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I AM SIX YEARS OLD . I stand at my bedroom window, peering down into the courtyard below. Beyond the sleeping labyrinth, King Halim speaks with a wiry man carrying an oblong leather case on his back. I lose sight of them as they enter the palace.

“Sarai.” My handmaiden, an elderly woman named Hoda, emerges from the washroom, having finished drawing my bath. “Come. We must make you into a proper lady.”

I do not understand what proper means. Why can I not meet this man, this violinist, in my trousers? Why must I squeeze myself into a dress?

Hoda ushers me into the washroom, where I am scrubbed and swabbed and scoured until my skin gleams.

I am twelve years old. Violin clasped in hand, I tremble in the wings of the massive concert hall, the eyes of a thousand spectators glinting in the sinking western sun. A full orchestra commands the stage, their tuning nearly complete.

Sweat leaks beneath my arms. I have prepared for this moment. Six years of weekly lessons, hours upon hours spent honing my technique. My fingers are fluent in scales. My bow hand is adept at all manner of articulation. And here, now—my debut. The piece, aptly named Chatter for its rapid spiccato, is a bright hum in my pulse.

“Are you ready?”

I turn to face my teacher, Ibramin. At eight years old, he had already performed with the realm’s most distinguished orchestras. Now, decades following his solo career, he is Ammara’s most sought-after pedagogue.

“I feel sick,” I whisper.

Soft creases enfold Ibramin’s kind black eyes. “That is normal. If you were not nervous, that would mean you did not care.”

The maestro enters upstage to exuberant applause. He bows, climbs onto the podium. When he catches my eye, he smiles in encouragement. My stomach lurches. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I murmur to Ibramin.

“What do you fear, exactly?”

“That I will err. That all my work will be for naught, and I will fall apart with thousands to bear witness.”

“That everyone will learn you are imperfect?”

I clench the instrument’s neck, dampness from my palm transferring onto the violin’s fingerboard. That is correct. But what does he expect? Father dictates I practice for a minimum of four hours daily. I cannot remember when I last had a respite.

In an attempt to settle my nerves, I search the hall for the royal family. There is Fahim and Amir, both dressed for the occasion. King Halim’s chair is empty. “I don’t see Papa.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here,” Ibramin reassures.

But the maestro looks to the wings. I take a slow, deep breath, and another. At his nod of encouragement, I step onto the stage to thunderous applause.

I am fifteen years old. Dressed in a long-sleeved, sapphire gown, I perform the second movement of Harimir’s Violin Concerto in D minor. The strings cut into my callused fingertips, a slight vibrato wavering the notes as adagio eases into unhurried grave, a countermelody to the horns. I cannot release pressure on the bow for fear of losing the string’s resonance. The sound must carry to the very back of the hall.

And when I reach the movement’s emotional climax, when the orchestra joins in a sweeping crescendo that rings throughout the amphitheater, my own tears rise, for here is joy and grief, awe and suffering, marvel and anguish, peace and sorrow. The people will know Sarai Al-Khatib. They will know music.

I am eighteen years old. The throne room is as cold as it is vast: white marble, red stone. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I should be practicing. I’ve a competition before the year’s end. If I were not certain of Father’s wrath, I would have slipped away hours ago.

Biting back a groan, Amir tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know if I can survive two more hours of this,” he mutters.

I snort. “You and me both.”

Once a month, King Halim meets with Ammara’s citizens to heed their grievances, an event that often stretches well into the early hours of evening. Fahim, Amir, and I are required to attend. Stupid, considering we’re not allowed to participate.

“This is what you have to look forward to, Fahim.” Amir waves a hand toward the woman currently complaining to the king, in great length and extraordinary detail, that her crops have failed yet again. “I, for one, am thankful I was the second-born.” He slouches back with a gratified sigh.

Fahim’s lack of response draws my attention. His form is carved from granite, his face frozen into blankness. Five hours we have sat here, yet he has not spoken once.

Reaching out, I rest my hand on his arm. Though Fahim is older than me by six years, we share much, including the tendency to armor ourselves. “Everything all right?”

Two heartbeats pass before his eyes slide to mine. Something painful flickers in those gold-flecked irises. My stomach clenches in unease, for the distress there has surfaced often these past months. Each occasion, a darker blemish, a deeper void. “Fahim?”

“I’m fine.” He jerks his arm away.

I glance at Amir, who is too preoccupied with cleaning his nails to notice Fahim’s waning spirit. Regardless of my brother’s claim, I do worry. I worry a frightening amount.

I’ve accepted my fate of death by boredom when the doors to the throne room open. A rush of desert air infiltrates.

I straighten in interest. The man who enters bears an impressive physique, with broad shoulders and a wide chest stretching the ivory fabric of his robe. His strong torso reminds me of sturdy oak. A scarf veils the lower half of his face. Eyes the color of rich earth glimmer beneath black eyebrows.

Deliberately, King Halim rises to his feet. “So. You are the man who believes himself strong enough to slay the beast?”

I frown in response to this unexpected information. Rumors have sprouted in recent weeks of a newcomer promising to kill the beast imprisoned in the labyrinth. I believed it to be folly. Fahim, too, frowns in light of this announcement. Even Amir seems to be invested in the conversation.

The man bows low at the waist. “I am, Your Majesty.”

Deep and resonant is his voice, with a pull that reminds me of Ishmah’s lowest temple bells. Though he is but a single person, he possesses the presence of a thousand men.

“And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?” King Halim demands.

My left hand taps a rhythm on the chair arm. A reasonable query. Either this visitor is a fool, or we are to underestimate him. Seven men have already been selected as sacrifice to satiate the beast’s growing hunger. Seven men every decade. They are to enter the labyrinth in less than four months’ time. This man believes himself capable of slaying the beast? It cannot be done.

“I would prefer to discuss that privately, if it’s all the same to you, Your Majesty.”

Father considers the visitor for a lengthy moment. Then, as if agreeing to the man’s request, he swings out an arm. “My children. The eldest and my heir, Prince Fahim, finest horseman Ammara has ever seen.”

Fahim dips his chin in acknowledgment. The man returns the gesture with respect.

“My second son, Prince Amir.”

Amir rolls his eyes good-naturedly, for he has never received the praise Fahim does. Such is the bane and blessing of the second-born.

“Lastly, my daughter, Princess Sarai.”

The man’s gaze shifts to mine. My breath catches.

“Princess Sarai.” The visitor’s voice, a complex upwelling of sound, is music I dearly wish to know more of. “I was once granted the opportunity to attend one of your recitals. You performed the Variations on a Theme of Three Ammaran Dances, if I recall.”

I blink in surprise, for that recital took place nearly three years ago. I am particularly fond of that piece.

When the visitor returns his attention to the king, I’m left oddly bereft.

Two days later, I learn the visitor’s name: Notus.

He is smoke in the halls. Some days, I am only able to catch a glimpse of his shoulders as he turns a corner, or hear the click of his bootheels against the marble floor. It is enough to hunt him in the pre-dawn gray each morning, peering through my bedroom window to where he trains in the courtyard below. There, he is a study of movement. Sword drawn, chest bare, he stabs and retreats, ducks and whirls, hacks and parries. His body is beautiful. It is particularly alluring when glazed in sweat.

In the week that follows, I become so consumed by Notus that I begin to neglect my practicing. Rare it is that I skip a day, but three mornings pass before I realize I have not touched my instrument. The attendants talk. They claim King Halim has offered Notus accommodations in the palace until he is to venture into the labyrinth. Of course, I must see for myself if this is true.

One morning, when the sun blisters the dunes into waves of burnished umber, I don my finest dress before descending the stairs to the central courtyard. The morning bell tolls the seventh hour. A cool mist dampens the gray stones underfoot.

Notus is a darker silhouette against the shadow cast by the labyrinth. Beads of perspiration slide down the grooves of his abdomen. He sidesteps, his back to me, cutting in a brutal arc of molten silver. The bunch of muscle in his shoulders arrests my attention, wholly and completely. I stop a healthy distance away and clear my throat. “Good morning, Notus.”

Midway through his exercise, he stills, arm outstretched. It is almost unnatural how rapidly he turns toward me and bows at the waist. “Princess Sarai.” Low and rich, his voice shivers across my skin. It contains an accent I cannot trace.

“I understand the need for formality in the king’s presence,” I say, “but Sarai will suffice when we are alone.”

In a liquid motion, Notus sheathes his scimitar. He does not even appear winded. “I was not aware that we were friendly enough for the informality.”

It takes a great effort to keep my attention above his neck. This would be much easier were he not carved to perfection. “We are friendly enough.” I do not give him the opportunity to negate this claim, charging forward with all the subtlety of a bull. “Am I correct in assuming you were not born in Ammara?” Though his coloring is similar to my people, the narrowed shape of his eyes suggests he was born elsewhere.

“You are.”

He offers nothing else. But I have cracked tougher shells.

“So what brought you here?” I ask, and can’t help the way my eyes rove over this man, every part of him. His fingers are strong and broad, the color of baked bread. To the east, opaline sunlight flutters across the Red City, brightening his left cheek.

“I suppose,” he says, frowning, “I am no longer welcome in the place where I was born.”

It is a start. But I am eager to know more. “Why?”

To this, he offers no response. Very well.

“If you will not gift me with an answer,” I say, “then explain to me why, out of the thousands of people here, you believe yourself capable of slaying the beast.”

His eyes—ebon stars shaded by thick lashes—glitter above the scarf shielding the lower portion of his face. Beyond his shoulders, the labyrinth looms, as it always does. A shallow tug in my gut compels me to approach. I ignore it.

“I am a god,” he says.

“A god.” Somehow, I know it to be true despite lack of evidence of his claim. “What are you a god of, exactly?”

The smallest pebbles clatter underfoot as he widens his stance. Our shoulders brush briefly, and my heart kicks hard against my rib cage. Then Notus stretches out his arm. The air stirs against his palm.

“Many know me as the South Wind,” he says. “I am responsible for the summer winds.”

I stare in wonder. He sends a gentle breeze to stir the strands of hair curled against my neck. My eyes leap to his. He does not shy away.

“If you’re a god,” I press, “then I can only assume that means you are immortal?”

“You would be correct.”

For a time, all is silent, snuffed out by the thickening mist. “I wish to know your thoughts.”

Notus looks to me with thinly veiled surprise. I imagine the curve of his mouth behind the scarf and wish for the barrier to be removed so that I might see his expression in full.

“I am thinking that it is quiet here,” he says. “I am unused to this weight, this… open stretch of flattened land.”

The wind gusts, its hollow timbre in my ears, a twining of pitches high and low. I pull my arms to my chest, wrapping them around my stomach for additional warmth. Every so often, one of the guards makes his rounds.

“What else?” I demand, angling my head just so. I wish to know all that he can give me.

He looks at me then. “But I have told you.”

“Tell me again,” I say.

“Sarai.”

I startle, Ibramin coming into sharper focus. He sits in his wheeled chair near the window of the music room, violin resting on his knee. Mine is tucked between my left shoulder and chin, bow hovering over the string.

“Your scales,” he says with evident irritation. “D harmonic minor, if you please.”

I comply, ascending and descending the scale with ease. My daily sessions always begin with scales. After nearly an hour, we move on to études. We spend so long on technique that my lesson comes to an end before we’re able to review my concerto.

As I tuck my violin back into its case, Ibramin rolls his chair toward me, face grave. “Sarai. The competition approaches. You must focus.”

“I understand.” Loosening the hair on my bow, I slip it into the case as well.

“I’m not sure that you do.”

I straighten, considering my teacher with new eyes. A brisk, biting tone—that, I am not used to. “Is something on your mind, sir?”

He traces the large wheels of his chair, as he often does when deep in thought. “I’m concerned that the time you spend with the South Wind is disrupting your focus.”

It takes an effort, but I successfully smooth the coarseness from my breathing. The old man hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about. “I appreciate your concern, but I have everything under control.”

“Do you?” Ibramin regards me with a disapproval I would expect from my father. “Can you look me in the eye and say, with complete confidence, that you are putting all your effort and attention into the competition?”

As a matter of fact, I cannot. The South Wind is due to enter the labyrinth tomorrow. As we have grown closer these past months, I have begun to fear for his life. It is silly. He is, after all, immortal. He cannot die except by a god-touched weapon. He told me so. But who is to say what powers this beast possesses?

Last night, I did not return to my rooms until dawn. I wished for that night to last forever. It was cold. The sky was black, chilled by a thousand icy stars. Standing beside Notus in the courtyard, I opened to him in a way I had opened to no one else. I told him of my upbringing, of music, of my desire to see the world. I shed the bonds that made me small.

“I want great things for you, Sarai,” Ibramin says. “Your gift has only solidified the king’s commitment to your success in the endeavor. The King Idris Violin Competition will open so many doors for you.”

He does not have to inform me of Father’s intention. I know. I have always known.

But here is something I have told not a soul. Sometimes, I want more from life. It would be mine alone to paint with whatever hues I saw fit. Or maybe I would not use paint at all, but a sculptor’s tools, a weaver’s loom, a storyteller’s quill and ink.

But that is neither here nor there. “I do my best, sir. I am diligent in my studies. You know nothing is more important to me.”

“I am glad you recognize this. Whatever distracts you will surely pass, but music will remain. You alone are responsible for your future.”

I shut my case with a loud thump, struggling for breath. For the first time in years, I feel a connection with someone as unknowable as myself. I cannot bear to think of him leaving.

“I appreciate the concern, sir,” I say. “However, you forget that I am a princess of the realm. I will do as I see fit.” I depart without delay, shutting the door with a quiet snap.

It is a long, sleepless night.

Only hours ago, the South Wind entered the labyrinth with only his scimitar and his winds. We parted with a heartfelt embrace. I cried. I never cry. Six men followed to meet their fate.

I’m not sure when or if he will emerge. Inside lies a complex tapestry of winding corridors, or so I have heard. It is possible he will not return at all.

The idea renders me breathless. Lying spread-eagled in bed, I stare up at the obscured ceiling, thinking back on these glorious months spent in the South Wind’s company. It has been a reluctant unfolding—for both of us. But I do feel seen by this deity. It is something I hold close to my chest.

After a time, I slip out of bed and move toward the window. Due to the sacrifice, additional guards have been stationed in the torchlit courtyard below. They wait to see if the shadows seething beneath the labyrinth doorway are soothed. If the beast has been satiated for another decade.

Then—movement. Notus staggers forward, having emerged from the labyrinth’s gloom. He hits the ground. His sword skitters across the stone. I gasp and fly from my room, racing down the hallway and stairs, out into the courtyard where the guards have gathered around him. I shove them aside, seeing only the weeping cuts marring the South Wind’s purpling face, the tattered state of his robe, the unnatural angle of his right arm. Nothing else.

He lifts a hand to cup my cheek. Even wounded, his touch is gentle. When he speaks, he says but one word.

“Sarai.”

“Can you get away?”

Partially shielded by a thicket of ivy, I turn toward Notus, who has appeared at the garden’s entryway, its abundant flowers and sweet-smelling blossoms hemmed in by tall hedges. Generally, the grounds are unoccupied in the evenings, but today is King Halim’s nameday. The palace has opened its doors. Wealthy aristocrats, government officials, longstanding families at court—all are present. The South Wind is Father’s honored guest. He failed to slay the beast in the labyrinth, but he survived—the only person to have ever done so.

Notus angles his ear toward me, though continues to scan the guests milling about on the patio separating the garden from the ballroom, its doors open to the evening breeze. “Don’t you tire of sneaking around?” he murmurs. “Your father will find out soon enough.”

Shielding my developing relationship with Notus is the only way I can ensure it stays mine and no one else’s. “I’ll tell him, just… not now.”

“When?”

“After the competition.” Once I win first prize—and I intend to win—Father will be far more amenable to the idea of my relationship.

“Sarai.”

I startle, whirling around. “Fahim.” My back hits the hedge with a sharp crinkle of leaves. “I thought you were with Papa.”

My eldest brother steps forward. Behind him, couples spill out onto the patio in their refined robes and elegant gowns. “I need to speak with you about something.” He sounds pained, though there exist no outward wounds that I can see. “Please.”

I glance at Notus, who is doing an excellent job of staring straight ahead and pretending we had not just exchanged words. “Sure. Can you just… give me a minute?”

Fahim glances between Notus and me, suddenly suspicious. He knows. How can he not? The desire I feel toward the South Wind is palpable.

“Is there something you wish to tell me?” he demands.

My stomach bottoms out. These hedges rise high. Too high to climb. “Please, don’t tell Papa,” I whisper. It is too frail, this bloom. Too young to withstand any external force.

Fahim sends Notus off with an abrupt wave of his hand. I bite back my protest. As heir, Fahim has authority over the South Wind, but I do not appreciate that he treats him so disrespectfully.

When we are alone, Fahim demands, “How long has this been going on?”

I stiffen. “That’s none of your business.”

“How long?”

He bristles with aggression. This has become more common of late. Fahim is as docile as they come, but the last six months have bred rising tempers, frustration, outbursts fueled by contempt.

“As I said,” I reply coolly, “it is my business.”

“Ibramin claims you’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

Fact—and fuel to these flames. “It is not Ibramin’s place to share the details of my private life.”

“But it is his obligation to inform me of his concerns regarding your studies,” Fahim counters. His next word comes low. “Well?”

Arms crossed, I glare at him. I am beholden to no one. But this is my brother, whom I love, and who loves me. “If you must know, Notus and I have developed a friendship over the last few months.”

My brother considers this. The darkness in his eyes is entirely foreign to me. “Has he touched you?”

I deliberate on ignoring this question altogether, but I’m afraid Fahim will do something rash, like attack Notus. “No.” And what a frustrating thing that has been. The South Wind is honorable. Always, he stands an appropriate distance. His eyes neither wander nor linger. Sometimes, I question if my attraction toward him is one-sided.

But when we speak late into the evenings, I watch this god transform. He is warm and sturdy, gentle and open. Slowly, so slowly, I pry pieces of his story free, when he allows me to do so. I wish to know everything he is.

Eventually, Fahim sighs, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Don’t let him become a distraction, Sarai. You need to focus on music.”

Sometimes I wonder if Fahim resents me for living out his dream in his stead. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s fine—”

“It’s not fine!” he cries, then draws me deeper into the garden as heads swivel our way. “Your competition is weeks away,” he whispers, voice dropping to an inflamed hiss. “This is your chance. I just… I don’t want the South Wind getting in the way of your aspirations.”

I reach for my brother’s hand, hold it tight. I understand him, I do. “You know I would never let that happen.”

“Sarai—”

“Please, Fahim. I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He falls quiet, which makes my heartrate stutter for reasons unknown. In this moment, he is small and bent and defeated. Without saying farewell, he wanders off, and becomes night.

Later, when the palace has bedded down, there comes a knock at my chambers. With the guards dismissed for the evening, no one is around to witness me pull the door wide, allowing Notus entry. A flick of my wrist, and the lock is engaged.

My chest strains as I turn to face the South Wind. Immortal. Swathed in sapphire and shadow. This pull, which I can no longer deny. As if in a trance, my hand lifts to press over his heart. Its stoic, even-keeled rhythm grounds me. Stable as the earth.

Easing nearer, Notus lowers his mouth. His lips part mine with a hunger that dizzies me, for I have lain awake aching for his touch. The breadth of his hands spans my waist, the small of my back. I am spiraling. Down and down and down I go. A gentle tug, and he pulls me onto the bed.

I wake deliciously sore, body boneless, mouth sweetly bruised. Rolling onto my side, I glimpse the rumpled blankets, the imprint of where Notus had slept. I reach over, touch the soft white silk. It is cold.

A small pit hardens in my belly. Not that I’d expected Notus to remain until morning, but I had hoped he might leave some small token of remembrance, proof that he thought of me as I thought of him.

By the time I reach the throne room, I am in a foul mood. Fahim and Amir have already arrived, the latter dozing in his seat, the former appearing unusually troubled.

“All right?” I whisper to Fahim as I settle into my chair.

He shrugs without looking at me. “Just another day.”

I mean to ask him about our conversation last night, but Father arrives before I get the chance. We spend the morning in meetings, then break for lunch. I use the opportunity to seek out Notus. He is not at the labyrinth. Neither is he in his chambers. Disappointed, I return to my quarters alone.

I’ve barely shut the door when there is a knock. Notus pushes into the room, hands grasping the front of my dress, the hot press of his mouth marking my neck and jaw as he kicks the door shut behind him. In the next breath, he lifts my skirts, hefts my legs around his waist, and enters me in one hard thrust.

I cry out, teeth clamping his shoulder as he drives into me. It is not soft, his loving, but I am not easily broken. The slap of our skin cuts through the stillness, my gasps muffled against his shoulder as he pounds into me with a desperation akin to my own.

And when it is done, his seed trickling down my leg, Notus takes me into his arms, holds me closer than I ever thought possible. “Meet me at the south palace gate,” he pants. “Just after midnight.”

Leaning back, I search his eyes. They hold a fear I do not understand. “Notus—”

“Don’t be late.”

I’ve barely righted my dress before he is out the door.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth. My lips throb. Whatever doubt his strange behavior has unearthed, I will not allow it to soil what just occurred. I pass the time practicing until the bell tolls the midnight hour, then don a cloak. Shadows shield me from the guards completing their rounds. The gate lies ahead. I sprint the remaining distance.

It’s deserted.

An icy wind cuts through me. The stars mark the first hour of morning. Peering into the silhouetted courtyard, I search for Notus. Did I mistake the time we were supposed to meet? Just after midnight , he’d said. Don’t be late.

The hours pass. The moon emerges white and full to brand herself against the sky’s thin black skin. Pacing before the gate, I comb the gloom, the obscured alcoves, the doorways of the palace. The bell tolls the fifth hour of morning. My nerves begin to fray, for I fear something terrible has befallen Notus. Later, the bell tolls again, dawn bleeding color onto blank canvas. Still, I wait. And I wait. But the South Wind does not come.

Two weeks have passed since the South Wind’s abrupt departure. Father informed me that Notus left Ishmah before the sun, on a horse pilfered from the stables. When I demanded answers, the king had none to give. Notus had, after all, failed to slay the beast imprisoned in the labyrinth, though that should not have mattered. There is nothing to keep him here , Father said. He could not have known how that wounded me.

I fled to my chambers and locked the door. I raged. I wept. I screamed for the South Wind. Then I screamed for justice, for blood. In the days that followed, silence was my only companion.

Now I stand at my bedroom window, wondering what I did wrong.

“Don’t fret, my dear,” Roshar murmurs from behind me. When he attempts to pull me into his embrace, I step out of reach, unable to bear his touch.

His expression wavers, then folds into disappointment, though he tries his best to remain upbeat, plucking at the voluminous pleats of his scarlet robes. “Sweet?” he asks, offering me a plate of confections.

“I’m not hungry.” No, I am vastly empty these days.

“Sarai—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He sets down the plate. “Very well.” Low and somber. “Shall I go?”

I don’t know. I’m paralyzed, a leaf spinning in the wind, with no knowledge of where I might land, or how.

When I do not respond, Roshar says, “What of Fahim? Perhaps he might comfort you?”

My frown deepens. Fahim did not come down to breakfast this morning. In fact, he has avoided me most days. I’ve failed to notice, so burdened by my grief of Notus’ unexplained disappearance… but perhaps he knows something I do not.

I climb the stairs to Fahim’s room, push open the door, his name dying on my lips. There he swings, noose around his neck, back and forth and back and forth.

“Please play for me, Sarai.”

Slouched in my chair, violin resting untouched on my lap, I peer out the music room window, open to the temperate breeze. In the distance, rare clouds blacken the horizon. I find myself doing that a lot these days—searching for what lies beyond. Always, my gaze seeks the south palace gates, as if I might spot a dark figure on horseback galloping through.

I turn my attention toward Ibramin, who sits on the other side of the large, woven rug gracing the floor. It hurts to meet his wizened eyes. To see how far I have fallen. The King Idris Violin Competition was mine to claim. And I failed. Could not drag myself out of bed. Could not motivate or encourage or inspire. I never showed.

“Can I ask you something, sir?”

Ibramin studies me in concern. I wish he wouldn’t. I do not deserve it. “Anything,” he says.

For the last three months, I have been unable to place the violin at my shoulder and draw my bow across the strings. First, Notus’ desertion. Then, my brother’s life cut short. If I had paid more attention, could Fahim’s death have been prevented? Could I have eased whatever burden he carried?

“You mentioned that you once stopped playing,” I say hoarsely. “Why was that?”

Ibramin glances down at the violin in his lap. A most generous donation from Ammara’s Council of Arts. The instrument itself is nearly two hundred years old. “My wife and I married young, before I gained recognition throughout the realm. We were happy, then.” A long, weary sigh, drawing forth a memory having grown brittle with age. “As the years passed, however, and my popularity grew, I spent less time at home. My rigorous touring schedule would not allow it. By the time I was twenty-four, I was gone for most of the year. It was then that I saw my wife for what would be the last time.”

Silence trickles out. I swallow once, twice, before I’m able to speak without my voice cracking. “She passed?”

He plucks the E string. Its pitch fades, enfolded in a breeze unfurled. “She left, having decided our marriage wasn’t worth the effort. I wasn’t worth the effort.”

“Oh.” My mouth pulls. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. The fault was mine.” At my confusion, he explains, “She approached me many times requesting that we spend more time together. I failed to listen.” A cloud of sadness drifts across the old man’s features. “After she was gone, I didn’t touch my violin for over two years.”

Again, I glance out the window. The distant storm has since dissipated. No clouds. Not one. “What made you pick it back up?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t a choice, in the end. Music called to me, and I answered.” For an uncomfortably long time, Ibramin gazes at me. “One day, you will rediscover the urge to play. And your soul will know peace.”

It is a lovely sentiment, truly. But I am tired. I wish only for the forgetful veil of sleep. And so I return my violin to its case, where it will rest for the remainder of my days.