I woke to the sound of song.
The chamber was dim when I opened my eyes; the last candles were reduced to embers, sparks peering from the dark like devil’s eyes. The fireplace simmered, but I could feel the cold that lay just beyond the fire’s reach. The edges of the room were invisible in shadow, nearly a solid wall of blackness. A blue light fell in from the window and I could see the bath lit in its glow, petals and bubbles drifting on the surface.
At the window ledge was the nightingale – its song sweeping into the cold blue light. It filled the dark with the sound of agony. And then it was quiet as it looked at the drawn bed curtains. Strands of steam lifted and unraveled before the bird’s gaze. I could hear my own steady breaths. The bird was motionless beneath the arch of the window.
There was a pop, a cracking in the fireplace. The bird opened its wings and flew out into the blue light.
I stood from my bed of bubbles. Beyond the window, the bird glided over a fresh land, disappearing into the distance. Where the bird faded from view, the first signs of dawn appeared across the rim of the valley. Sunlight began to color the landscape. The sky blushed with pale pinks. At the window, I could feel the morning light passing through me. Below, the village slumbered beneath a blanket of mist, a few early lights shining through the whiteness.
I heard the door open, and the maid entered carrying a tray.
“Morning, sir,” she said, a singsong note in her voice. “Did you have a good sleep?”
She set the tray next to the candelabrum by the bed. The candles were out, the pool of wax cold and hardened at its base. She drew back the bed curtains and let the light fall across the old man’s face. His translucent eyelids puckered against the morning.
“The king wants to have breakfast with you, to get to know his newest guest,” she said. “I suggest you change into that robe on your tray. I’ve brought you morning snacks, as well. You look starved to death.” She bustled about the chamber, collecting the waxen candle stubs and tucking them into a large pocket folded into the front of her robe. As she plied at a melted candle stuck fast in its holder, she continued, “I’ll wash that black robe of yours. If you have anything in those pockets, you better take them out.” The candle came loose and she popped it into her giant pocket. “C’mon, get up, or you won’t have time to dress and groom and finish your snacks before the king wants to see you.” She produced from her pocket some fresh candles. Untying the string that held them together, she went about the room placing them in their holders.
At the bed, the old man’s hand reached wearily for the robe on the tray. He pulled it to him and drew shut the draping. There was a rustling, and every so often, the drapes would bend with the shape of an elbow behind it.
All the while, the maid tidied the room. She unplugged a stop and drained the water from the tub, leaving threads of steam rising from the bath stones. With a broom, she swept the bubbles through the balcony and out into the morning air. The spheres sailed into the open dawn, rising over the waking land. They turned silver in the sunlight before the wind blew them away, disappearing into the brightening sky.
The maid closed the balcony panes and picked up the old man’s rags. Rummaging through the pockets, she plucked out the three pearls and the nightingale’s tear, placing them over the fireplace.
The bed curtains stirred and the old man appeared in his new robe. “It fits you nicely,” she said pleasantly. Nevertheless, she took a needle and thread from her pocket and hemmed at the edges of the gown. She used oils to comb the old man’s hair, twisting its lengths into a tight knot at the nape of his neck. “Just some scents and you’ll be ready,” she said, rubbing fragrance onto her palms and patting the old man at the base of his jaw, finally checking his hair to make sure every strand was in place. “There, perfect. I’ll go drop your clothes at the laundry. I’ll come back for you when the king calls. In the meantime, eat your snacks.” She picked up the empty tray from last night and whisked out of the room.
It was strange to see the old man in his fresh attire. His hair was sleek, the knot at the back crossed intricately, exposing the angles in his jaw. The collar of his robe was embroidered and from him came a faint scent of perfume. He seemed a different person from the creature I’d seen in the mist of the bath. His slenderness had a clean, stately appearance. With a hand, he touched his white hair and then the silk of his clothes.
On the food tray, pieces of bread, slightly browned, were stacked alongside a bowl of honey. A glass held a drink with ice and circles of rinds. The old man dipped a slice of bread into the nectar, and I could taste it, cold and sweet in my mouth.
After he had eaten, he went to the fireplace and picked up the tear of the nightingale. He held it for a long time, looking at it silently. He turned to the window where the bird had sung, and stared at the window ledge. The morning sun bathed the empty sill in a naked light. He stood still, holding the tear on his palm.
When the maid returned, the old man started visibly. “The king is ready for you, sir,” she said.
He nodded. He swept the stones into his hand and dropped everything into his pocket.
“Follow me, sir.”
And I followed them out of the chamber.
Chapter 9