'Your father didn't really mean to yell at you ...'
'Ha!' was Betrice's soft response.
'But we do have to be quiet when your father's working at home.'
'He has his own studio ...' Betrice put in.
'Washell borrowed it to speak to those parents who wandered in unannounced.'
'Only Washell could get away with that.'
'So, my little love, we'll have to learn to keep our hummings to just you and me from now on. And let Father get on with his important work.'
'Ha! More of his incomprehensible, meaningful and significant musical conundrums. Ooops, sorry!' Betrice covered her lips with an unrepentant hand. 'I know he's the most important composer in the last two centuries, Merelan, but could he not once contrive a simple tune that anyone – besides his own son – could sing?' She rose and walked to the wall cupboard, where she opened one door.
Merelan regarded Betrice without rancour. 'He does rather complicated scores, doesn't he?' Then she smiled mischievously. 'He just likes to embellish.'
'Oh, is that what it's called? Give me a simple tune that I can't get out of my mind!' Betrice said. Having found what she wanted, she returned to Merelan. 'But we both know I'm a musical idiot, for all the MasterHarper and I have been espoused now thirty turns. Here you are, my fine lad. Much more appetizing than blanket to chew on.' And she handed Robinton a sweet stick. 'I believe you prefer peppermint.'
The tears were nearly dry, but the gift brought the winsome smile back and a clear 't'ank you' from the recipient. He pushed himself straighter on Merelan's lap, accepted the offering and leaned back against his mother's comforting body as he sucked happily on the sweet.
'I'm not criticizing Petiron, Merelan,' Betrice said earnestly.
Merelan smiled gently. 'You say nothing that isn't the truth, but he's much easier to deal with, generally speaking, when he's composing.'
'Which seems to be often ...'
Merelan laughed. 'Petiron naturally complicates things. It's a knack he has,' she said indulgently.
'Humph! He's a very lucky man to have such an understanding mate,' Betrice said emphatically, 'as well as one who can sing what he writes as easily as she breathes.'
'Ssssh.' Merelan put a finger to her lips. 'Sometimes I have to work very hard to keep up with him.' 'Never!' Betrice pretended disbelief, then grinned broadly at the MasterSinger.
'It's true, nevertheless, but,' and Merelan's expression softened with pride, 'it's wonderful to have such challenging music to sing.'
Betrice pointed to Robie, happily sticky-ing up fingers, face and blanket. 'What are you going to do about him?'
'Well, first off, I shall see that Master Washell never has need of Petiron's studio again,' Merelan replied, her usually serene expression resolute, 'and I shan't leave the pair of them together unless I'm positive Robie's fast asleep.'
'That sort of limits you, doesn't it?' Betrice asked with a snort.
Merelan shrugged. 'In a Turn or so, Robie will be in with the other Hall children during the day. It's a small enough sacrifice to make for him. Isn't it, love?'
'It's all too true,' Betrice said with a wistful sigh. 'They're young such a short time – even if it feels like an age while they're growing up and away from you.' She sighed again.
Merelan felt something sticky on her arm and, looking down at her son, saw that the sweet had fallen from his hand.
'Will you look at this?' she said softly, peering with a loving
smile at the thick lashes closed on his cheek.
'Here, put him on the day-bed.'
'I don't mind holding him,' Merelan protested. 'You've work to do.'
'Nothing I can't do while minding a sleeping child. Go on off and do something by yourself for a change. If you aren't tending him -' she pointed to Robinton '– you're minding him.' Her finger jerked in the direction of Merelan's quarters.
'If you don't mind ...'
'Not at all. Unless you want to help with my mending?' Betrice chuckled over the alacrity with which Merelan rose.
When Robie was well into his third Turn, he picked up a small pipe which had been left on the table. It wasn't his father's, because Robie knew his father did not actually play a pipe or a flute. And since this wasn't his father's belonging, he could touch it – and experiment with it. He blew in it, masking the holes with his fingers as he had seen others do. When the tones that came out were not similar to the ones so effortlessly made by other players, Robie tried different ways until he could make the proper sounds .. as quietly as he could.
He did not know, of course, that his mother's well-attuned ear heard his initial attempts. Since they improved as he continued, she was inordinately pleased. Sometimes, despite a strong musical tradition in a family, there was one born who was tone-deaf or totally disinclined to do much about an innate ability. She had wondered how she would be able to placate Petiron if his son turned out to be musically incompetent. Because one way or another, Petiron would be determined to impart suitable musical training to his only child. Now she did not have to worry about that. Her son was not only inclined to musical experimentation; he also had a good ear and, it would seem, perfect pitch.
When Petiron was busy with students, Merelan would often whistle simple tunes within her son's hearing. Petiron did not like her whistling – possibly because he couldn't, but more likely because he felt that girls shouldn't. Despite loving him so much, she privately admitted that his attitudes made no sense to her: like taking against whistling because he couldn't and she was female.
Robie picked up the tunes she whistled as effortlessly as he had learned the scales on the pipe. When he started doing variations on the airs, she had to restrain herself. She wanted desperately to tell Petiron that his son was musical, but she did not want her three-Turn-old son suddenly rushed into training. It could turn the boy off music entirely. Petiron was marvellous with the older lads, but far too strict for the youngest apprentices. She worried about the zeal with which he would train Robinton.
So one afternoon she asked Washell, the Master who taught the youngest, to help her with the dynamics in a quartet they were both rehearsing for TurnOver. A jovial, easy-going man in his sixth decade with a rich deep bass voice, he arrived with some cakes just out of the Hall ovens and a fresh pot of klah.
'So why is it that you really want to see me, Merelan?' he asked after she had profusely thanked him for the refreshments and served them. 'The day you can't carry your own part in anything Petiron writes, I'll resign my Mastery.'
'Oh, but I do need help, Wash,' she said airily. 'Robie, come see what Master Washell has brought us!' She hadn't needed to call him. The delectable aroma of warm
pastry had wafted into the next room, where he had been flat on his stomach, making doodles in a sand-tray that had been a recent gift from his mother – a preparation to teaching him his letters and, possibly, the scales.
'I 'mell 'em,' he said, still not quite able to pronounce the sibilants with the gap in his front baby teeth. 'I 'mell 'era. T'ank you, Master Wa'ell.'
'My pleasure, young 'un.'
Merelan's stage setting was complete. 'Here!' she said briskly.
'This measure where the tempo changes so rapidly – I'm not sure I've the beat correctly. Robie, give me an A, please.'
WasheWs grey brows went up to his balding head and his eyes glittered as Robie produced the tiny pipe from his trouser waistband and played the required note.
Then Merelan sang the troublesome measures, deliberately shortening the full quality of one whole note. Robie shook his head and with his fingers beat out the appropriate time.
'If you've got it right, m'lad, you play it the way I should sing it,' Merelan said casually.
Young Robinton played the entire measure and Washell -who looked first at Merelan and then at her son – folded his hands across his stomach and caught her eyes, nodding with comprehension.
