He turned his attention back to Sidonie, who looked magnificent and composed. The brown dress she wore should have been drab, but instead the rich cloth made her skin look creamy. The golden glow of the torches highlighted the curve of her cheekbones, those long, elegant eyes, and her short, black hair hugged the sleek, graceful curve of her skull.

Morgan’s jaw tightened as he stared at her. Even dressed as plainly as she was, she looked too spectacular, and it was too late for him to give her all the advice he longed to say.

Don’t play too well. Don’t show your real genius. Isabeau doesn’t like other stars that shine more brightly than she.

As Sidonie bowed to the head table, he glanced at Isabeau. She lounged in her chair, looking bored. Beside her, Modred studied Sidonie with narrowed eyes, while Valentin sat forward with an arrested expression.

The conversation in the hall resumed. Isabeau gestured at Sidonie with one hand, and Morgan removed his earplugs. Taking Isabeau’s gesture as her cue, Sidonie began to play.

He had not thought to give her advice until it was too late, and Sidonie did nothing to hide her talent.

The conversation below faltered to a halt again as she played….

What was she playing? He didn’t recognize any of the songs.

Suddenly Robin clapped both hands over his mouth. When Morgan glanced at him, the puck appeared to be shaking with laughter.

Taking his hand away from the null spell, he demanded telepathically, What?

I believe she just played a song called “Mrs. Robinson,” Robin told him, eyes dancing with glee. Oh, and that one—I forget what that one is called. “You’re Vain”? Maybe “You’re Very Vain.” No, it’s “You’re So Vain.” She just played a song about vanity to the Queen, who will never know it.

Morgan sucked in a breath. Sidonie was playing adaptations of pop music, one right after the other, with unmistakably beautiful prowess.

He tried to recognize the songs she played, and he thought he knew a few of the tunes—while he had lost interest in music before he’d attended her concert, he hadn’t been living under a rock—but he only knew one thing for certain.

He couldn’t hold back a grin as he told Robin, She’s not playing any of her own music.

She wasn’t giving them anything of herself. Instead, she put on the performance that had been commanded of her, without offering one iota more.

The music was brilliant, of course. He didn’t think she had it in her to be anything less than brilliant. But it was the most flawless, professionally executed fuck you he’d ever witnessed, all delivered to her xenophobic audience with a perfectly composed expression and a slight, unshakable Madonna-like smile.

After the first few strains, the harmonics in the hall activated. At first, streams of pure color flowed over the open space above the audience. Then, after a few songs, the colors entwined, blended, and vast, transparent images began to appear, sweeping across the hall.

Haunting and evocative, the images hinted at stories not quite told, and adventures in exotic places. Lovers entwined in a kiss, then broke apart in anger. A herd of wild horses ran along a shore. A foreign city sat golden upon a hill, and a wild storm crashed across a desert. Morgan had never seen the harmonics respond with such rich, vibrant complexity before.

And they loved it. Loved it. Isabeau’s music master, Olwen, had talent, along with a great many years of polish, but he didn’t have the same fire of genius that Sidonie had.

At one end of the hall, someone began to pass around the performer’s hat, a long-held tradition for the audience to show appreciation. People threw coins into the hat, sometimes flowers, silken handkerchiefs, gold rings.

Sidonie’s hat filled quickly, evidence of her resounding success. As Morgan glanced at it, he saw that she would have enough from this evening’s performance to support herself in style for a few months. She could rent a house in town and hire servants, if she so wished… and if Isabeau let her.

Oh, that song. Robin sighed with pleasure. I think it’s by the Garfinkels, or someone like that. “Scarborough Fair”—I like that one. That’s an adaptation of a very old song. She’s amazing.

Yes, she is, Morgan agreed.

“Musician, stop.” Isabeau’s order rang out.

Sidonie froze without changing expression. She looked perfect and almost as lifeless as a mannequin. The images died and silence filled the great hall, while alarm and dismay flashed across the faces of the people throughout the hall.

Modred angled his head, rubbing one thumb along the edge of his lips while his quick, assessing gaze took in the scene. On the other side of Isabeau, Valentin appeared transfixed. Lips parted, he never looked away from Sidonie.

Isabeau leaned forward, her expression alive with more delight than Morgan could remember seeing in quite a very long time.

“That last song,” the Queen said. “Play that one again.”

Smoothly, Sidonie began playing “Scarborough Fair” again. Relief and pleasure rippled over the audience, and a smattering of applause broke out. The knot of tension that had driven Morgan through the past three days eased.

She had done it.

She had successfully appeared for her audience with the Queen, and the Queen was quite pleased.

* * *

Supper had finished for the diners below, and Sidonie had just begun to reach the dregs of the battle spell.

Like the first time, the tide of epiphany began to withdraw, but this time she could feel something was different. She had played the lute long enough now that she felt confident in her plucking technique, and the position felt familiar, even comfortable.

Still, her energy waned to such an extent she was starting to get worried when, finally, the curtains behind her parted, and Kallah whispered, “Make this your last song.”

Relief coursed through her. Without glancing back, she gave a slight nod and smoothly brought the song to an end. While she played the final notes, she looked around at the images from the harmonics. As if the magic understood it was the end, a gossamer, panoramic sunset over the ocean filled the hall, the colors deepening into night.

After she finished, a smattering of polite applause sounded throughout the great hall.

It sounded anemic, almost begrudging, nothing like the normal wild enthusiasm of her concerts.

Blinking, she tried to absorb the feedback. What had she done wrong?

Sure, she had played pop songs, but nobody here would have known what those songs were… and she had played them as well as she possibly could. That, together with Morgan’s spell, should have made things okay, and the magical imagery had been great. Had she misjudged her audience that badly?