Curnen
hated “
The Queen of Argyll” with every fiber of her being. It was insipid for one thing, and for another it was the song she had a habit of falling back on whenever Bliss outshone her. Okay, rather, when Bliss outshone her and it pissed her off.
Curnen was pushing herself too hard and she knew it, but if she didn't spend the entire day with her guitar, she wasn't going to have any chance of re-rooting herself at all. She stayed close to the inn, crossed legged in the grass with her instrument in her lap to keep her from bolting. Apparently she'd spent about a week with the coyotes after the fun surprise that was the last arrival day. She couldn't remember most of it. She barely remembered running away.
She was fine.
This was fine.
The fact that she'd forgotten to comb her hair today didn't mean anything, nor did the way her fingers felt too thick and she played rather like she had months ago, too slow and clumsy to keep up with her voice.
She was singing at any rate. Never mind talking got hard all over again. She was singing.
Edward, Edward. The Fisherman’s Song. A Maid in Bedlam. She Moved Through the Fair. Wake Up, Little Maggie. Black is The Color. Wind and Rain. And round and round and piercing through swanned the fucking Queen of Argyll. Round and round so many times that the words began to lose all shape and she knew she was just saying meaningless syllables but they still
sounded like words and still the feeling wouldn’t go away or get any better and and and--
And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movement
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty of
The Queen of all Argyll