so hard that I barely talk at all through preliminary cleanup.  For a reason I can''t begin to fathom, for the second night in a row sleep is impossible to come by.