#Emmrich is a violist in my mind. Subtle and rich without all the DRAMA of the violin section

[dulcidyne]

Marginalia Ch. 4/5

Rook x Emmrich Volkarin // Rating: T // Spoilers: None

Emmrich found Rook, at last, in the music room, haloed in golden rhombi of Fadelight spilling through the tall, mullioned arches of the windows. She sat at the harpsichord, its varnished wood grain alight in rich, molten amber, rows of silver strings gleaming. Three wisps danced around her in a merry parade while a fourth perched on her shoulder, weaving knots into her loose hair.

With an artfully splayed hand, she tapped out a chord, and the notes rang out in one dissonant voice—woefully out of tune.

Making a face he only saw in profile, she reached up and twisted the brass tuning keys until a faint metallic sound groaned from the case. She tried the chord again and this time it plinked out a delicate, harmonic trill, like a trio of tiny bells with stopped clappers. 

“There you are,” she crooned at the instrument with the indulgent warmth of a fond parent to a child. 

She hadn’t noticed his presence yet, too absorbed in her project, and he was struck by the way the light etched her silhouette against the intricate filigree of gilt and shadow. For once, she was sitting straight-backed, without a leg tucked beneath her or into the circle of her arm—the picture of poise, her spine a graceful line. Reaching up, she swept the fall of knotted-up hair over one shoulder, offering Emmrich a glimpse of the supple slope of her neck and the curve of an earlobe. 

Another chord, and she cocked her head to the side in quiet concentration, humming a clear ‘C’. After twisting the key, she played again. But the chiming notes still jarred against one another. “Now you’re just being stubborn,” she chided gently down to the lower row.  

The wisps chirruped in excitement. “I promise, you’re all being very helpful,” she told them, sounding amused as she turned the tuning keys once more. 

Chittering even louder, her assistants cavorted through the air in their mirth like giant, excited fireflies at dusk. One danced over to him and did a wiggling arc over the plate in his hands. The rest followed, succeeding in finally drawing her attention away from her work and up to Emmrich.

“No, I’m afraid that’s not for you,” Emmrich informed the wisp, now prodding the browned, (thankfully) still warm surface of the rarebit with one curious, glowing tendril. To Rook, he said, “You missed supper.”

She blinked, confused. “That can’t be right, it’s only been…”

“Hours?” he asked with a smile, before taking a seat on the far edge of the wooden bench positioned in front of the instrument. “Three, by my count,” he added, offering out the plate. 

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