Volio

Volio inked in a note on the page, then squinted at it. His mind was far away; he wasn't even sure what note that was, or why he'd put it there. The black ovals and lines blurred in his vision, and all he could see were the soft amber curls of Anjelée, the fresh young daughter of his Litian contemporary, Sir Fralier. He put his quill down, remembering the previous summer—

“A glass of wine, Monsieur?”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the goblet from her hand and looking up to see who it was that had interrupted his reverie.

A smiling angel stood in front of him, bronze hair loose in a calculated style around her shoulders. Her brown eyes were warm and friendly as she smiled at him again and stepped away. He watched her walk toward the group of others in the garden, catching her eye as she glanced over her shoulder. She blushed.

“I see my daughter wasted no time in finding the most suitable man here,” Sir Fralier said, holding back a laugh. “She's eager to be off and married, that one. I can't convince her to keep her old father company any longer.”

“I'm surprised she isn't married already,” Volio replied, still watching her as she offered wine to her father's other guests. He could hear her airy soprano voice over all the others, ringing to his ears.

“If you keep looking at her like that I'm going to have to ban you from my house,” the man said, laughing as if it were a jest, though there was a darker undercurrent to his words.

Volio tore his eyes off the woman with difficulty, looking instead to his glass of wine.

“Will you miss her when she's gone?” he asked, for want of anything else to say.

“I should say so,” Fralier replied. “She's my youngest and my favorite, as everyone knows. My latest Symphony was inspired by her: The Angel's Lament. Her name is Anjelée, you see. It's a play on words.”

“I see,” Volio said, letting the name roll around in his head. Anjelée. Anjelée.

The talk had then moved on to other subjects, such as Volio's third musicale, which he was having trouble with. Soon after the garden party, he found the musicale's lingering romantic number much easier to write. Anjelée was nine years his junior, and Volio tried to remind himself that there were younger, more appealing suitors than he in Linsit – and more eligible suitors as well. She was the cousin of the queen on her mother's side, and though her father was but a lowly musician, (knighted because of an almost accidental deed of heroism) he was determined she would marry well and bring honor to the family. As a lowly Yerc musician himself, he was in no position to gain her father's approval in anything but music.

“Are you still glum about that girl?” Lorice asked him, sitting down in the windowseat next to his desk.

“Woman,” Volio corrected, chagrined that she would constantly tease him about the age difference between them.

“Barely,” Lorice said, smiling teasingly.

When Volio didn't return the smile she put her chin on the desk, catching his downturned eyes.

“Aren't you going to do something about it? You've been moping for months. Surely it's not as hopeless as you say. After all, in Linsit the laws are different than they are in Yerc. She can marry whomever she pleases after she turns nineteen, regardless of her father's wishes.”

“But she loves her father, and would never deny him,” Volio said woefully.

“You don't know that,” Lorice said. “You've only seen her once, and she's never mentioned her father in her letters.”

“That doesn't mean anything.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you!” Lorice cried.

Volio spent a moment trying to figure out how she had finagled him into a corner. He eventually gave up and stared at his paper, trying to make sense of the tangled plot he himself had invented.

“Volio, please listen to reason,” Lorice pleaded. “I'm tired of seeing you like this. If you don't ask her, you'll never know. You can either take a chance, or spend your whole life writing her letters from the safety of your own home. Please go.”

“I can't just arrive at their house unannounced,” Volio argued, aware of the fact that she was slowly edging him into taking the biggest risk of his life.

She grinned and pulled a letter out of her dress pocket with a flourish.

“This arrived from Sir Fralier two days ago. His symphony, The Angel's Lament is to be performed in the court of King Eldar a month from today, and he wants you to be there. I've already sent a reply saying you would be delighted to come.”

“Just because Sir Fralier is going to be there doesn't mean Anjelée will.”

“You say her name with such preference,” Lorice said with a giddy smile. She was enjoying her younger brother's bout with love perhaps too much. “You didn't let me finish. Anjelée will be the soloist.”

Volio laughed and stood upright, drawing Lorice with him.

“My sister, you are a devious fiend,” he said, invigorated by the thought of seeing Anjelée once more. “What would you have me do? Snatch her off the stage midway through her solo, I'll wager.”

“Never, never,” Lorice said, pretending to be offended by such a ridiculous accusation. Her eyes were bright with merriment. “With your polite and enthusiastic acceptance, I also sent a request to arrive early and be housed near Sir Fralier, so you could ask him for help with your opera.”

Volio rubbed noses with her and patted her cheek, smiling broadly.

“What would I do without you?”

“What a frightening thought!” she laughed, pinching his cheek and twirling away. “I'll pack your bags. You'll need to leave tomorrow.”

Volio looked back at the mussed pages, then dipped his quill in ink once more and got to work, humming the soprano solo from The Angel's Lament.

Inspiration: A comment made on the relationship between Wagner and Liszt