set down. And footsteps.
Merlin put his back against the cold wall.
The footsteps grew louder.
He wanted to hide but couldn’t, considering his poor eyesight.
Natalenya walked around the corner. Her dark hair smelled of roses, and her green dress was a beautiful blur.
“Oh … Merlin.”
“I …”
“Are you here to talk with Father about the accident?” she asked.
“Yes, I …”
“Your foot was sticking through the doorway. Come in and sit down.” She took his arm and guided him through the room to a chair, where he sat stiffly.
“I practice here in my father’s library. Do you like harp music?”
“Yes, I …” He trailed off, at a loss for words now that she was speaking to him.
“My grandmother taught me that song. Grandfather died in Gaul fighting with Constantine’s army. It makes me think of him.”
Swallowing hard, Merlin asked, “Would you play more?”
“Any song in particular?”
“Uh … anything you’d like to play.”
She picked up her harp and set it on her lap. “Maybe something brighter.” Her fingers struck the bronze strings, and they hummed to life.
Merlin’s breathing rose and fell with the melody, but after a few lines Natalenya stopped in midsong.
“Have you ever played?” she asked.
“No, I can’t say that I —”
She slid her chair next to his.
Merlin’s throat closed up.
He dropped his staff on the floor as she placed the harp on his lap. He held its smooth wood, amazed at how little it weighed.
“This is how you play.” Her warm hand touched his and angled it toward the strings.
Merlin plucked them roughly. “Not as pretty as your playing.”
“You don’t have my fingernails, either.” Her laughter filled the room, and the sound felt to him like a refreshing drink from the spring after working in the heat of the blacksmith shop.
Merlin ran his fingertips across the strings and experimented with the notes. The whole harp vibrated into his chest. It would take a lot of work to play a real song.
“You’ve got natural talent,” she said.
“I do?”
She turned her head to listen. “Sure. What song is that?”
“I’m trying to remember … I heard it many years ago.”
“Let me give you my practice harp. It has only ten strings, but you could learn on it.”
Learn the harp? He’d never thought about music. What if he damaged it? “I’d better not. I’m already in trouble with your father —”
“I saw what happened.”
“The wagon’s badly broken, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that. I witnessed what my brother Rondroc did to you. I had come to the doorway when I heard shouting. Father won’t listen to me, and … I’ve learned not to cross him.”
“We say in the blacksmith shop, once burned, always careful. I have a few scars to prove it.” He held up his right forearm for her to see.
She hesitated, then reached out … but her soft fingertips touched the scars on his right cheek instead.
He tightened his lips and tried not to pull away.
She traced the long gouges that disfigured his eyelids and ran across his right temple and forehead. “I see you in chapel, but I’ve never asked what happened to your eyes. People talk, of course, but you never know whom to believe.”
“Seven years ago. The memories are painful …”
“They’re faded now.”
“No, I’ll always remember.” He turned away slightly, hoping the subject would change.
“I … I meant the scars have faded. And your long hair covers many of them.” She ran her fingers through his black curls. “You have an honest face, with a handsome nose. When we moved to the village a few years ago, your scars still looked red, but they aren’t anymore.”
He wanted to walk out. He didn’t want to talk with her about this.
“How could Rondroc be so cruel,” she said, her voice trembling, “as to knock you over? Let me look at your scalp.” She walked behind him and gently leaned his head forward, probing the area where he’d hit the rock.
“Just because I’m mostly blind doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself.”
“It’s a mess … All crusted over. You should get it washed.”
He turned his head away from her. “Is your brother all right? I hope I didn’t hurt him.”
“I saw him pull the knife on you; he deserved the thump.” Natalenya moved across the room. “And your little monk friend was funny!”
“You mean Garth?”
“I laughed when he dumped Dyslan into the hay trough.”
Merlin suppressed his own laugh. “I didn’t know whether to believe Garth, especially after he lied and told me he had permission to borrow the wagon.”
But Merlin couldn’t bring himself to