She reminded herself that this was TurnOver and the new Turn was nearly on them. Just one more day of freedom from the usual routine. She was pleased with her hour’s recital of the old traditional airs which had been part of these festivities since Fort Hold was founded. She’d had no trouble holding her audience, and the applause had been generously prolonged though she had kept her encores to three. As MasterSinger she knew when enough was enough. There were plenty of other performers to take the TurnOver stage.
Halanna had given young Donkin quite a few dances each evening, but she also partnered other lads, and Merelan was glad to see the girl relaxing and enjoying herself. Maybe that would restore the vibrancy which had initially characterized her rich voice.
But Merelan had overheard Halanna saying something to her brother which puzzled and alarmed her.
“Petiron’s very strict and makes you measure up to his standard,” the girl told Landon with a little grimace. Then she added in an entirely different, almost spiteful tone, “I can’t wait until he realizes that that kid of his has far more talent in his little finger than he’s got in all his fancy notes and difficult tempo.”
How had Halanna known of Robie’s innate musicality? She’d never paid any attention to him: in fact, she had steadfastly ignored his existence when she knew the child was in the next room during her lessons with Merelan. And what satisfaction would Halanna take when the father discovered his son’s talent?
That problem caused Merelan not a few anxious hours, though she kept telling herself that surely Petiron would be delighted to realize his son was musically inclined. “Inclined’ was an understatement: Robinton seemed to absorb music as some children absorbed food. She was also aware that the child kept a cache of meticulously written tunes and airs: Washell and Bosler had told her so, saying that the music was “delightful’. Then there were the glances they had exchanged. She had been so pleased to hear their good opinion of Robie’s progress that perhaps she had failed to realize the significance of their exchange. That was when she first saw the drum he had made and used in the percussion orchestra at TurnOver.
“Master Gorazde helped,” he had informed her when he brought the drum home, “but I painted …” He ran a rather dirty finger along the blue and red lines which not too raggedly decorated the rim.
“An’ I cutted the skin oh so careful.” His eyes had rounded as he used a pretend knife in his hand to demonstrate how hard it had been to cut the hide. “An’ I nailed it.” His mother did note that the brass nails were well aligned. “Master Gorazde had me make dots where the nails go so they’d look even.” He ran a finger along the shiny line. “Hard work.” And he grinned up at her.
“Lovey, I don’t know when I’ve seen a better one. I’ll bet you could sell it at the Harper Gather stall!”
He clutched the drum to him, which took some doing because it overlapped his chest. “No, not this one, my first “stument, and I gotta improve a lot before Master Gorazde’ll put a Harper stamp on it for sale.”
With a pang to her heart, Merelan said nothing as he put it carefully on the shelf near his father’s worktop. Maybe Petiron would notice and comment on it.
Two days later it was no longer in view, and she looked for the drum and finally found it hidden in his clothes chest. He never played it again.
“drum? What drum?” Petiron asked, surprised when she casually mentioned it.
“The one Robie made for the percussion group at TurnOver.” Petiron frowned, and she was so distressed by his genuine puzzlement that she wished she hadn’t asked. That the little drum, so lovingly constructed, had been so carefully concealed ought to have been warning enough.
“Oh, that one,” Petiron said, turning back to checking apprentice papers. “If Robinton really did have a hand in making it, I wouldn’t have passed it for a Harper stamp.”
Merelan abruptly rose and, murmuring that she must see Lorra, left the room before she either burst into tears or threw something at her insensitive spouse.