Taming The Beast. Heather Grothaus

dunno if we should have a verse from Miss Fortune—the devil might strike us all deaf!”

      Michaela flung her hair out of her eyes and spun on the heckler. “I vow that if you can still claim even a bit of your hearing after that monstrosity of sound”—she said, and glanced at the shocked Juliette—“your tender ears should be quite safe for the rest of your life, devil or nay.”

      “Michaela!” Agatha gasped and patted her daughter’s arm. “That was unkind.”

      Lady Juliette had regained her composure and now stepped from the crush with a malicious look. “Verily, Miss Fortune? ‘Monstrosity of sound,’ was it? Well, then, if the crowd judges your voice more worthy than mine, I shall grant you my own boon. Anything you wish.”

      Michaela raised her eyebrows. “Anything I wish?”

      Lady Juliette looked to Alan Tornfield. “Do you consent to this wager, my lord?”

      The lord was looking at Michaela as if he’d never seen her before, which was unlikely since she’d made such a scene of slippery pudding and broken pottery.

      “By all means, ladies,” he said in an amused voice. “Please, proceed.”

      For a moment, Michaela was frozen in the quiet, expectant hall, the guests regarding her blatantly. All eyes were pinned to her, the center of attention—a situation that never, ever turned out to Miss Fortune’s advantage.

      Someone coughed. Agatha Fortune smiled encouragingly at her daughter.

      “Will you name a tune, m’lady?” the leader of the trio asked politely, if pointedly.

      Michaela looked back at Juliette and saw the woman’s smirk, as if she could sense how close Michaela was to forfeiting.

      Think of the boon, Michaela! Mayhap a bit off the taxes….

      “We’re waiting, Miss Fortune,” Juliette taunted.

      Michaela took a deep breath. “No music,” she said to the lute player.

      “Oh-ho!” Juliette laughed and clapped her hands.

      “There was none written for this piece.”

      Juliette abruptly closed her mouth.

      Michaela took a deep, deep breath as her mother stepped away, leaving Michaela in a circle of expectant guests. Alone.

      Then she opened her mouth and sang as best as she could, her eyes closed, moving herself out of the smoky, humid hall of Tornfield Manor and imagining herself flying through the clouds, her arms outstretched like wings.

      The tune had been taught to her as a young girl by the friar who traveled through the Cherbon demesne, originally written as a chant for monks. But Michaela turned it into a high song of sweet mourning, pouring all of her wishes and dreams atop the hurt and humiliation she’d been dealt—not only that night of the feast, but throughout her entire life—and creating a confection of song so pure and personal that she could feel her own tears press against her closed eyelids.

      It was a longish piece, but she did not shorten it, relishing these few moments when, locked away in her own mind, she could give free rein to the one thing she did even passably well. The hall was wide and deep and tall-ceilinged, and each note ricocheted off the stones as she sang them, circling around and meeting each other to make a chorus of voices, it seemed.

      As the last drawn-out word hung and then faded, Michaela reluctantly brought herself down from her fanciful flight and opened her eyes.

      Everyone in the hall was staring at her as if the song had caused her to grow an additional head. Even the servants had stopped, frozen in their tasks of clearing the long tables and ferrying trays, and the silence following Michaela’s song was perfect. Not even a breath stirred the air.

      She felt her face start to heat and turned quickly to focus her attention on Lord Tornfield. He, too, was staring at her as if she were some strange creature who had slinked into his home, his mouth agape, and he didn’t seem to notice that the chalice in his hand was loosing a stream of wine onto the toe of his boot.

      Michaela said nothing, only waited for her judgment in the contest, feeling naked, vulnerable. As if she’d bared her very soul before all gathered.

      Still, no one made any sound or movement as slight as a sniffle or the shuffling of a foot. Michaela felt her throat closing.

      Then, suddenly, the sound of two hands clapping vigorously cracked the awkward stillness, and Michaela turned her head to seek the applauder.

      Elizabeth Tornfield had stepped from behind the musicians’ curtain and was clapping as if attempting to break off both her arms. Her smile was the warmest Michaela had ever received from someone not of her relation, and the sight of this little girl, bravely risking reprimand at showing herself at the feast in order to praise her new friend, caused Michaela’s heart to expand.

      At least someone had liked her song.

      His daughter’s appearance obviously affected Lord Tornfield, as well, for he shook himself after a quiet gasp, dropped his now-empty chalice to the floor with a clang, and joined in his daughter’s enthusiastic applause.

      “Well done!” he shouted. “Oh, yes, well done, indeed!”

      The rest of the hall added their own lukewarm praise immediately, and Michaela looked around at the guests, whispering to their neighbors while clapping and regarding Michaela from the corners of their eyes.

      And then Lord Tornfield was off across the hall, still clapping, until he dropped to his knees before his daughter and embraced her, speaking in a low voice that was drowned out by the dwindling applause. In a moment he rose and led Elizabeth back to his place on the dais, helping her up the step as if she were an invalid. The murmurs of the crowd increased, and Michaela had the distinct impression that she was no longer the topic of gossip. She tried to squelch the traitorous relief she felt.

      Alan Tornfield addressed the hall once more. “Do we have any other contestants?” After only a breath of a pause: “I should think not, after that stunning, stunning attempt. I would declare Lady—Michaela, is it?—Fortune champion, lest there is any foolish enough to challenge her. No?” he asked, looking over the hall. Then his eyes, crinkling happily much like his daughter’s, found Michaela, and his blond mustache twitched. “I believe you have earned a pair of boons, my lady.” He held forth a long, courteous arm and bowed slightly. “Collect at your discretion.”

      “This is outrageous!”

      Lady Juliette, of course. The woman stepped from the crowd once more with a swish and flounce of her fancy skirts and walked directly up to Michaela. “I’ll grant no boon to a girl who gleans her talents from Satan! That song was clearly devil’s trickery!”

      Michaela felt her eyebrows draw downward and her fingers curl into fists at her sides. She had never before struck another human being, but in that moment she seriously considered it.

      “Now, Lady Juliette,” Lord Tornfield said mildly. “Certainly you knew the identity of the woman you challenged before she gave her try, and clearly, it is not Satan who stands before you now. This was all done in good fun, any matter. I’m sure Lady Michaela’s boon will be a reasonable one.” Although his words were friendly and advising, his tone indicated that the matter was not open to debate.

      Lady Juliette’s face glowed ghastly white. “Very well, Miss Devil’s Fortune,” she fairly spat. “What will your wretched prize be? And should you request something ridiculous, be forewarned that I will slap your face.”

      “Oh, my request will be very fair,” Michaela rejoined, and moved even closer to the fuming lady so that her next words would be heard by Lady Juliette alone. “And you be forewarned that, should you dare strike me, I will drag you from this hall by your hair and call down the Hunt to steal your soul,” she hissed, malicious glee filling her at teasing the woman so ruthlessly.

      Devil, indeed. Good heavens.