Heartfelt Sounds (4 page)

As the day passes, white light creeps through the open window near her loom. Marking the time. Telling us when morning has come and gone.

Beneath the table lays an old stool and I right it. I sit and begin rearranging the fabrics upon the table. My mind is blank when Lore's voice rings in my ears. It's a whisper as it glides upon the soft wind outside. It is like a silent rain—and I hear our song. The Orthella's song. Old verses weaved by Yarne. Old mother Yarne.

My hands still, floating in midair. Lightly touching fabric.

I hear:

White, blankets the peak of a distant mountaintop.

As the snow falls, my sorrow for you crumbles into ashes,

Can snow grasp how beautiful the fallen flower is?

Her voice is lower than my own. Masculine at times, but beautiful all the same. Lore pauses. She waits as a memory comes rushing back to me.

Whenever a songstress chooses her apprentice, they must sing a duet for the house. One set of hands glides across a zither of twenty-four strings, as another set holds a bamboo flute to her lips. As one blows life into the flute, the other must complete the verse from memory.

My reply is swift:

Even after love has faded, gently, like the wilting of a flower,

Even after seasons change, and dead leaves pile,

Even after my longing for you turns into tears,

My only purpose is to find you.

Lore chose this song after much deliberation. Meditating on a thought, her mind flew to her departed husband. Lost to wars. Needless wars of yesteryear. This verse composed her yearning, coupled with the promise of a new beginning. When I became her apprentice, she seemed to smile a bit more and laugh a bit louder. But that only lasted for a time.

Somehow, I feel as if her slip back into drink is my fault.

I was powerless to stop her. And now…

Powerless. I was powerless.

I finish the verse, clutching to a memory:

I care not for whether this is right or wrong,

For, after a lifetime of love, and a lifetime of sadness,

After our partings, after our times together

I grasp that this is what the Fates have scripted for you,

And in this life, even though I have regrets, I will not complain.

The backs of my hands are slick with wet. The fabric beneath me darkened by damp.

I wipe my eyes.

“Is there more?”

I turn my head over my shoulder, but Shanti's mouth is closed. Her eyes glisten, but they move from me to the doorway we entered earlier.

Scratches adorn this woman's face like so many rivers upon a map. Her eyes spark with differing colors; one blue, one black.

“Oh—uhm,” she approaches me unsteadily. Shoves a hand towards my face. “Chima—nice to meet you.” Her hand is limp when I clasp it. We shake.

“That was beautiful.” she murmurs, red fills in the scratches upon her face as she blushes. “Really—I-I've never heard a songstress
sing
before and—”

“Chima, this is Naia.” Shanti breathes, an edge ringing loud in her tone. “Is there something
important
you need to tell her? Or are you just here to distract us?” her voice rises as if she's speaking to a child that doesn't quite get it.

Chima's brows rise. When she opens her mouth, I notice gaps between her teeth. “There's lunch in the parlor—Akane sent—”

“—
thank you,
Chima.” Shanti sings. She takes a hand from her lap and fans her fingers towards the mousy girl. The gesture a polite invitation to leave.

But Chima doesn't take the hint. “I'm a gerant in training!” she all but spits at me—her blush deepening as she wipes sweaty palms upon the thick apron tied round her small waist. “And I guess you're trying to be a seamstress? How old are you? Are you from Felicity? Gosh—your hair is long!—”

“
Chima!”
Shanti claps her hands loudly as she snaps at the girl. “Chima—
thank you!
I'm sure Nyx is missing your company—maybe you should go speak to her?”

Chima hops onto her toes. Freezes with her mismatched eyes planted on Shanti's face. She bows her head, her brown bob collects around her ears with the movement. “Sorry.” she squeaks when she rises. Spins around with her arms tight to her body. Leaves.

I smile down into my hands. I pick up a piece of fabric. “What did she mean?” I ask, my eyes watching pink blossoms unfurl only to close again. The fabric breathing. “'Gerant'? Is that a title?”

Shanti sighs. “Kokoros can explain it better than I. But that girl's a liar. She isn't sweet—nor is she a gerant.” The slight
tap
of her loom fills the room as she begins to weave. “Rather, she's sweet until she leaves nightshade on your mat in an attempt to
poison
you.”

“That little thing?” I ask her, laughter bubbling in my throat.

“Did you
see
the scratches on her face, my dear?” she chuckles. “That little cat has had her share of fights.”

…

Shanti waits before she calls for a break. We enter Akane's parlor to the smell of fresh bread and hot soup. The strange jars from yesterday have been cleared away, their spots leaving vacancies upon the cupboards. As if something needs to be there but can't. The round wooden table to my right has five chairs instead of four, with two occupied. At the center of the table sits a deep wooden bowl that's as wide as it is large, with five smaller plates surrounding it in a circle. Steam wafts from the center bowl, sea salt tickling my senses. My mouth waters.

A light touch brings my gaze over my shoulder. “We normally eat together, but it seems Kokoros has gone missing. While I'm looking for her—” her gaze slides to the back of Chima's bouncing bob. The back of a wispy black head sits next to her. I can hear hushed whispers. Suppressed laughter. “—don't let Chima do anything to the soup.”

I nod—bite back a smile and approach the table as Shanti disappears behind the door. Closing it softly.

I take a seat near Chima, who blushes a deep scarlet. “Shanti doesn't like me.” she whispers, the black haired girl peers over Chima's head with wide eyes. I assume this must be Nyx. “Do you like me, Naia?”

Softly, I smile. “You remind me of the younger apprentices from…back home.”
before Althea forced them into prostitution.

At this, she smiles. “Even with the scars?”

I nod, my hands moving to my lap.

Nyx's wide eyes narrow. Her lips are tiny, as if she is always tasting something sour. “And what are you, miss? What's home for you?”

I chuckle at the honorific. “I'm from the Orthella. A silkhouse in this quarter.” a little lump forms in my throat when I say its name. I raise my hand to my neck. I rub it.

“We were sisters at the Saints. Me and Chim, here. When this milksop ran away to be with some boy, I tracked her down—”

“You didn't f-find me till I was here!” Chima hisses as she jabs her index finger into the table. “And that was—what? A couple years time?”

“I still found you, didn't I?” Nyx snarls. Rolls her eyes.

“Y-yeah, but I wouldn't call it
tracking—
I'd call it
following.”

“I left the Saints to
find
you—not
follow
you!”

I shake my head at the noise, memories of the girls at the Orthella flood back like unshed tears. Lore and Hana often argued like this. Like enemies and sisters.

As of late, they had begun to see each other as sisters less and less. The sisterhood of the songstresses was crumbling beneath Althea's rule. She pitted us against each other. Gave some high positions—positions that came with enough power to put a girl out on the streets—while giving others lower jobs. Performing being one of them. The job of a songstress had been taken down a tier. Made low. This served a singular purpose: to make us fight.

Althea
—I blink the memories away.

“Naia? Naia—w-what would you say it is? Following or—or
tracking?”

I smile at nothing, my eyes peering into my lap. “Neither.” I tell her. I look up. I watch the rise of red in her cheeks as I meet her mismatched eyes. “I'd say it's sister looking after sister.”

This leaves them speechless.

Until Nyx snorts. “What kind of
answer?
In a way—I'm still
right.
I looked after you by
tracking
you. Not
following
you! Just admit it and I'll shut up.”

…

Soon, this place begins to feel like home.
My
home.

I lock my memories of the Orthella away, but they always come creeping back. Between Shanti's loom room and Akane's parlor, sometimes I hear songs wafting on the winds. Or rhythmic dancing being beat into the dirt. Like a well trained animal, my hands will move before me as if they're swimming on the strings of my zither. Or I'll sing along to what I think I hear—and it's always the same song. Yarne's song. Some days, I'll wake from my memories with a wet face and at other times I'll be angry—empty and agitated.

But Shanti's there to talk me through it. Or Chima's there to blush and stammer as Nyx gives me a silly smile. Akane's sympathy is a rare treat, and one day as I'm sitting in her parlor alone—blankly watching the people of Felicity go about their daily business on the gray street outside that's like a crowded marketplace—Akane requests my assistance. In her hand floats one of the strange energies I saw from before—but this one is free. It dances about the breadth of her palm to its own ghostly rhythm.

6. Glass Messages

Akane watches me eye the strange energy bobbing in her palm from my seat.

“Look—I promise I'll explain
everything,
okay? But this lady won't stop crying and it's getting in the way of my work!”

I blink once. Twice. The sides of my lips twitching with unanswered questions. Quickly, I nod.

Only now do I notice her hair is not free, but pulled high onto her head in a tail. She's exchanged her skirt for leather breeches and her long tunic is white instead of green. The hand that held the bulb of energy is naked, the other gloved. When she turns her back towards me, I make out the symbol of a thinly painted swan taking flight between her shoulder blades. It is small. Almost unnoticeable—easy to miss.

I follow her out to the alleyway. She takes a left.

The street opens up to me. All bright light and loud people. Merchant stalls are set up to my right, bright colors staining the dome shaped coverings. Opposite the stalls on this side of the street, sit two more that mimic them. Some sell fruit. Others, clothing. I recognize Shanti's fabric in one of the stalls, but I can't stop to look as Akane approaches the bay window of the parlor and strides right past it. Some spaces after the window is a hanging sign attached to the wooden wall. I see the symbol of a sword. Two wings grow from its steel, and the sign screeches in a slight wind. The chains it hangs from rattle. The street seems to spin around me when Akane's under the sign. She rips open a burgundy door and lets herself in—but holds it open for me. I keep close to the wall. Brush my hand alongside it—letting it guide me as I avoid the mass of foot traffic. The people—so many people. They're like a cloud—thick and massive in size.
Overwhelming.
I catch my breath as I grasp hold of the door's arch, pulling myself inside.

I feel like I have entered a temple.

Though the room is small and windowless, on every wall a tall candelabra carries a tiny flame that burns bright. White flame brings painted tigers to life as they prowl the dark walls, along with depictions of crystal rivers and bleak plains. Before me, two tigers bow low to a swan outlined in heavy black on a gray background. On the floor, lies a thin sword. Chima rises over it, the girl on her knees. Her head bowed as she chants lightly.

Low moans wrap around my ears when I let them and I turn my gaze to the left. More tigers. A river with no swan—but a woman digs her palms into her eyes as her gray hair tumbles over her shoulders like crashing sea foam. A gown depicting silver feathers on a white background shivers about her as she trembles. She is small. Frail.

“I've seen what you do to Shanti.” Akane whispers, her free hand on my shoulder. “She used to be a…
very hard woman,
Naia. Hard to deal with. But around you, it's like she
changes
.”

Chima stops mid-chant. Rises her head to look. Blushes and averts her eyes.

“And then there's
her,
who can't control her face when she's around you.” Akane snickers. Chima chants lightly once more—stammering more frequently. “I think you can help Miss Santo—maybe you have a way with people. Ever think about that, Naia?”

I shake my head. “I knew Shanti before—we're old acquaintances…”
and I've never known her to be a hard woman. Even though my memories of her are few—I remember her being matronly.
“And then, Chima…”
could I explain away her reaction to me?
I shake my head—closing my eyes. Opening them, I look into Akane's face. “…there's no way—I'm just—,”
could I even define myself?
“—I'm just a maid!—”

But she cuts me off. “Try. There's no harm in trying. If I can't do my job, we don't eat. So stop her tears—or at least,
try.”

And she shoves me towards the crying woman.

I breathe—slowly. Steadily.

Miss Santo peels her hands away from her face, still whimpering. Hiccuping and trembling. “I-I'm sorry—just give me a
moment!”

Her eyes are gray. Like a cloud that's gone adrift from a gathering storm. Stark and lonely.

They are gray like my own.

I take a chance—I take her hand. “What's happened to you, miss?”

She hiccups. Wipes a tear that dangles from her button nose. “He's g-gone—and n-never coming back! I-I thought these wars were
over!”

A widow then?
Husband, or son? Brother, or cousin?

Did it matter?

Lost to a war?

I've spent my whole life holed up somewhere; the Orthella, Akane's home—did it matter where? I've spent my whole life protected from the outside world—and the moment my protectors throw me out, gifting me monies and a priceless zither, I destroy them both. I destroy things because I'm not used to protecting my own—to protecting myself. I've robbed myself of a life in the outside world, and so I'm blind. Shielded from the darkness of life.