“Yes, go on,” she said with a little flick of her fingers.
He looked for a moment at Washell, who knew enough to keep his expression polite, and then the boy closed his eyes and started the round of variations he liked to wind about that tune.
Washell bent his head down over his heavy chest until he was peering directly at Robinton, who was now oblivious, wrapped up in his piping, fingers dancing, stopping, busy over the little pipe’s holes. The instrument was small and could have produced an unpleasantly shrill sound, but the way the youngster handled his breathing and instinctive dynamics sweetened it to a delightful lilt.
As one variation followed another, Washell cocked his head in amazement and gradually turned his eyes to Merelan, who was totally relaxed as if this performance were a daily marvel.
Suddenly the muted sounds of the choristers ended. Immediately, Merelan leaped forward and tapped Robinton out of his concentration.
He looked almost rebellious.
“That was a very good one,” his mother said, casually appreciative.
“New, isn’t it?”
“I s’ought it up as I was playing,” he said and then glanced coyly up at Washell. “It fitted in.”
“Yes, dear, it did,” Merelan replied agreeably. “The trills were very well done.”
“Nice to have a pipe just the right size for you, isn’t it?” Washell began, extending his hand for the instrument. Robinton, with a touch of reluctance, handed it over. Washell tried to put his large fingers over the stops and ran out of pipe, looking so surprised that Robinton giggled, covering his mouth and glancing quickly at his mother to be sure this was acceptable behaviour. “Maybe you’d like to see some of the other instruments I have that might also be the right size for a lad like you to play on. This one is much too small for me, isn’t it?” And Washell handed it back with a little flourish.
Robinton grinned up at the big man and tucked his pipe back under the waistband, out of sight under his loose shirt.
“I think you could manage to get the pitcher and the cake-plate back down to the kitchen, couldn’t you, Robie dear?” Merelan asked, rising to open the door as she spoke.
“Can. Will. Bye.” And he walked quite sedately down the hallway with his burden as merelan closed the door.
“Yes, my dear merelan, you do have a problem growing up here.
May I extend you my compliments as well as my assistance? If we move patiently, what is an astonishing natural talent can be nurtured. I admire Petiron in many matters, Singer, but…” Washell sighed with a rueful smile. “He can be single-minded to the point of irrationality. He will of course be delighted to discover his son’s musicality, but quite frankly, my dear, I would be sorry to be that son when he does. Which is obviously why you have sent for me,
and I take that as the highest compliment you could pay me.” “Petiron will push him too far and too fast …”
“Therefore we will lay the groundwork carefully, so that his father’s tuition will not be the sudden shock it could be.”
“I feel so … treacherous, going behind Petiron’s back like this,” merelan said, “but I know what he’s like, and Robie loves to make music. I don’t want that to be taken from him.”
Washell reached across and patted her nervously drumming fingers.
“My dear, we can put Petirons single-mindedness to our
advantage. I gather he has no idea that the boy has learned to pipe?” Merelan shook her head.
“Right now, of course,” he went on, “he’s up to his inky fingers with TurnOver music to write and the rehearsals and then the Spring Gathers, and I shall have a word with Gennell myself about
this. If you permit?”
She nodded.
“Why, I do believe the entire Hall could be in on the secret education of our burgeoning young genius …”
“Genius?” Merelan’s hand went to her throat.
“Of course, Robinton’s a musical genius and, though I’ve never encountered one before in my decades here, I can certainly recognize one when I get the chance. Petiron’s good, but he is not quite in the same class as his son.”