Free Web NovelChapter 263: The Unconventional Performances
Chapter 262: The Unconventional Performances
Lyria’s POV
The Queen’s eyes were fixed upon Duke Thorncrest like a hawk assessing its prey. Her posture was rigid, her hands resting upon the arms of her chair, and the silence surrounding her was the sort that preceded a storm.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice sharp, "what you did was not composing. It was not even remotely close to what was asked of you."
Duke Thorncrest did not falter. His smile remained in place, easy and untroubled, as though he had not just been accused of mockery before the entire court. He stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his posture relaxed.
"Your Majesty," he said, "composing an original piece can be interpreted rather broadly. It could mean creating something entirely from the beginning, or it could mean taking something that already exists and reshaping it into something new. The instructions did not specify which."
He paused, gesturing lightly toward the piano.
"What I performed was an original piece. No one has ever played that melody in quite that way before. I showed that a simple tune can be approached from different angles and still convey meaning. That, I believe, is the essence of composition. It is not merely about the notes themselves, but about how they are presented and how they are felt."
The Queen raised a brow, clearly unimpressed.
"Are you suggesting, Your Grace, that your mistakes—your missed keys, your erratic rhythm, your deliberate disregard for proper technique—were acts of artistry rather than errors? Are you telling this court that you intended to play poorly?"
Duke Thorncrest shook his head.
"With respect, Your Majesty, they were not mistakes. They were deliberate choices. Sometimes a piece is masterful in its precision, but sometimes the very thing one might call an error is what gives it character. What I did was intentional. I sought to demonstrate that a piece may be played differently and felt differently. It is not the notes themselves that matter, but the emotion behind them."
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
I tried. I truly tried.
But the laughter bubbled up anyway, trapped behind my fingers, threatening to escape. My shoulders shook as my eyes watered. I bit the inside of my cheek, but it did not help.
The Queen’s glare snapped toward me.
"Your Highness," she said coldly, "did you enjoy the piece?"
I composed myself as best I could. I lowered my hand, smoothed my expression, and met her gaze. My heart was still racing, and I could feel the heat in my cheeks, but I forced my voice to remain steady.
"I q-quite d-did, Your Majesty," I said. "As His Grace said, i-it was... unique. I have n-never heard anything quite like it before. It was unexpected, a-and I found myself quite charmed by it."
Duke Thorncrest bowed.
"I am honoured that Your Highness enjoyed it," he said.
Jacinta spoke then. It was almost as though she hated that the Duke had given me attention, even for a moment.
"I enjoyed it as well," she said. "I have never heard a piece played quite that way before. I never thought that what could be interpreted as errors might actually be what makes a piece memorable. It is quite... refreshing."
Duke Thorncrest bowed again, a smile still playing at the corners of his lips.
"Your Highness is most gracious," he said. "The competition, after all, is meant to ensure the Moon candidates enjoy the performances. I am glad I succeeded in doing something you both found enjoyable."
The Queen’s eye twitched in obvious annoyance. The King seemed equally displeased. He looked as though he had swallowed something sour.
I wondered whether Jacinta had truly enjoyed the performance, because there had been nothing enjoyable about it.
Duke Thorncrest bowed once more and returned to his place among the other suitors.
The footman continued calling names.
The hall settled into a rhythm.
"Duke Marcellus Frostmere of the Northern Reach."
Duke Frostmere stepped forward.
He played the piano, and everything about his performance was flawless.
His fingers moved smoothly across the keys. The melody flowed beautifully, each note placed with care and precision.
When he finished, he bowed and returned to his place.
The applause was polite but restrained.
"Duke Evander Valenridge of Blackmere," the footman announced.
The atmosphere in the hall shifted.
Duke Valenridge stepped forward.
His face was a mask of neutrality, revealing nothing of what he might be thinking. His pale green eyes were calm, his expression unreadable. He moved with the same unhurried grace he carried everywhere, his dark coat swaying slightly with each step.
I thought he would choose a keyboard instrument like the others.
Instead, he walked toward a string instrument.
He stopped before a cello.
Perhaps, I thought, he would be decent.
Perhaps he could actually play.
Perhaps the terrible painting had merely been a fluke, and music was where he truly shone.
I should have known better.
He sat upon the chair provided and adjusted the cello between his knees.
Then he lifted the bow.
And began to play.
The melody was simple, and I knew exactly what he was playing, though it took me a few moments to realise it.
Row, row, row your boat.
He played badly.
Worse than Duke Thorncrest.
The rhythm was wrong from the very beginning. The notes were out of tune. Nothing was on beat. The bow scraped across the strings in ways that made my teeth ache.
And worst of all, he had his eyes closed as he swayed gently to the music as though he were utterly lost in its beauty.
Murmurs spread throughout the hall.
Nobles exchanged glances.
Someone coughed.
A few people laughed quietly behind their hands.
I saw Corvin’s lip curl in disdain.
Yet Duke Valenridge did not stop.
Not once.
He continued with complete confidence, as though he could not hear a single sound around him.
Then he started again.
And this time, he sang.
His voice was off-key.
Terribly, unmistakably off-key.
It wavered and cracked, while the melody stumbled along beside it, neither one seeming particularly interested in accompanying the other.
At one point, I was fairly certain the cello and his voice were fighting entirely separate battles.
And yet he looked perfectly content.
When he finally finished, he cleared his throat and opened his eyes.
I wondered what was wrong with today’s competition because, once again, I found myself trying very hard not to laugh.
