A/N: Do not own Bartimaeus Trilogy, don't own Shai'tan (the Dark One from Wheel of Time) which I used as a curse in here, and I'm new to the fandom, so enjoy and critique! Also, I do play piano (in case you can't tell).


Regretful Etude


There is one measly little thing that makes coming to Earth worth it. Music.

Call me a romantic. I don't care.

Due to my dear master's increased paranoia that I might be summoned by another magician (and henceforth happily spew his birth name), he tied me down to earth for months at a time. So I couldn't be summoned. (1)

[1. What didn't seem to occur to him was that I might just be more willing to spew if he did that. ]

That meant I spent weeks at a time, shut in his stupid house. I could almost swear Ptolemy's skin was getting paler from lack of sunlight.

"Ridiculous," I told that thought, but checked my arm anyway. Still dark-skinned. A glorious Egyptian tan. "And….I'm talking to myself. First sign of madness. I'm going insane, Nathaniel! I hope you're happy!" I shook my fist at the ceiling.

My dear master wasn't home at the moment, though. That meant his grand piano—which, by the way, he only bought for appearances; he couldn't play a miserable note—was all mine.

I hummed happily to myself and sat on the bench.

It had been horribly out of tune, that piano, when I first got to it. 'Course, Mandrake had never played it, so he wasn't surprised when one day the notes turned perfectly, sublimely pitched. That was the day I had gotten bored picking at the carpet.

I played one note. C.

Down to A. Then up to E. A minor chord. I rolled it. Sad sound. That seemed right; that's about how I felt. Not sobbing sad, though, so I added a few (4) sharps and turned it major.

The sound turned sweet. I could've sworn my essence tingled.

Ptolemy's fingers were thin and limber, faultlessly suited for the piano had it been invented in his time. On a whim, I began to make a sonatina for him. Songs always came easier with emotions behind them. (2)

[2. For example, when Mandrake had "asked" me to do the laundry, re-paint the walls, and do things with bleach of which I'm still too scarred to speak, all in one day, the next day I composed a Gothic clashing concerto to make The Phantom tremble. It had involved much elbows. . .]

So I plucked the high notes, like a guitar, rain falling, feet splashing, river rolling, soft again. Add the left hand—bass—hit a supplementary chord, still gentle…

A pretty piece formed. Für Elise had nothing on this.

I bent over the piano, staring at the keys as I played them. Of course the music turned to grief; it always did. Embellished chords simplified to single notes. Music never lasted. Silence always took it. There was a message in there somewhere, where I don't know, and anyway I didn't think it really applied to me. Mandrake could take a lesson, though.

But I didn't think about that. I thought about Ptolemy.

A regretful etude took place.

It was the only thing that made Earth redeemable, in my eyes.

I don't know how long I played. Hours, possibly. I had a lot to say, and for once I didn't have to open my chatty mouth to say it. A little quiet voice whispered inside my head: Content. This was the only thing I missed in the Other Place. There, the music only sounded inside my head.

It was late afternoon, shadows long across the piano, when Mandrake came back.

I didn't see him, much less hear him. I finally wound down Ptolemy's etude with a few trickling notes. I thought I might have cried if I had tear ducts. Weird. But still, my eyes itched.

The only warning I had was the sound of a throat clearing, and I whirled around. Mandrake leaned on the doorframe, hidden in the shadows. (3)

[3. Creepy magician habit. They seemed to be drawn to spider-infested dark pits of the world, like the opposite of a moth drawn to light. ]

"Uh. . .hey," I said eloquently.

White-lipped with fury, he strode across the room to the bench and clapped a hand on my shoulder. To my eternal shame, I let out a girly shriek. (4)

[4. Small, I assure you. More a feminine gasp.]

"Do you slime my possessions with your filthy demon fingers when I'm away on business?" he hissed. Not seeming to realize he was wearing a silver ring on the hand digging into my clavicle, or more likely not caring, he leaned closer to Ptolemy's strained face. "I become the slightest bit lenient, and you dare take advantage of—BE STILL!"

Immediately I stopped squirming away from the silver ring. My essence was sizzling, I could almost smell it, certainly feel it.

"Mandrake," I said, "listen, your—"

"And be silent," Mandrake spat.

My mouth clamped shut. Good thing, too, no chance of a whimper then.

"In light of my successes with your assistance, demon, I have kept you away from the more dangerous missions. As your powers wane (5), I shelter you in my own home, when I could easily have sent you to you death in the light of what you know. A suicide mission is not uncommon for rebellious djinn. But have I? No. And how do I find you when I return? Besmirching my property. But what did I expect, since you are traitorous demon spawn." He said the word vindictively and frequently as his rant continued. Demon, demon, demon. Mandrake knew I hated the word. I was a spirit.

[5. Good thing I couldn't speak, because boy I had some choice words. Who was the reason I was so weak from spending too much time on Earth?]

I tuned him out and concentrated on my shoulder. I'd never known Mandrake to have such a hissy fit. He even started shaking Ptolemy's thin form, and eventually I realized he was asking me a question.

"What do you have to say?"

Finally. I considered which was the least profane of them all, and came up with: "You're wearing a shai'tan silver ring. And you can't play the piano anyway."

To my own surprise, my voice wasn't vehement, even with the ancient curses. Not angry. Soft, actually. Quiet. I quite scared myself—was I losing my touch? For good measure, I added a stanza of beauteous curses in Greek; he could understand that.

"Have you ever noticed how much 'demon' and 'human' sound alike?" I said. My shoulder hurt. I smirked for his benefit.

Mandrake's face went very white. He released me and turned away.

"Go," he said, teeth clenched. "Go to the corner, and sit. Before I do something I regret."

So I did. He went to his office. I hummed under my breath a snippet of a song, to commit it to memory.


For a second, Nathaniel had listened with wonder to the music coming from upstairs. For a second, Nathaniel felt something in the center of his chest melt and he felt the sorrowful sounds, the heartbreaking melody. Nathaniel went up the stairs quietly, so not to break the notes, expecting to see. . .he didn't know, a heartbroken man lamenting, a sad maiden playing her heart. . .fanciful images conjured up by the sound. . .

Mandrake froze what had melted inside of him. Barti—A. . .a. . .demon couldn't make music like that. He couldn't empathize with a demon. Fury took him. A demon couldn't. . .

Couldn't.