XIV
GRACE
As the morning sun rose higher, Grace caught herself thinking more about the wonders awaiting in the music room and less of the beautiful fabrics Lucy was enthusiastically tossing in her face.
They were all beautiful. There were brilliant velvets ranging from the orange of a sunset to greens that were deeper than the moss on Hellabora's bark covered skin. Aside them sat simple cloths of linen that had woven silver fibres which chimed in the wind. Every corner of the market was saturated in colour and distraction. However, if anything Grace found herself distracted from it, her thoughts never straying far from the Music Room three hallways from her prison.
Lucy bid her pick five lengths to be taken to the Cair dressmaker. Grace grumbled that five was too many but picked two simple sheets of a deep green hue. For the remainder, she dubbed Lucy as the best judge. Lucy had clearly not been expecting this and beamed with delight.
When the cloths were chosen and directed to the Cair, Lucy had agreed to let Grace return with Casys. The Centaur in question had stood at the edge of the market for the entire trip; his stubborn stare never leaving Graces form even when she disappeared behind a tent or stall. Grace could feel his eyes burning into her back and when she turned, Casys was always in her sight.
He relaxed slightly when she joined him at the edge of the field but did not leave her alone until she was safely deposited at her desired destination.
It was here she stood, three hallways from the Guest wing. Her fingers picking at themselves in nervousness and the buzzing in her mind louder than any other thought except one; What did they want her for?
Grace held barely any knowledge of music apart from how to listen to it. She didn't even know what instruments they used here. They were probably some foreign instruments that she had never heard of.
Weren't women in this time supposed to be well versed in music and song? Would this Orchestrator turn her away if they found her knowledge lacking? And if they did turn her away… what would she do then?
Grace shuddered at the thought of another week in her room. Of silence.
She missed music. She missed the sound of souls moving in sync with the melody, the poetry a crescendo could inspire, the feeling of the beat in her fingertips.
It was those same buzzing fingers which knocked on the door of their own accord. Grace pulled her hand back, mind still fuzzy with memories of a world away.
There was a scuffle from behind the door, shortly followed by the sound of toppling heavy objects and the discordant noise of strings hit without purpose. Grace cringed at the unwelcomed noise.
The door handle rattled and the wood flung open to reveal a dishevelled and frantic looking faun. He looked down at her with coal black eyes of slight disinterest as he leaned in the frame of the door, his hand poised on the wood as if ready to shut it at any moment.
"Yes?" He asked.
Grace started. She had not been expecting such an indifferent welcome, "Are you Margrove?"
"I am," The Faun edged. He waited a beat for her to speak and when she didn't he continued, "I'm also quite busy, so if you wouldn't mind," He gestured for her to continue, his other hand tapping against the wood of the door. It was an odd beat; one Grace had never heard before but somehow there was sense and rhythm in the noise.
"I'm Grace," She said, frowning slightly at the Fauns attitude, "Her majesty, Queen Lucy, sent me."
The rhythmic tapping stopped and Margrove looked at her, his coal irises widening. "You're the Daughter of Eve from Spare Oom?" He asked.
Grace nodded uncertainly, not because she did not know who she was – of that she was painfully aware – but because the look he was giving her was somewhere between slight fear and curiosity.
Margrove gulped, his hand tightening on the door frame as he leaned in closer to her face. He stopped but 6 inches from it as it was as far as his arms would allow. His eyes were searching her face for something but Grace couldn't determine what it was.
"I don't know what they were talking about," He murmured, "You don't have any fangs at all."
"I'm sorry?" Grace asked, leaning away from the Faun's proximity.
Margrove stayed in place, eyes transfixed on hers. He was still searching for something.
Probably the devil in my eyes, Grace thought mirthlessly.
Then in a dizzyingly quick movement, the Faun snapped back inside the door frame.
"I'm glad. Fangs can cause difficulties with pronunciation and whilst that is ok, it may make our job difficult," Margrove chattered as he flicked back into the Music room and out of sight, leaving the door ajar in invitation.
Grace just stared widely after him, the switch in attitude had given her whiplash.
"Of course, it might be interesting," Margrove continued distantly, "A singer who puts their own spin on the Narnian language – Oh, I like that! We'd be the talk of the country."
That caught her attention. "Singer?" Grace asked nervously. She edged towards the doorway, barely dipping her toes over the threshold as she watched the Faun scamper about the room.
The floor was so littered with various sheets of paper that the thick carpet was indescribable beneath it. Spotted throughout were seats of plush velvet, much like the furniture she had seen in the Guest Wing.
As the Faun flittered about the room, he picked up various painted instruments and ink blotched sheets. The remaining sheets of music flying about like leaves in the wind.
"Yes, are you slow? That is why you're here," Margrove claimed, face peering over the piles of scrolls he held.
Grace lifted a brow; the Faun was being terribly direct, even by her standards. She couldn't imagine how the four Kings and Queens managed him. "I'm not slow," She sniffed, "No body told me anything about the job."
Margrove stayed put, his expression comical over the pile of paper, "But you decided to come anyway?"
Grace shrugged.
He still didn't move. His eyes once again assessing her from top to toe. Grace didn't like those eyes, she felt like they saw entirely too much. "You must be bored to tears to take a job with no foresight," He deadpanned.
"I-" Grace's jaw fell open, lost for an excuse against the accusation Margrove had laid at her door, "I don't see how that's any of your business."
The scrolls dropped and the comical look expanded to one of pure humour. Grace heard the guffaw before it registered mockingly in her ears. He was laughing at her.
"I don't see how this is funny," Grace fumed.
"It's not, it's not," Margrove wheezed, "But to see the look on your face."
Grace scowled at the Faun, arms crossed in a very unimpressed manner, "I can see this is a mistake."
She made to turn and storm away but before she could get a foot out of the door, Margrove lurched forward and latched on to her forearm, "Come in, come in! You're hired if for nothing else but to amuse me."
The room spun as she was yanked through the threshold and onto a paper stacked chaise.
"We've have much to cover and not much time in which to do so."
It had been an hour.
Grace had been pushed and stretched through an hour of endless vocal and breathing exercises that left her feeling exhaustedly dry. Margrove proved to be a passionate teacher, although Grace could see it was the music he was truly passionate about.
His skilled fingers twinkled over the keys of the pianoforte in perfect tempo; never missing a note or skipping a beat in their progress. Grace watched them in awe, barely focusing on her own voice in the chaotic scales.
"No, you're doing it again," Margrove said, cutting the movement of his fingertips to point one at her, "Stop watching my hands. You're predicting the next note before I can play it."
"I can't help it," Grace caught her breath, "If I don't look then I'm too late to catch it properly."
"It's better that than pre-emptively getting it wrong," Margrove insisted. He looked up from the sheet music; eyes warm in the light of the afternoon sun as he implored, "There is no rush to get this right, you know?"
Grace frowned and stared stubbornly at the sheet music instead of his face, "It feels like there should be," She grumbled.
Margrove sighed and rubbed tiredly at his eyes, "Perhaps we should break? I've not yet had lunch."
"No," Grace said adamantly, "If we take a break now, I will forget everything. Let's go again."
"You can't forget what you have not learned," Margrove chided, the lid of the piano had been shut and he rested his elbows upon its surface, "You cannot rush the mind, either. It is better when progress comes slowly, it helps the understanding stick to the mind."
"I don't have time for 'slowly'," Grace insisted, "I will need to learn quickly if I am to return home."
Margrove sniffed and plucked his head from his long fingers. His eyebrows were raised sarcastically, "And how will this lesson help you return to Spare Oom? Do you plan to sing your way there?"
Grace gave him a withering look, "I need to obtain the Kings and Queens trust."
"Again, I ask. By singing?"
"By being compliant," Grace explained, "If I show them I mean no harm, then they may let me out of the Cair. Perhaps, they will even let me find my own way home."
Margrove stood thoughtfully, cloved hoofs clacking against the marble podium on which the pianoforte sat.
"Is that the truth?" He asked, "Do you mean them no harm? Or are you simply compliant in order to slip past their guard and act on your ulterior motives? I'll have you know that if you mean to hurt any Narnian, I will not simply sit by and watch."
Grace blanched at the implication, "I don't have the foresight to be that manipulative and I couldn't hurt anyone even if I wanted too. I like Lucy too much," Grace grumbled the last part, slightly embarrassed at the admittance, "There is no ulterior motive behind my compliance other than getting home."
Margrove leaned easily against the piano next to her, as if the conversation was much lighter and didn't hint at treason. "Good," He praised, "What is your plan, then? Surely you've thought farther than simple compliance?"
Grace took a deep steadying breath, "I haven't gotten that far. I just know that I must convince them. Queen Lucy believes that High King Peter is the best route to success but I am not so sure."
Grace paused, thinking of the powerful, shirtless blonde on the steep slope. He did seem good natured and sympathetic, something which he shared with his sisters. But there was something at the edge of his eyes that glinted differently to them.
He had tested her, out in the forest today. For what she did not know but she had the niggling suspicion that this was the side which he shared with his brother, King Edmund.
"High King Peter seems to rely on the council of his brother and King Edmund seems unwilling to give me any room to breathe."
Margrove agreed, "The Kings are quite close. The entirety of the Royal Family is, really. It is why they work so well together."
Grace nodded in agreement for she had also come to that conclusion.
"It seems to me," Margrove noted thoughtfully, "That you must convince King Edmund if you're to make it out of here alive. The other King and Queens rely on him for sound judgement. He is not called 'The Just' for nothing."
Grace stared at the Faun; stuck with despair at the thought of appearing amenable to King Edmund – A man who would only find her non-threatening when she was dead. "How on earth would I do that?" She asked, "I'm certain he has a right mind to keep me – and whatever information he thinks I possess – here forever."
Margrove shrugged, "You're the mind behind the plot; I am simply here to ask the right questions."
"That's not very helpful," Grace muttered, sliding next to the Faun on the piano.
"I never said I would be," Margrove quipped, weaving his arms across his chest.
Grace sighed, "Even if I make it out of Cair Paravel, I wouldn't even know where to start. Lucy spoke of a wardrobe she entered through as a child but no one seems to remember where it is."
"Ah yes, the city of War Drobe. A well-known and loved fable of the West."
"Fable?" Grace asked.
Margrove smiled fondly, "From the Lantern Waste to the edge of the Western Woods there are all sorts of fables. Strange occurrences and comings and goings of the unknown. The most recent is the arrival of our Kings and Queens from the city of War Drobe in the land of Spare Oom."
Grace's breath hitched, "The wardrobe is somewhere in the Western Woods?"
"It is believed so. No one apart from the Kings and Queens have ever seen exactly where it lies but there are a few that came across them on the first hours of their journey. I may be persuaded to write to my uncle and ask what he knows."
Grace latched on to the Fauns arm, "Would you?" She asked, "I'd be so grateful."
Margrove eyed her slowly, as if he was weighing the decision in his mind. "I might," He allowed, "But only if you do something for me."
Grace nodded eagerly, foresight completely out the window. She didn't care what she was asked to do; if it brought her one step closer to home, then it was worth it.
He smiled, placing a hand over hers and hunching over until they were face to face in equal height, "Let me go eat lunch."