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The last notes of the song faded, mingling into the soft rustle of the alder leaves in the breeze and the warbling of the finches. Lčođern's eyes were wide as she looked at the singer, now silently running his fingers over the lute once again.
"That was pretty, 'egas."
"Thank you, my little lady." He gave a bow from the shoulders, sending Lčođern into giggles again. She quieted herself and sat still, her elbows on the ground, propping her chin in her hand. Degas absently strummed a few chords in accompaniment to the songbirds. The birds redoubled their singing, seeming to understand the sympathies of the human musician and to be eager to join him in a duet.
Degas' song was pretty. But the words were so sad for an early morning in the springtime, with the sun shining through the trees and casting the shadows of the merrily waving leaves on the ground. The poor harper and his lady didn't seem happy. Lčođern glanced upward again, tilting her head to one side in a question.
"'egas?"
"Yes?"
"I like that song. There's a story. But it's a sad story. Did the harper really die? And the lady too?" Lčođern's face was frank and open in its curiosity, unsuspecting of the song's significance to its singer. "What happened to them?"
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