fortepiano_keys

Samantha

She had scheduled a meeting with Dean Callister through Vincent. Surprisingly, he had had a gap in his schedule 46 minutes after she had arrived, and so Vincent run back to inform her.

After some directionless stumbling, she swallowed her pride, retraced what steps of hers she could find, and had Vincent lead her.

Vincent retreated, and she entered to music. It was an odd sort of music, as if one were lightly strumming a guitar, but instead of letting the notes go back and forth, they were strapped down, but still they rang. A drum with the sound of a blocked trumpet.

He was sat at a table, but the table was open on one side, and it had teeth, and he was pressing the teeth, black teeth and white teeth, and different sounds seemed to correspond to the different teeth, phlegmatic molars and melancholic canines. …That was Agarma, speaking.

She stood. She wasn’t normally one for music. She’d listen to Joan play harp while she read; she’d listen to Quincy spit into his horn when he tried impressing townsfolk. Neither was particularly evocative; neither were particularly good.

She suspected these were the hands of someone good at this instrument. Anisa would say she had a lack of data. Though, with his deftness, his deliberate pressure, the transitions between louds and softs, perhaps he’d pierce even her noncommitality.

He stopped. He closed the table’s mouth, his long, thin, black hair blowing up as he did so. “You’re early,” he said, without turning around.

Samantha looked at the 4 clocks on the wall, 10:46, and blinked. She was late. “Uh.”

“Earlier than I expected, I meant to say.” He turned around. Wireframe glasses. A sharp, young face. Wasn’t he supposed to be around 50? “Busy halls and all, and your first week. Expected you to misestimate the time it’d take to arrive.”

“Happy to disappoint,” she said. “In a good way,” she unnecessarily added.

The colour of the keys was backwards. The black ones sounded more sad, and the white sounded more reserved. “The colour of the keys is backwards,” she said, unnecessarily.

“Your brother said the same thing,” Ha. “My people didn’t have the colour associations you do.”

She doubted that. “That makes sense,” said Samantha, unnecessarily. “Anyways I was here because I want to leave and this whole situation is stupid,” she said, necessarily.

“I know,” said Callister. “Has Vincent already given you the, ‘you’re here now, so you may as well take advantage of it’?”

“No. Kind of.”

“I’ll spare you that, then, because doubtless it’s coming. I’ve heard about you, Samantha. Your experiments, your industriousness. How you tried redirecting magic into crops using mirrors to make them grow quicker. How you learned to interpret laws to better manage your Vanguardists.”

She was flattered, and a bit vindicated, both on behalf of the title of ‘princess’ she so valued — princesses should have notoriety — and on behalf of herself, getting some recognition. Blind Quincy. Stupid blind Quincy.

“Yeah,” she said. “Gotta show up the dad.”

He smacked his lips. “Uncouth to put down your father, girl,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said.

He waited 2 seconds, long enough for her to feel shame at acting unprincessly, but not long enough for her mouth to speak again. “But regardless, your sister and brother got their start here, and your father did not. Your sister rules a city, your brother effectively rules an academy. Though you may discover new insights through stumbling about, thousands of others have stumbled about in the same way that you have, and have never gotten anywhere. It’s better to rely on random chance when you’re where no one’s been. You’ll be surrounded by people who think similarly. They may not respect you, but they’ll respect the title of princess, which you are very much capable of growing into. We have a lot of tasty food up here. You’ll see a lot of magic you wouldn’t otherwise. You’ll learn how to be independent and take revenge, if that so entices you. I have several more reasons, but I don’t have the time to list everything. I gave Hector a written list, which he should give Vincent, who should give it to you. Do you have any questions?”

No. “What’s that instrument called?” Dammit. Oh, also, she had more than one brother and sister, so h

“Sonorium,” he said, and blink, blinked. Was he mocking her blinking? “I believe the closest equivalent you’d know of is the fortepiano.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s new. Thank you for your time. Leave.” He opened the table’s mouth and pressed more shy sads and sad shies.

“Okay,” said Samantha, and she left, anything previously in her head having fallen out, as Callister had somehow hollowed it and filled it with his own complete structure, but which had yet to latch onto anything pre-existing. Like placing a sapling in a hole before its roots can grow.

But, Shiron, despite her stupor, she didn’t like being told what to do, even if it was perfectly reasonable and benevolent.