The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Fifty-Three

The party began at sundown. A bonfire was built in the town square for the occasion, and though no one was technically obligated to come, many did. Luckily, the attention was not focused on me. A crowd was much less smothering when the people in it weren't all chattering curiously about you and staring at you.

There were still a few people who still whispered under their breaths and stole glances at Bran and me as we lurked at one of the tables, but most of them ignored us, and it was nice to be—for once—practically invisible.

"Bran! Fyra!"

Lark had finally torn herself away from the festivities, and she made her way toward us through the thin crowd, somehow balancing three plates on one arm and three cups in the opposite hand.

She slid onto the bench beside me, quickly unloading her burden. "I've got to say, the cake this year is amazing. The punch though..." After checking over her shoulder—presumable to make sure the maker of the punch was not nearby—she continued. "I think the salt and the sugar may have gotten mixed up. It tastes... interesting."

"Hmm," said Bran. "Good interesting?" He took a sip and made a face. "Bad interesting. Got it."

Slowly, I pushed away the cup of punch Lark had set in front of me, turning instead to the plate of chocolate cake.

"Reed couldn't make it," said Lark. "Apparently his father says he doesn't have time to waste on festivities."

"I'm sorry," I said.

She shrugged. "It's all right. I didn't really expect him to come. The Head Man is teaching him as much as he can, so that one day, maybe Reed can be Head Man in his place. There are some advantages."

"Like what?" Bran asked.

"Reed knows how to play to the crowd. He knows how to act. He knows how people work—how they think." She sighed. "Still, I wish he'd come."

Somewhere in the crowd, a mandolin string twanged, and Lark quickly turned to look at the stage, where a trio of musicians hade begun to take their places.

"I'd better go," she told us. "I'm supposed to be playing with them. Hopefully I don't sound absolutely terrible."

Bran shook his head. "You won't sound terrible. Why would you? Your playing is always really good."

"Yeah, but..." She stood. "I've got to go, so I can't really go into depth with my explanation, but when I don't use magic in my playing, the sound isn't the same. The acoustics change."

"Lark!" called the mandolinist. "Are you coming?"

She turned and grinned at him. "On my way!" She stood, looking back toward us for a brief second. "If one of you wants, you can have my cake. I hope you like the music."

Then she was gone, weaving through the crowd and grabbing her violin on the way up to the stage.

A moment later, the music began: slow at first, but quickly picking up the pace until they'd settled into a fun little jig. Lark's sister stood and moved from the table where she'd been sitting to a place on the grass in front of the stage. Her grin spread wide as she watched Lark play, and she closed her eyes to listen to the music.

Lark had been right—her playing wasn't quite the same without the thread of magic that had thrummed within it, bringing an extra dimension to the sound. It was still beautiful, though. It felt normal. She was just a violinist—or really, in this case, a fiddler—doing her best to play beautifully for her sister's birthday party.

It was obvious that she had skill, too, now that the magic wasn't there to aid her. Her fingers danced up and down the strings with a speed I knew I'd never be able to match if I picked up the instrument. Her bow slid up and down with sudden variations, sometimes only sounding a note on one string, sometimes playing two. There were a few rare occasions when it flew so quickly across the strings that it sounded like she was playing three or four notes at once.