More black-clad Guardians stood at quiet readiness beside the doors to the largest tree. Noticing Senna’s scrutiny, Krissin nodded toward them. “That is the Composer’s listening tree.”
For a moment, Senna worried they were going inside, but they turned aside, toward one of the adjoining trees.
“And this,” Krissin went on, “is the bathing tree.”
It looked less like a tree and more like hundreds of saplings twisting and twining their way upward. Mists rose between spaces in the branches. The Guardians took up positions outside while the women hustled Senna in. She gasped when she stepped within. The tree had been sung around a natural spring. A mosaic of tiles created swirling patterns of monochromatic blue. The pool was filled by a thin, steaming waterfall. Towels, soaps, and oils were laid out on sung tables. The walls were covered in thick green moss. The place smelled of a mix of damp earth and expensive fragrances. Senna found it intoxicating.
Much to her horror, the women gestured her to a stool and promptly began to tug at her clothes.
“No,” Senna gasped. “I can do it myself.”
When the women didn’t listen, she shoved one. They clucked their tongues at her. One brow cocked, Krissin held up the Yarves.
Her face set, Senna endured them scrubbing her with soap and pouring shockingly hot water over her head. This was a hundred times worse than her almost-bath with Ciara. Only when they’d scrubbed her skin pink did they let her soak in the pool, but not for long enough.
Far too soon, they were hauling her out again. They anointed her with an oil that smelled of sweet resin. The tangles were worked out of her hair and it was woven into a cascading braid that led to a knot at the side of her neck. She was dressed in a finely embroidered blue tunic and trousers and given sandals in place of her boots. And last, they put a delicate gold cuff of flowers and vines around her wrist.
She stood in front of a mirror, barely recognizing the woman of blue and gold.
“You look like the sun in the sky,” one of her women said with a heavy accent.
The women herded her back outside and handed her over to another group of Guardians.
Senna was surrounded in a foreign place, and Krissin still feared she would try to run for it—and that she would make it. Krissin would have been right. Escape was certain, even if Senna had to destroy half the city of Lilette in the process.
Her insides cringed as they mounted the enormous steps to the Composer’s listening tree.
Krissin whispered, “It would be very unwise to disrespect one as powerful as the Composer. And please don’t try anything foolish. You are in the center of the city of Lilette—you would not escape.”
Senna breathed out in frustration. “I could take out a few trees before you stopped me.”
Krissin blanched. “They would kill you for it.”
The Guardians posted at the ornate entrance eyed Senna warily as Krissin pulled open the door and stepped aside.
Senna wiped her sweaty palms on her tunic. Since her capture, she’d never gone anywhere by herself. And now they were allowing her to see the Composer alone?
Squaring her shoulders, Senna stepped inside.
27. The Composer
The door shut behind Senna with a resounding thud, and she stopped short. This room was a hundred times bigger than any she’d ever seen. Windows glinted shattered rainbows all over the interior. Plants and vines grew up the walls, their colors and fragrance filling the air to bursting.
She spun in a slow circle, taking in flowers and even trees she’d never seen—not even in a book. But there was no Composer in sight. Senna wandered randomly, searching for the woman. But the plants around Senna distracted her with their mystery and variety. Their songs were different, too, more colorful and spicy than the songs of Haven. She captured a bloom in her hand and inhaled its sharp fragrance.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Senna turned at the voice that sounded worn as if it had sung a thousand songs, uttered innumerable words. It was not a voice that held any power of song. An old woman sat on a beautifully carved planter box, a trowel in her hand. Gossamer lines weaved across her skin like spider’s silk. She rooted around in the soil and came up with a rhizome. She brushed it off, scattering dirt on her already-streaked tunic. She sang softly to the plants, her voice as creaky as a new saddle.
Senna took a breath of relief. This woman was obviously just a gardener. “I’m looking for the Composer.”
“She’s often late. Have a seat and help an old woman, hmm?”
Senna stepped forward, her sandaled feet slapping the floor. Careful of her new tunic, she perched on the side of the box. The woman handed her a spade. “We have to thin these flowers before they choke themselves to death.”