AN: uhh…remember me? I apologise for not posting in a very, very long time. I have many excuses, each more pathetic than the last. And after all that, I must confess that this chapter is not great. I tried rewriting it several times and it just doesn't really flow…ah, well, please hang in there, the next chapter's better, I promise.

Disclaimer: Tamora Pierce is rolling in her grave.

In which there is a meeting with Mortality

If at first you don't succeed, failure may be your style. -Quentin Crisp

As twilight fell, I found myself being escorted to one of the Lesser Garden's by a stoic looking Raoul. I'd spent the entire day in varying states of panic. Despite what my friends claimed, I could not get around the fact that there was one, single, seriously inescapable flaw in this whole plan: the entire thing hinged on my musical talent. Or in my case, lack of it. My associates seemed deaf to my protests, however, and so, wearing my best shirt, nails chewed to nothing, and sweating profusely, I went with as much pizzazz, dignity, swagger and courage as I could muster to meet my fate.

Jon and Douglass were already waiting, bearing a cumbersome lute between them.

"Just relax and sing from your heart," Jon advised, "this is foolproof."

"That's what you said about the poetry," I growled pointedly.

"ancient history, my friend," Jon replied airily, "water under the bridge, you might say! This is revolutionary! Brand new! She'll melt, I promise!"

Now, with all due respect to my cousin, (which given some of his past ideas, might not be a whole lot) he has got to be the most irritating optimist in the world. Because he's only this resourceful when it comes to other people's misery. When he finds a girl he likes, he mopes around writing bad poetry and snapping at his faithful squire and log-suffering friends. No coercion into elaborate musical schemes for him! Oh no. But when it comes to his cousin, he's knee deep in the muck, and eager for more. Little bugger. And yes, I'm aware that's not really the most charitable of thoughts, considering he'll be king some day. It's none of your business anyways.

At this point, Alan came crashing through the gate, panting and out of breath.

"Bad news, boys," he gasped, bent double, "it seems Sacherelle forgot to actually, you know, write the song. Remind me why we're friends with him again? Anyways, Gary, I'm afraid you're going to have to improvise." I was speechless, possibly for the first time in my life.

"listen you idiots!" I snarled in the most dangerous tone of voice I could muster, "you have got to be kidding! I am not going to get up there, in front of the love of my life, and improvise, using an instrument I don't know how to play!"

"Hey, not our fault you never learned!" Douglass pointed out defensively. I chose to ignore that, rounding on my friends again.

"Do you even care if you ruin my life?" I cried angrily.

"erm, not sure on that one, " Jon muttered, "Raoul? Do we care?"

"I'm not sure either," the big knight replied, contemplating the idea, "I don't think so. We never really considered it."

Alan silenced the two with a look. "Gary," he began in a deceptively reasonable tone that triggered my first stirrings of alarm, "we are renting this lute, at an extremely steep rate, for one night only. We have given up our sleep to help you. And to top it off, we've put up with your wishy-washy, irritating, obstructions and tantrums over the whole issue. You are going up there and you are going to sing." Alan finished with a steely glint in his eye. Perhaps you'll think me a coward, but there was no arguing with him when he was like this, and you'd be a fool to try. I went.

Pale-faced and grim, I met Sacharell at the pond as promised. By now, I felt as if I was in the middle of one of those hellish nightmares, the kind where you go to the ball with no clothes on. I moved almost without thinking, as if I had no choice. I leant the rickety ladder he provided against Cynthera's balcony and climbed up, heaving the lute in front of me. Straightening up, I picked up the lute and strummed the strings experimentally, wincing at the sound. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I cleared my throat.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to myself, another, very important conversation was taking place at the bottom of the ladder. Looking back, it is possible that this was the dialogue that sealed, not just my fate for tonight, but that it sealed my fate for the rest of my life. In order to aid my narrative, I will add it in.

"Reckon we should tell him?" Douglass asked the group at large.

"He'll figure it out eventually," Jon replied with a smirk.

"She'll probably hear him anyways, so it's not a huge issue," Alan commented, grinning.

"and just think of the intense humiliation," Raoul added dreamily, "we could hold this over his head for weeks." Stifling chuckles, the boys retreated to the bushes to watch.

"my love," I began singing without much conviction, stringing the first things that came into my head together, "we belong together, like fire…and that stuff that starts it. Like fire and flint, I love you like a cat loves milk… Oh dear…" I warbled, searching desperately for inspiration and coming up dry. On all sides, people were coming out onto their balconies to gawk at me. I'd come this far. If I was going down, I was going far enough down that I wasn't coming back up. "You are the sun," I continued determinedly, " and I am a tree. Trees turn to the sun…we should be together, ship and sail, pen and paper, field and plough—" I trailed off as I realized how easily the last one could be misinterpreted, "not like that!" I corrected myself, "I meant, oh…" standing on the balcony beside me, was Cythera, gaping at me incredulously. A light flickered on in the room I was standing in front of. Several realisations came crashing down on my head, including, but not limited to, (a) Cythera was not in this room. Therefore, it was not her balcony. (b) if it's not hers, it belongs to someone else. (c) that someone is home. My life flashed before my eyes, and death by intense humiliation seemed definite, as I realised I had spent the last seven minutes serenading Sir Myles of Oleau.

AN: Please review folks, it's always appreciated!

Many thanks to my fabulous reviewers Mage of Dragons, spunkyhufflepuff13charlie and lolaMelsterchaosbookwormsrockSunkissed Guacamole, and midnight thunder. Special thanks to midnight thunder and bookwormsrock for the inspiration…

You folks are the gods at whose alters I worship. I love you all. Have a good one.