Esme laid her fingertips to his lips. Her touch was cool. “Shh. You do not need to speak. This is awkward for me, too.”

Toli stared at the woman he had loved. Why? he wanted to scream. Why did you leave me? What made you go? And now, after so many years, why have you returned?

But he said nothing, only turned away again. Esme felt the distance between them as a physical presence: a risen wall of bristling emotion which she could not breach. Suddenly all that she had kept locked away in her heart for so long came rushing forth. Her throat tightened. Her hands quivered. She bent her head, and tears began to fall.

There was a movement beside her. “Toli, I-” she began, then glanced up. He was gone.

Inside the hall Larksong held his listeners in thrall. He was in high form, bowing to cascades of applause, his broad, good-natured face beaming from beneath his wide, low-crowned hat with its long green plume. He allowed the acclamation to wash over him and then, as it started to die away, held up his hands for silence and began to sing.

“In fair Mensandor,

On a summer’s eve, When all the hills are wearing green, Give an ear, my lords and ladies,

To the tale I’ll weave-Of bold Quentin and his Queen!”

This was greeted with shouts of laughter and ringing cheers, for now the King would be celebrated for their amusement. Larksong bowed low and began, his voice rising in clear tones to tell his tale. It was a song about a King who sought the hand of the most beautiful woman in the realm and found her in the daughter of his enemy.

The song was an old one, of course, known to all who heard it. But Larksong sang it well, inventing new verses which played upon Quentin’s and Bria’s names and the well-known events of their lives. The listeners sat captivated-enraptured from start to finish.