I lean against the back wall of the music room, arms crossed, watching Lyra stand before a semicircle of noble children like a reluctant conductor facing an orchestra of chaos. The formal blue and silver dress she wears hangs on her frame like borrowed dignity, stiff and unyielding where she normally flows like water. Her blue hair has been pulled back, twisted, and pinned with silver clasps that catch the light from the crystal chandeliers overhead—tiny prisons for each rebellious strand. I've never seen her look so uncomfortable or so royal.

  The music room itself drips with ostentation. Gilded music stands gleam under the light of three tiered crystal chandeliers, each prism casting rainbow spectrums across cream-colored walls adorned with painted musical notation. Instruments rest on velvet cushions of deep purple when not in use—violins with bodies polished to mirror shine, wind instruments whose brass curves reflect the room in warped miniature. Even the floor beneath my boots is inlaid with a pattern of musical notes, forming the beginning measures of the Holy Capital's anthem.

  I shift my weight, feeling distinctly out of place in my guard's attire. The leather of my bracers creaks softly—a peasant sound in this pristine space. My presence here is officially as "security," a favor to Lyra who begged me to accompany her to this royal duty. Unofficially, I'm moral support, though I'm not sure what help I can offer from the shadows.

  "Children, please." Lyra's voice rises above the din, musical even in its restraint. "Master Ellington expects progress by the end of the week. Let us begin with scales."

  The seven young nobles—four girls and three boys, all between nine and twelve years of age—fumble with their instruments. A girl with elaborate blonde braids tightens her violin bow until the hairs look ready to snap. Twins in matching green velvet tunics blow experimental, sputtering notes through their flutes. A solemn boy with spectacles perched on his nose plucks at harp strings with methodical determination, creating a waterfall of notes that might be beautiful if they weren't competing with everyone else's attempts.

  "Young Lord Percival, please wait for my signal before beginning your warm-up." Lyra's smile is tight, a frozen curve that doesn't reach her golden eyes. When she turns back to the group, I catch a glimpse of the fiery spirit beneath her icy composure—a spark of the Lyra I know from Harmonious, the one who dances barefoot by moonlight when she thinks no one is watching.

  "Lady Amelia, your bow should glide, not—" Lyra winces as the blonde girl drags her bow across the strings, producing a sound like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. "—not scrape. Like this." She adjusts the girl's fingers with gentle precision.

  I smile to myself. Three weeks ago, Lyra was manipulating ice crystals during our magic training sessions in the forest clearing. Now she's teaching the children of dukes and ministers, playing the part of the refined music instructor. Only I know she's the runaway princess, hiding in plain sight among the nobility who have been searching for her for months. The irony isn't lost on me; they've invited the very princess they're hunting to teach their children music.

  "Let's try together now," Lyra says, raising a slim conductor's baton. "Follow my count. One, two, three—"

  What follows can only be described as an assault on the ears. Notes clash against each other like drunken soldiers in a tavern brawl. A flute warbles too high, a violin screeches too low, and the harp moves at a tempo entirely its own. Through it all, a small boy with a drum simply pounds at random intervals, grinning with delight at each thunderous boom.

  Lyra's shoulders inch upward with each discordant note. "Perhaps we should try one at a time," she suggests, her voice strained. "Lord Finley, would you begin?"

  The drum boy's face falls, but he taps out a simple rhythm that bears little resemblance to the sheet music before him. Lyra nods encouragingly, though I can see her fingers twitching at her side—a sure sign she's fighting to control her magic. When she's upset or frustrated, tiny ice crystals often form around her fingertips. Here, such a display would be disastrous.

  As each child takes their turn, the musical landscape grows no less treacherous. Young Lady Beatrice's flute produces notes that seem to die midway, gasping into silence. Lord Percival's harp playing, while technically correct, has all the passion of a court ledger being read aloud.

  "Very... inventive interpretations," Lyra says diplomatically. "Now, let me demonstrate the melody as written."

  She lifts a silver flute from its velvet throne. The moment her fingers touch the instrument, I notice a change. Her posture softens, her breathing deepens. This, at least, is familiar territory. When she brings the flute to her lips, the room seems to hold its breath in anticipation.

  The first note hangs in the air, pure and crystalline. The second joins it, forming a delicate harmony. Lyra's eyes drift closed as she plays, and for a moment, she's herself again—not a disguised princess or a reluctant teacher, but simply Lyra, whose music speaks what words cannot.

  That's when I notice the frost.

  It begins at her fingertips, a barely perceptible shimmer against the silver of the flute. Then it spreads, creeping along the instrument like ivy claiming a wall. The notes begin to change, taking on a hollow, echoing quality as ice forms inside the flute's chamber.

  One of the twins notices first, his eyes widening. He tugs his brother's sleeve, pointing. Soon all seven children are staring, music forgotten, as their teacher's instrument transforms before their eyes into a sculpture of ice.

  The final note dies as the flute freezes completely, now too cold for Lyra to hold. She gasps, nearly dropping it onto the inlaid floor. Frost crystals sparkle on her fingertips as she hastily sets the flute on a nearby stand.

  "Miss Starweaver!" Lady Amelia exclaims, her voice pitched high with excitement rather than fear. "How did you do that? Is it a trick?"

  "That was amazing!" Lord Finley abandons his drum, rushing forward to examine the frozen flute. "Can you do it to my drum next?"

  Lyra backs away, tucking her hands behind her back where the evidence of her magic can melt unseen. "I—that is—" Her eyes dart to mine, panic clear in the golden depths.

  "It's a special effect," she manages, voice steadier than I expected. "A...teaching tool. To demonstrate the crystalline quality that proper breath control can produce."

  The children aren't listening. They crowd around the frozen flute, their faces reflecting in its icy surface. Young Lord Percival adjusts his spectacles, examining the frost patterns with academic interest.

  "But how does it work? There must be a mechanism," he says, reaching out a finger to touch the instrument.

  "Careful!" Lyra cautions, moving forward. "It's quite cold. A special...chemical compound. Very rare. Used only for important demonstrations."

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Lyra's usually a terrible liar, but desperation has made her inventive. The children seem to accept her explanation, their noble upbringing having taught them that rare, expensive things exist solely for their education and entertainment.

  "Will it melt?" asks one of the twins, poking at a small icicle forming on the flute's end.

  "Eventually," Lyra says, seizing the teaching opportunity. "Just as a note fades after it's played. Which brings us to our next exercise on sustaining tone—"

  Her attempt to redirect is interrupted by Lady Beatrice, who declares, "I want to learn to do that!"

  The other children chime in with agreement, completely forgetting their instruments in favor of this new fascination. Lyra shoots me another desperate look, and I respond with what I hope is a reassuring smile. I've been her silent support all afternoon, but there's not much I can do to help her escape this particular predicament.

  As she tries to corral the excited children back to their seats, I notice frost still glimmering on her fingertips. Her magic responds to her emotions, and right now, she's fighting a battle on two fronts—keeping her power contained while maintaining her disguise. The royal runaway, teaching music to the children of those who would drag her back to the palace if they knew her true identity.

  I push away from the wall, wondering if I should intervene somehow, but then I see it—the briefest of smiles tugging at the corner of Lyra's mouth as Lady Amelia declares the ice flute "the most beautiful thing ever." Despite her predicament, despite the frustration and fear, there's a spark of pleasure in Lyra's eyes at the children's wonder.

  For all her composure, for all her careful disguises, Lyra's magic wants to be seen. And as I watch her begin to weave an elaborate explanation about "special effects in musical performance," I wonder if perhaps she does too.

  I watch Lyra straighten her shoulders, summoning dignity like armor after the flute incident. The noble children are still chattering about the "special effect," their voices rising and falling like untrained birds. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on Lyra's forehead despite the cool air of the music room. She's trying too hard—to be proper, to be controlled, to be someone she's not. I feel a tightness in my chest, a mixture of sympathy and amusement that leaves me rooted to my spot by the wall. Part of me wants to rescue her; another part knows she needs to learn to navigate these waters alone.

  "Children, please return to your seats," Lyra says, her voice straining for authority. "We have much to accomplish today."

  The frozen flute still sits on its stand, slowly dripping now as it begins to thaw in the warm room. Young Lord Percival keeps glancing at it, his scholarly mind clearly trying to unravel the science behind the "special effect." If he knew the truth—that his temporary music teacher wields ice magic because she's actually the runaway princess of the Holy Capital—I imagine his spectacles would fog with excitement.

  "Lady Amelia, please focus on your violin. Lord Finley, that drum is not a hat." Lyra claps her hands, the sound sharp against the marble walls. I notice she's carefully avoiding touching any of the instruments directly now, afraid her powers might manifest again.

  It's painful watching her suppress her natural abilities. In Harmonious, when we practice magic together in the forest clearing, Lyra's ice powers flow from her like breath—natural, beautiful, and free. Here, she bottles them up, creating pressure that surely must find release. Magic isn't meant to be contained, especially magic tied to emotions.

  "Now, let us attempt a simple harmony," Lyra says, reaching for the conductor's baton. "Watch my movements carefully."

  She raises the slim silver baton with perhaps too much enthusiasm, a gesture more suited to our magic practice sessions than a formal music lesson. The moment the baton reaches its apex, a shower of tiny snowflakes bursts from its tip like a miniature firework display. They cascade down in a glittering spiral, landing primarily on Lady Amelia's violin.

  The girl gasps, not in fear but in delight, as her instrument's polished surface becomes coated in a delicate layer of frost. The patterns swirl and branch, transforming the ordinary violin into something from a winter fairy tale.

  "Another special effect!" Lord Finley exclaims, abandoning his drum entirely now. "Do mine next, Miss Starweaver!"

  Lyra's eyes widen in alarm. "That wasn't—I didn't intend—" She stops, taking a deep breath that turns visible in the suddenly chilled air around her. "Let's consider it a demonstration of... crystalline harmonic theory."

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  I press my lips together to suppress a laugh. Crystalline harmonic theory? She's getting better at improvising explanations, at least.

  The twins exchange glances of pure excitement. "Can we learn that instead of scales?" one asks. "Father would be so impressed if we came home with frost-covered instruments."

  "The frost is merely incidental to the technique," Lyra says, attempting to regain control of both the situation and her magic. Her frustration is palpable as she sighs deeply—and that's when things truly begin to unravel.

  The sigh escapes her lips as a visible cloud that swirls and condenses into a tiny, perfect blizzard no larger than a bread loaf. It hovers for a moment before Lyra's startled face, then begins to dance around the room, leaving a trail of snowflakes in its wake.

  "Oh!" One of the twins points, his flute forgotten. "Look!"

  Before Lyra can respond, her agitation produces another sigh, another miniature snow cloud. This one circles the chandelier once before floating down to hover above Lord Percival's spectacles, dusting them with fine powder.

  "Fascinating," the boy says, removing his glasses to study the rapidly melting evidence. "Is this some form of atmospheric manipulation through sound vibration?"

  Lord Finley doesn't wait for an explanation. He leaps from his seat, hands outstretched to catch the first snow cloud. "I want to touch it!"

  "Please remain seated—" Lyra begins, but it's too late. The other children follow Finley's lead, abandoning their instruments and musical stands to chase the miniature blizzards now multiplying across the room. Each of Lyra's distressed exhalations creates another, until half a dozen snow clouds dance between the crystal chandeliers.

  I shift my weight, debating whether to intervene. Lyra's magical display is relatively harmless—the snow clouds are small and the frost is melting quickly in the warm room—but her cover story is wearing thin. How many "special effects" can one music lesson reasonably contain?

  Yet I stay put. Lyra needs to learn to handle difficult situations if she's ever to reconcile her true identity with her desire for freedom. Besides, there's something captivating about watching her this way—flustered, genuine, the perfect princess facade cracking to reveal the spirited woman beneath.

  "Children, this is not appropriate behavior for young nobles," Lyra attempts, her voice almost drowned out by squeals of delight as Lady Beatrice manages to catch a snow cloud between her palms. It explodes in a puff of snowflakes, covering her face and eyelashes with white powder.

  "It tickles!" she giggles, spinning in circles.

  The harp topples with a discordant twang as Lord Percival bumps it in his pursuit of a particularly elusive snow cloud. Sheet music flutters to the floor, becoming damp as snowflakes land on the pages. One of the twins slips on the increasingly wet floor, sliding several feet before coming to rest against a velvet-cushioned pedestal.

  Lyra's expression cycles rapidly between horror, frustration, and—just for a moment—a flash of amusement. She quickly suppresses the latter, but not before a new, larger snow cloud pops into existence above her head, raining tiny ice crystals onto her blue hair.

  My hands twitch at my sides, muscle memory from our training sessions where I'd often help Lyra focus her powers. But this isn't the forest clearing. This is the Holy Capital, where magic is rare and closely regulated. Where Lyra is hiding in plain sight from those who would force her back into a royal life she fled.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, the door to the music room swings open. A tall, thin man with a severe face and graying temples enters. His immaculate black jacket bears the silver insignia of the Royal Academy of Musical Arts. This must be Master Ellington, the actual music instructor who entrusted his noble students to Lyra's temporary care.

  For a moment, he stands frozen in the doorway, taking in the scene before him: seven noble children sliding across an increasingly icy floor, chasing miniature blizzards that swirl between toppled music stands. Sheet music scattered and damp. Instruments abandoned. And at the center of it all, Lyra Starweaver, snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes, conductor's baton clutched in a white-knuckled grip as frost spreads from her feet in delicate patterns across the floor.

  "What in the name of the Sacred Harmonies is happening here?" His voice cracks like a whip, though only Lady Amelia seems to notice, pausing briefly in her attempt to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

  Lyra turns, her face a perfect mask of mortification as she meets the instructor's gaze. "Master Ellington, I can explain—"

  He doesn't wait for her explanation. His eyes sweep the room once more, lingering on the frozen flute, the frost patterns spreading across the floor, and the children's reddened cheeks and noses in the unnaturally cold room.

  "This is—" he begins, then stops, apparently unable to find words adequate to the situation. He takes a single step backward. "I must speak with the Duchess immediately. This is not what we agreed upon for the children's musical education."

  Before Lyra can respond, he turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway, his footsteps quick and purposeful.

  "Was that Master Ellington?" asks Lord Percival, finally noticing the interruption. "He didn't even say hello."

  "He's gone to get Mother," Lady Amelia says with a knowing air. "You're going to be in trouble, Miss Starweaver."

  This pronouncement seems to pierce Lyra's shock. "Children, please—we must restore order before your parents arrive. Return to your seats immediately."

  Her authority is undermined by a new snow cloud that forms above the conductor's podium, larger than the others. It begins to snow in earnest now, covering the sheet music in a fine layer of white.

  Lord Finley discovers that the floor has become slick enough for sliding. He takes a running start and glides across the room with a whoop of joy. The twins immediately follow suit, their formal shoes perfect for improvised ice skating.

  "Look at me!" calls one, spinning in circles.

  "I can go faster!" challenges the other, nearly colliding with a music stand.

  Lady Beatrice, not to be outdone, attempts a graceful twirl that ends with her sitting abruptly on the icy floor, laughing too hard to stand again.

  "This is the best music lesson ever," declares Lord Finley as he slides past Lyra, whose expression has moved beyond mortification to a kind of numb acceptance.

  I finally push away from the wall, intending to help, but freeze when Lyra's eyes find mine across the chaos of the room. The look she gives me is complex—embarrassment, yes, but also a silent plea for assistance mingled with something that might almost be amusement. Despite everything, a part of her is enjoying this moment of freedom, this release of the power she's been suppressing.

  For a heartbeat, we simply look at each other amid the swirling snow and sliding children. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth—small, conspiratorial, genuine. It transforms her face from the perfect, composed mask she's been wearing to the Lyra I know from our midnight conversations and forest training sessions.

  Then reality reasserts itself as Lord Percival slides into a bookshelf, sending several leather-bound volumes tumbling to the floor. Lyra's expression shifts back to concern, and she mouths what might be "help me" across the room.

  I nod, already moving forward into the winter wonderland that was, just an hour ago, a formal music classroom in the Holy Capital. Somehow, I don't think this is what the Duchess had in mind when she hired a temporary music teacher for her daughter and her noble friends.

  I make my way across the slippery floor toward Lyra, sidestepping a noble boy who slides past me with arms outstretched. The temperature has dropped enough that my breath forms clouds before my face, joining Lyra's magical miniature blizzards in their dance around the chandeliers. Up close, I can see the frost patterns spreading from beneath her slippers, delicate whorls and spirals that seem to follow the rhythm of her quickened breathing. Her eyes meet mine, golden and wide with panic, but beneath that, I see something else—a spark of exhilaration, the thrill of finally letting go, even if by accident.

  "The Duchess will be here any moment," Lyra whispers when I reach her side. Frost crystals glitter on her eyelashes like tiny diamonds. "What am I going to do, Aelia?"

  I glance around at the gleeful chaos of sliding children and swirling snow clouds. "Maybe stop fighting it," I suggest quietly. "Your magic wants to be expressed. Like music."

  A crease forms between her brows. "I can't just—"

  "Miss Starweaver!" Lady Amelia calls, clutching her frost-covered violin. "Can we play with the special effects again? Please?"

  The other children join in the chorus of pleas, their faces flushed with cold and excitement. Even solemn Lord Percival looks eager, his spectacles slightly fogged as he adjusts them on his nose.

  I catch Lyra's eye and give her a slight nod. "They think it's all elaborate mechanical tricks anyway," I murmur. "Why not give them a finale they'll never forget?"

  Something shifts in Lyra's expression—resignation melting into determination, fear into resolve. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin in a gesture so reminiscent of her royal bearing that I'm momentarily startled. For a heartbeat, I see not my friend Lyra but Princess Lyrasarthal Starweaver of the Holy Capital, heir to the throne she fled.

  "Very well," she announces to the children, her voice carrying a new authority. "Let us create one final symphony together. Everyone, return to your instruments."

  The noble children scramble to obey, suddenly attentive in a way they haven't been all lesson. They retrieve their abandoned instruments, positioning themselves in a loose semicircle around Lyra's podium. Even Lord Finley settles behind his drum, his usual restlessness temporarily contained by anticipation.

  "This time," Lyra says, raising the conductor's baton, "we will play together, but differently. I want you to play what you feel—not what's written on the page."

  Lord Percival's hand shoots up. "But the notation specifically indicates—"

  "Today, we break the rules," Lyra interrupts gently. "Music isn't just about playing the right notes—it's about expressing something true." Her eyes flick to mine briefly. "Sometimes the most beautiful music comes when we stop trying to be perfect."

  I smile at her, recognizing the words from our late-night conversations in Harmonious. Lyra's journey away from the rigid expectations of royal life parallels her approach to music—learning to value expression over perfection, freedom over constraint.

  She raises the baton higher. This time, she makes no effort to suppress the magic gathering at her fingertips. Frost spirals up the silver shaft, transforming it into a glittering wand of ice.

  "Follow my lead," she tells the children, "and watch what happens."

  With a flourish that sends snowflakes spinning from the baton's tip, Lyra begins conducting. Lady Amelia draws her bow across the violin strings, producing a sound that's still untrained but somehow less grating than before. The harp follows, then the flutes, each finding a simple melody that weaves with the others.

  The moment the music begins—imperfect but heartfelt—Lyra's magic responds. She channels her power deliberately now, directing it through the ice baton. The frost patterns on the floor pulse with each beat, expanding outward from her feet in concentric circles.

  Then, as Lady Amelia's violin reaches a high, wavering note, something extraordinary happens. The frost gathers itself, rising from the floor like morning mist before solidifying into a delicate ice sculpture—a tiny dancer with arms outstretched, no taller than my hand, perfectly formed and glittering in the chandelier light.

  The children gasp but continue playing, their eyes wide as they watch the sculpture twirl once before freezing in place.

  "Keep playing," Lyra encourages, her voice bright with wonder. "See what your music creates."

  Lord Finley needs no further invitation. He pounds his drum with newfound purpose, a steady rhythm that causes the frost to pulse and gather near his feet. It rises and forms a galloping ice horse, mane and tail flowing as if caught in perpetual wind.

  The twins exchange excited glances before playing a harmonized melody on their flutes. Before them, frost swirls upward to create a pair of intertwined birds, wings outstretched in flight.

  With each note, with each musical phrase—however simple or untrained—a new sculpture forms. Lord Percival's methodical harp playing creates a miniature ice palace with spires and arched windows. Lady Beatrice's hesitant flute notes produce a series of delicate flowers that bloom along the edge of the podium, petals unfurling in crystalline perfection.

  I watch Lyra's face as she conducts this magical symphony. Gone is the panic, the restraint, the careful persona of the proper music teacher. Her eyes shine with the same joy I've seen when we practice magic in the forest clearing—pure delight in her own power, in the beauty she can create when she stops fighting who she really is.

  The ice sculptures multiply as the music continues, filling the space between the children with a fantastical garden of frozen art. A rabbit hops past Lord Finley's drum, leaving glittering pawprints. A school of tiny fish swims through the air near the twins, scales catching light like prisms. Flowers bloom along the walls, their petals as thin as paper and just as detailed as real blossoms.

  "Look what I made!" Lady Amelia cries without stopping her playing, pointing to a fox that has formed beside her chair, its tail curled elegantly around its paws.

  "Mine's bigger!" Lord Finley responds, as his drumming creates a bear rearing on hind legs.

  Even Lord Percival has abandoned his proper posture, leaning forward eagerly as his careful notes produce an owl with intricately detailed feathers perched atop a crystalline branch.

  The door swings open wider, and I glance over to see that we now have an audience. Master Ellington has returned, accompanied by several adults in formal attire—presumably the Duchess and other noble parents. Behind them, servants and courtiers crane their necks to see inside the transformed music room.

  For a moment, I tense, preparing for outrage or alarm. But their faces show only astonishment, mouths slightly open as they take in the winter wonderland that was once a formal classroom.

  "Extraordinary," murmurs a woman with an elaborate coiffure and a gown that matches Lady Amelia's—the Duchess herself, I presume.

  "How is this possible?" asks another noble, his monocle reflecting the glitter of ice sculptures as he surveys the room.

  Master Ellington's severe expression has softened into bewilderment. "In all my years teaching music, I've never seen such... effects."

  They don't recognize magic when they see it, I realize. In the Holy Capital, true magic has become so rare that they assume this must be some elaborate mechanical spectacle, a performance trick rather than genuine power.

  Lyra notices the audience too. For a heartbeat, her concentration wavers, and the baton trembles in her hand. I catch her eye and smile—not the careful, guarded smile I usually wear in the capital, but a real one, full of pride and encouragement.

  Something resolves in her face. Rather than stopping or trying to explain away the magical display, she turns back to her students with renewed purpose.

  "Let's give them a finale," she says, loud enough for only the children and me to hear. "Everyone together now—find a harmony."

  She guides them with gentle movements of her ice baton, helping them find notes that complement each other. What emerges isn't technically impressive—it's simple, childlike music—but it has a sincerity that transforms it into something beautiful.

  As the melody builds, Lyra's magic reaches its crescendo. Ice sculptures grow from every surface, more elaborate than before. A miniature replica of the Holy Capital rises from the center of the room, each spire and dome rendered in perfect frozen detail. Around it, tiny ice people go about their business—shopkeepers with delicate frozen wares, nobles in crystalline carriages, children playing games in sparkling parks.

  The audience at the door has grown, courtiers whispering excitedly to each other, pointing at particularly intricate details. Someone begins to applaud, and others join in, the sound building until it nearly drowns out the children's playing.

  Lord Finley, never one to miss a moment of glory, stands and takes a theatrical bow while still tapping his drum with one hand. The other children giggle but continue playing, clearly loving the attention and wonder they're receiving.

  Lyra conducts them to a final, sustained note. As it fades, she raises the ice baton high, and with a gesture that reminds me of our training sessions, she sends a shower of snowflakes cascading from the ceiling. They drift down gently, catching light from the chandeliers and transforming the already magical scene into something from a dream.

  The applause erupts in earnest now. The Duchess steps forward, her face alight with pleasure. "Miss Starweaver, this is beyond anything we expected. What a delightful surprise!"

  Lyra dips into a perfect curtsy—the movement of a princess, though none here recognize it as such. "Thank you, Your Grace. The children have natural talent."

  As the nobles surge forward to congratulate their children and examine the ice sculptures, Lyra steps back from the podium. Her shoulders drop slightly, tension leaving her body as she exhales a long breath. This time, no snow cloud forms—she's in control now, the magic responding to her will rather than her emotions.

  I move to her side, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "Not bad for your first music lesson," I murmur.

  A smile tugs at her lips, genuine and unrestrained. "I think I failed spectacularly at teaching them proper musical technique."

  "But you succeeded at something more important."

  Her golden eyes meet mine, questioning.

  "You showed them beauty in imperfection," I say. "And yourself too, I think."

  The nobles are too busy admiring the ice garden to pay us much attention. Lyra and I slip toward the back of the room, where the sculptures are already beginning to melt, droplets falling like tears from crystalline petals.

  "I've spent so long trying to be perfect," Lyra says quietly, running a finger along the melting wing of an ice butterfly. "Perfect princess, perfect runaway, perfect impostor. Even in Harmonious, I try to control every aspect of my magic."

  "And now?"

  She looks at the dripping ice sculptures, at the children excitedly showing their parents their frozen creations, at the puddles forming on the once-immaculate floor. "Now I think perhaps there's beauty in letting go. In allowing something to be what it truly is, even if it's messy."

  Her eyes find mine again, and something passes between us—an understanding, a shared moment of truth. I resist the urge to reach for her hand, aware of the watchful eyes of the court.

  "Besides," she adds with a small laugh, "I think I've just been hired to teach 'special effects in musical performance' to every noble child in the Holy Capital."

  I grin. "Your cover as a music teacher just got more convincing."

  "A terrible music teacher."

  "The most memorable one they'll ever have."

  We walk together through the melting remains of the ice garden. A sculpture of two figures—one tall, one slightly shorter—catches my eye. They stand close together, faces turned toward each other, a moment of connection frozen in time. I don't remember seeing the children create this one.

  I glance at Lyra, who is looking at the sculpture with a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Perhaps not all of the magic in this room came from the children's music after all.