She ran her own hand over the keyboard cover. “Yes, Girolamo Zenti did a really good job of rebuilding this piano. It’s pretty cool, actually.” Her eyes strayed to Prince Ulrik. “The framework and the mechanism are all from an instrument that came back through the Ring of Fire, but the cabinet and case, in all its beauty, is down-time work, from one of the best instrument makers alive. Best of both worlds, you might say.”
Heads nodded all around the room, as the point was taken. Even Prince Ulrik pursed his lips and nodded to her.
“I knew Signor Zenti a long time ago, when I was very young,” Kristina announced, running her hand over the side of the piano again. “He was in Stockholm, making harpsichords for my father and mother. I used to go to his workshop and watch. He wouldn’t let me touch anything, but he would talk to me and explain what he was doing. Sometimes he would let me hold his tools. That was fun.”
Marla heard the plaintive note in Kristina’s voice. It dawned on her that being the royal heir to Sweden may not have been the easiest way to grow up, especially in the last few years.
Ulrik cleared his throat.
“Ah, Frau Linder, I understand that you sing, as well.”
“Yes, Prince—”
Ulrik waved his hand. “Just Ulrik, Frau Linder. Save the titles for formal occasions, which…” he looked around to where servants were beginning to clear up some of the detritus of Kristina’s impromptu party, “…this most certainly is not.”
The prince reached inside his jacket pocket and brought out a much folded piece of paper, which he proceeded to unfold and stare at for a moment before he turned it around and handed it to her.
“They tell me you have some connection with this.”
Ein Anruf Zu Den Armen, the banner read. The ubiquity of the CoC broadsheets no longer surprised Marla, but that didn’t mean she was pleased.
“God, I’m getting tired of seeing this,” she muttered to herself, forgetting for the moment who else was near.
“What was that?” Ulrik asked.
Marla looked up, not exactly flustered but not sure what to say.
“Ah…yes. These are the words to a song I sang a few weeks ago here in Magdeburg. It was an up-time song.” Her voice didn’t quite trail off.
“A song,” Ulrik said. “Would you sing it for me…for us?”
“Now?”
“If possible.”
Marla looked around. Thomas was standing nearby; she beckoned to him and pointed to the piano bench. As Thomas folded himself behind the keyboard, she looked back at Ulrik.
“Yes, it’s possible. Give me just a moment to prepare, please.”
Marla beckoned to Franz as well, stepped away from the prince, and turned her back on everyone long enough to grab the waistband of her heavy sweater and yank it over her head, revealing a snug black turtleneck sweater beneath it. She thrust the heavy sweater into Franz’s waiting hands, yanked her fingers through her hair to try to impart a hint of order to it, and moved over to face the curve of the piano. He wanted this song, of all songs, she thought to herself as she placed her hands along the top of the cabinet. He wanted this song? He’d get it; no holds barred.
“Give me the chords, please,” to Thomas. He obliged her, and she softly sang wordlessly for a few phrases, warming her voice at least a little. Fortunately—or at least, semi-fortunately—the demands of the song were more emotional than technical. And right now, she had enough of an edge on that she wouldn’t have any trouble pushing the song through.
Holding a hand up, Marla turned and faced those who had drifted over and gathered around the piano. It was mostly the politicians, but there were a few of the servants in earshot.
She dropped the hand, and Thomas began the introduction. Came the moment, and Marla began to pour out her voice, and her power, and her edge, and her soul. Not like she did the night she sang it in the Green Horse…different, somehow…but still way more than she had ever done with any other song, even Master Carissimi’s “Lament for a Fallen Eagle.” And today she had a visible focus.
“Do you hear the people sing…”
* * *
The music staggered Ulrik. Short, not flowery or ornate, it seemed barely worthy of the description “song”…until one considered the voice, and the message.
A most remarkable voice, he thought to himself as he struggled to be objective. But the words; ah, the words as sung by that voice—razors, every one of them. He had read the article by that writer, Logau. He now had a new appreciation for Logau’s metaphor of the archer, as he felt at the moment as if Marla were indeed Diana the Huntress, with her eyes fixed on him as her lawful prey.