Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception

by Maggie Stiefvater

  Dillon.

  The guy from my dream. Here to save me from public humiliation and lead me triumphantly to a standing ovation.

  He held out a handful of paper towels and smiled disarmingly. “Hi. I’m Luke Dillon.” He had one of those soft voices that oozed self-control, a voice you couldn’t imagine raised. It was, even in the context of a barf-filled bathroom, amazingly sexy.

  “Luke Dillon,” I repeated, trying not to stare. I took the towels with a still-trembling hand and wiped my face. He had been hazy in the dream, like all dream people, but this was definitely him. Lean as a wolf, with pale blond hair and eyes even paler. And sexy. The dream seemed to have left that bit out. “You’re in the girl’s bathroom.”

  “I heard you in here.”

  I added, in a voice more wavery than I wanted, “You’re blocking me in the stall.”

  Luke moved to the side to let me out and turned on one of the taps so I could wash my face. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “No—yes—maybe.”

  He retrieved a folding chair from the cubby behind the stalls and put it next to me. “You’re white as white. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I sank down onto the chair. “Sometimes after I’m done—uh—doing that, I pass out.” I smiled weakly as my ears started to roar. “One of my—uh—many charms.”

  “Put your head between your knees.” Luke knelt beside the chair and watched my upside-down face. “You know, you have very pretty eyes.”

  I didn’t answer. I was going to pass out in front of a perfect stranger on a bathroom floor. Luke reached between the tangle of my arms and legs and pressed a wet paper towel against my forehead. My hearing came back in a rush.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, before very slowly sitting up.

  Luke crouched before me. “Are you sick?” He didn’t seem particularly concerned about me being contagious, but I shook my head vigorously.

  “Nerves. I always throw up before these things. I know I should know better—but I can’t stop it. At least I won’t throw up on stage now. Might still faint, though.”

  “How Victorian,” Luke remarked. “Are you done fainting for now, though? I mean, do you want to stay in the bathroom, or shall we go out?”

  I stood. I stayed standing, so I must have recovered. “No, I’m better. I—uh—really need to warm up, though. I think I’ve only got forty-five minutes or something until I play. I’m not sure how much time I’ve wasted.” I pointed to the stall he’d found me in.

  “Well, let’s get you outside to practice. They’ll let you know when you need to go on, and it’s quieter.”

  If he were any other guy in the school, I would have given him the brush-off there. I think this was actually the longest conversation I’d had with someone other than James or my family in the last two years. And that wasn’t even counting the puking as part of the conversation.

  Luke shouldered my harp case. “I’ll take this for you, as you’re Victorian and feeble. If you’ll carry this for me?” He held out an exquisitely carved little wooden box, very heavy for its size. I liked it—it promised secrets inside.

  “What’s in here?” Right after I asked the question, I realized that it was the first one I’d asked him since he touched my hair. It hadn’t even occurred to me to question anything else about him—as if everything up to now was unquestionable and acceptable, part of an unwritten script we both followed.

  “Flute.” Luke pushed open the bathroom door and headed for one of the back exits.

  “What are you competing in?”

  “Oh, I’m not here to compete.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  He looked over his shoulder and flashed me a smile so winning that I got the idea he didn’t smile like that very often. “Oh, I came to watch you play.”

  It wasn’t true, but I liked his answer anyway. He led me out into the sun behind the school and made his way to one of the picnic benches near the soccer field. A student’s name blared across the grounds from the speaker near the back door, and Luke looked at me. “See? You’ll know when you need to go.”

  We settled there, him on the picnic table and me on the bench next to my harp. With the sun fully on them, his eyes were pale as glass.

  “What are you going to play for me?”

  My stomach squeezed. He was going to think I was completely pathetic, too nervous to play even in front of him. “Um … ”

  He looked away, opening his flute case and carefully putting the flute together. “So you’re telling me you’re a great musician and you won’t share it with anyone?”

  “Well, you make it sound so selfish when you put it that way!”

  Luke’s mouth quirked on one side as he lifted his flute. He blew a breathy “A” and adjusted the slide. “Well, I held your hair. Doesn’t that deserve a tune? Concentrate on the music. Pretend I’m not here.”

  “But you are.”

  “Pretend I’m a picnic table.”

  I looked at the muscled arms beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. “You are definitely not a picnic table.” Man, he was definitely not a picnic table.

  Luke just looked at me. “Play.” His voice was hard, and I glanced away. Not because I was offended, but because I knew he was right.

  I turned to my harp—hello, old friend—and rocked it back on its six-inch legs to settle it into the crook of my shoulder. A moment’s attention to the strings showed me that they still held their tune, and then I began to play. The strings were lovely and buttery under my fingers; the harp loved this warm and humid weather.

  I sang, my voice timid at first, and then stronger as I realized I wanted to impress him.

  The sun shines through the window

  And the sun shines through your hair

  It seems like you’re beside me

  But I know you’re not there.

  You would sit beside this window

  Run your fingers through my hair

  You were always there beside me

  But I know that you’re not there

  Oh, to be by your side once again

  Oh, to hold your hand in mine again

  Oh, to be by your side once again

  Oh, to hold your hand in mine—

  I broke off as I heard his flute joining in. “You know it, then?”

  “Indeed I do. Do you sing the verse where he gets killed?”

  I frowned. “I only know the part I sang. I didn’t know he died.”

  “Poor lad, of course he dies. It’s an Irish song, right? They always die in Irish songs. I’ll sing it for you. Play along so I don’t wander off tune.”

  I plucked along, bracing myself for whatever his voice might sound like.

  He turned his face into the sun and sang,

  Fro and to in my dreams to you

  To the haunting tune of the harp

  For the price I paid when you died that day

  I paid that day with my heart

  Fro and to in my dreams to you

  With the breaking of my heart

  Ne’er more again will I sing this song

  Ne’er more will I hear the harp …

  “See, he gets killed—”

  “—sad,” I interjected.

  “—and it’s a very old song,” continued Luke. “That bit you sang—‘oh to be by your side,’ that bit—must have been added on somewhere along the way. I’ve not heard it before. But what I sang—that’s always been part of it. You didn’t know it?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said, adding truthfully, “You have a wonderful voice. You make it sound like something you’d hear on a CD.”

  “So do you,” Luke said. “You have an angel’s voice. Better than I expected. And it’s a girl’s song. The lyrics are girly, you know?”

  My cheeks flushed. It was stupid, of course, because all my life I’d been told—by highly qualified professionals and people who should know and folks “in the business”—that I was good. I’d heard it so often that it didn’t mean anythin
g anymore. But my heart leapt at his words.

  “Girly,” I managed to scoff.

  Luke nodded. “But you could do so much better. You’re not pushing yourself at all. So safe.”

  My mood immediately shifted from pleased to irritated. I’d practiced “The Faerie Girl’s Lament” for months—I had arranged it with so many impossible embellishments and chord changes that even the most cynical of harpists would be awed. I didn’t think I could take the designation “safe,” even from the enigmatic Luke Dillon.

  “Any less safe and it’d be impossible,” I managed to say evenly. I get my temper from Mom; like her, though, I never show it. I just get frostier and frostier until I freeze the person out entirely. I think Luke’s comment sent me to somewhere between “pretty damn cold” and “frostbite warning.”

  Luke gave me an odd little smile. “Don’t be angry, pretty girl. I just mean that you could really write a nice little interlude in there that was all yours. Improvise a bit—be spontaneous. Make something happen. You’ve got the talent for that; you just aren’t trying.”

  It took me a moment to get past his flirting to realize what he was trying to say. “I’ve written some tunes,” I said. “But it takes me a while to do it. Weeks. Days, anyway. I guess I could see where I could put something in there.”

  He slid closer on the table and lifted his flute up. “Not what I meant. Write something now.”

  “I couldn’t. It would be slop.”

  Luke looked away. “Everyone says that.”

  I sort of had a strange sense then that a lot rode on that moment, on whether I gave up or tried. I just wasn’t sure what. I just knew I didn’t want to disappoint him. “Then play it with me. Help me think of something. I’ll try.”

  He didn’t look back at me, but he lifted his flute and played the opening notes. I joined in with my harp half a measure later, and together we played. The first time through, my fingers automatically found the notes, as I had trained them to for months. Just like I’d automatically followed along with Luke and all his strangeness for the last half hour, taking the script as it was written for me.

  But the second time through, my fingers plucked out a little variation. Not just a few notes, either. It was something more—a decision to take control and make the tune my own. For once, I was calling the tune and it felt amazing. No regrets. No second-guessing.

  By the third time through, Luke dropped out after the first verse and I coaxed eight measures of something brand new from the harp.

  Luke smiled.

  “Gloating is very rude,” I told him.

  “Very,” he agreed.

  I bit my lip, thinking. Now I was in completely unfamiliar territory and I didn’t know any of the rules. “If—what if—would you play with me this afternoon? If I switch my name over from solo to duet?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go do it now.” I started to rise, but he reached out and caught my arm.

  “They already know,” he said softly. “Would you like to practice some more?”

  Apparently, I wasn’t in control. Frozen by his words, I slowly sank back down, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Something in me prickled with either a warning or a promise. I had a choice—the power to decide which one it was. In a safe world, it would have been a warning.

  I nodded firmly. “Yeah. Let’s practice.”

  “Dee—there you are.”

  Distracted, I turned to find James standing behind me. It took me a moment to remember the last time I’d spoken to him. “I threw up.”

  Luke said, “Nice kilt.”

  James looked hard at him. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  “Parking lot,” Luke said mildly. “Of the music store.”

  It was peculiarly difficult to imagine Luke someplace else, someplace ordinary, but James seemed to believe him. “Oh—right. What happened to that fiddler you were playing with?”

  “He had to go home.”

  I had the curious sensation both were leaving things unsaid. I resolved to ask James about it later.

  “Are you playing soon?” I asked.

  “They’ve just finished up the a cappella or whatever it’s called and they’re starting the duets now. Jason Byler—you remember him—and I decided to do the pipes with his electric guitar, just to see if we can get a rise out of the crowd. So yeah, soon. I’m going to head inside and find him. I’ll listen for your name, though.” James was still staring at Luke as if he were some sort of rare plant specimen.

  “Good luck,” Luke said.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He held out his hand, brushing my fingers with his. “Later, Dee.”

  After he had gone, Luke said, “He likes being different.”

  I agreed.

  “Unlike you,” he added.

  I frowned. “That’s not true. I like being different. But somehow everything that makes people outside of high school notice me makes me invisible inside the school.” I shrugged. “James is my only real friend.” Immediately I thought I’d said too much, that I’d go invisible to him as well.

  But he merely rubbed his flute absently before looking at me. “Their loss.”

  “Deirdre Monaghan. Luke Dellom.”

  I jerked at the sound of my name over the loudspeaker.

  “Easy now,” Luke said. “We don’t need you passing out. They’ll wait.” He got up and shouldered my harp, offering me his flute case again. Then he held the door open for me. “After you, my queen.” I closed my eyes briefly as the door shut behind us, waiting for nerves to slam me again.

  “Do you know how some people can do anything?”

  I opened my eyes. I realized he was waiting for me to lead the way to the auditorium, so I started walking up the stairs. “What do you mean?”

  As we got closer to the auditorium, there were more students waiting in the halls, all talking noisily, but I heard Luke’s voice behind me without difficulty. “I mean, you tell them to write a tune, they give you a symphony right there. You tell them to write a book, they write you a novel in a day. You tell them to move a spoon without touching it, they move it. If they want something, they make it happen. Miracles, almost.”

  “Uh, not really,” I said. “Except for on the Sci-Fi Channel. Do you know anyone who can do that?”

  Luke’s voice dipped. “I’d ask them to do a few miracles for me if I did.”

  We pushed our way backstage; the previous duet, two trumpets, was still playing for the judges. They were revoltingly good.

  Luke persisted. “What gets me is you could walk right by someone like that on the street. That you’d never know if you were like that unless you tried.”

  “This is about the improvising on the tune, isn’t it?” I scanned heads for someone in charge. I was starting to get that light-headed, too-warm feeling that meant I was going to either hurl or fall down soon. “I get it. I wouldn’t have ever known I could improvise like that if you hadn’t made me.”

  “Deirdre Monaghan and Luke Dillohm?” It was another lady with a clipboard, horribly mispronouncing Luke’s last name. “Good. You’re up next. Wait until these guys get offstage, and they’ll introduce you. You can say something brief about your piece if you like. Brief.” With a harassed expression, she turned to the musicians behind us and began repeating the speech.

  “I just think you don’t push yourself enough,” Luke said, continuing exactly where he’d left off. “You settle for ordinary.”

  This struck a chord with me, and I turned to look at him. I will call the tune. “I don’t want ordinary.”

  Luke smiled at me, or at something behind me, his expression unreadable. Then he pulled a small, unmarked bottle of eyedrops from his pocket.

  “Dry eyes?”

  “I have strange eyes. I’d like to be able to see everything tonight.” He blinked, his eyes shiny with the drops and his lower lashes filled with small tears. A swipe of his arm and his eyes and lashes were dry, though no less bright. Something about them m
ade me want to see the everything he was going to see.

  “Deirdre? Ah, I thought that was you.” Mr. Hill, the school’s music teacher and band director, touched my elbow. He had acted as my musical mentor since I began high school; I knew he thought I was destined for greatness. “How are you doing?”

  I contemplated the question. “Actually, not as bad as I expected.”

  Mr. Hill’s eyes smiled behind his wire frames. “Great. I wanted to wish you good luck. Not that you need it, of course. Just remember to avoid pinching the high notes when you’re singing.”

  I smiled back. “Thanks. Hey—I’m playing in duets. Did you know?”

  Mr. Hill looked at Luke and his smile vanished. Frowning, he asked, “Do I know you?”

  Luke said, “Nobody knows me.”

  I looked at him. I will.

  “Deirdre? Lucas? You’re on.” The clipboard-woman took my elbow firmly and pointed me in the direction of the stage. “Good luck.”

  Together we walked into the too-bright lights of the stage. Luke’s hair was lit to white. I looked out, off the stage, trying to see where my family was, but the audience was cast in shadow. It was better that way—I wouldn’t see Delia’s invariably smug expression. I gave the darkened faces one last glance before sitting on the folding chair; it was unpleasantly warm from the last nervous performer.

  Setting down the harp, Luke crossed behind me and whispered, “Don’t be ordinary.”

  I shivered and gathered my harp to me. Something told me “ordinary” wasn’t possible when Luke was involved, and that thought was more exciting and terrifying that anything the competition could offer.

  “Deirdre Monaghan and Luke DeLong on lever harp and wooden flute.”

  I leaned to Luke and whispered, “They all say your name wrong.”

  Luke’s teeth made a thin smile. “Everyone does.”

  “I didn’t, did I?”

  The stage lights reflected off his eyes like the glow off a lake; I was dazzled in spite of myself. “No, you didn’t.”

  He adjusted the microphone and addressed the crowd, his eyes running over the people’s faces as if he expected to see someone he knew. “Excited to be here, folks?”

  There was some mild clapping and calling from some of the louder dads.