Hathor, lady of gold, mistress of joy and song,
steadfast friend of minstrels, I praise and honor you.
Moonhead.
Once a week they meet, and Girl pours herself into the practice.
Florin claps twice. "Bene. Continue."
She is practicing moving up and down in the scale with the same sound: Satin. A soprano, her voice moves easily into the sugary higher notes. But descending, she falters, too focused on projecting, on not being quiet and small. Her lips thin a little in anger, at herself, at her old training and all its added weights.
"Bring your voice to the front of your mouth. Do not fret over projection." Projection comes naturally, now that she knows the method. It is a mental block now, a reminder in the back of her head to remain quiet. Florin has to speak over her; she immediately launches into the practice again, determined to get it right no matter how many times it takes.
Sa-tin.
Sa-tin. Sa-tin.
Sa-tin.
Sa-tin.
Now back up.
Sa-tin.
Sa-tin.
Sa-tin.
Sa-tin. Sa-tin!
It is harder than it might seem, harder than it seemed at first when they began their training. The notes must be perfect. And now finally, after her exhausting weeks of attempts, she gets it perfect. She allows herself a smile.
Florin cups his hand together in a clap. "Capital."
Without fanfare, they move on to a practice performance, and sing of murder and freedom well into the night.
"Colletta" clutches the dagger to her chest, her teeth a little bared, her face a grimace of hate and bitterness. She has just murdered her mother. Mother was cruel, and Colletta is overwhelmed with relief, but venom, too. Her mother's corpse lies still and lifeless, but years of repressed anger come pouring out...in typically operatic song. She berates the corpse with seraphim voice.
"--to your bosom your riches you clutched," she sings, imagined pain winding its way into the notes. "And nary-a hem-lock for your dau-ghters's twain!"
Florin paces absently, encouraging up or down with his hands gesturing, conducting. His fingers flutter upwards as the song reaches its crescendo, they practice again and again.
Seshat, she who scrivens, mother of language and consort of Thoth.
Mehyt, she who massacres, the reclining lioness, she of the bloodied mouth, bringer of the moon.
Nepthys, barren vulture of the air, consort of Set, she who holds the dying, she who wears the mourning cloth. Dark twin of Isis, night and day, growth and decay. The same moon, shadowed and lit, waxing and waning.
To Nephthys, great friend of the dead, I offer my praise.
Sister and companion of Isis in her sorrow,
rider on the night boat, granter of renewal,
you hear the laments of my mourning; you are the solace.
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