“You will begin work with Dr. Halberg and your father’s staff immediately,” LeCun directed. “You must discover what went wrong and fix it. Failure is not an option. Too much rides on this. Do you understand?”
Dazed by too much input, Soren stared blankly at their head of state … who neededhimto solve a crisis. No time to mourn. No adjustment period. Only duty. It was impossible to process. Recalling a cult teaching, he said, “From chaos comes order; from order comes life. I will not let the nation down.”
At least he hoped he wouldn’t.
Chapter twenty-seven
A Kingdom in Counterpoint
Nelanta, the day Roderic Calder returned home, and Adélard Delacroix died
Azaleen sat in a pew in the Universalist Church that evening between her mother, Orielle Frost, and her confidant, Sabine Fontaine, for the students’ end-of-summer piano recital. Sarah and Maggie came too. The church had volunteered the use of its building, which had plenty of seating and a Steinway grand in mint condition—a rarity in the twenty-second century.
Everyone clapped for the little girl who bowed beside the grand, grinning from ear to ear.
“Next,” said the piano teacher, who stood at the lectern, “we have Emma Fox performingStars and Wind, by Catherine Rollin.”
The girl in a sequined blue dress settled herself on the bench, took a deep breath, and began to perform the lyrical standard.
Azaleen’s mother frowned and leaned close. “Who’s that?” It was the third time she’d asked the same question.
“One of the students, Mama,” she answered patiently. “It will be Caelen’s turn soon. Eldrin is next to last.”
“Why?” She peered at Azaleen, confusion clouding her eyes. Maybe this setting posed too much stimulation.
Azaleen whispered, “They perform in order of age from youngest to oldest.”
Orielle seemed satisfied for a few moments, then her gaze began to wander the sanctuary, peering up at candelabras suspended from the rafters, stained-glass windows lifted to admit a breeze, their images blurred, and religious banners arranged with careful symmetry.
The crowd applauded for Emma, who curtseyed rather than bowed.
“Where are we?” Orielle asked, her mind retreating farther into fog.
“We’re at the Universalist Church for Caelen and Eldrin’s recital,” Azaleen repeated. “You said you wanted to come.”
Her mother backed away, looking offended. “Well, I do. This isn’tourchurch. Your dad and I usually attend another one. Edric isn’t here. He must have had important state matters to attend to. You know, Azaleen, you’d do well to learn from him.”
Her most common delusion was that nobody had died: not her husband, his father, Thalen, or Aren. They’d all been gone for over ten years now.
“Yes, Mama,” Azaleen answered softly. “Now, be quiet and listen to Caelen. It’s his turn.”
Her sweet boy with acorn curls sat on the bench while his teacher announced him and his piece—Chopin’sPrelude in E minor. His fingers floated over their starting keys, and, with the most serious air of concentration, he began to play. Azaleen’s heart swelled.
It wasn’t technically demanding, but, if played poorly, the haunting melody vanished beneath the left-hand pulse. Caelen avoided that trap. His touch was light, his phrases breathing with natural rubato that tugged at her emotions.
The hall filled with applause when he took his bow. Azaleen couldn’t help but think how Caelen’s selection embodied the atmosphere and sentiment facing Verdancia at this hour.
He left the platform, and another student came forward to play.
“Chopin, right?” Orielle asked.
Azaleen nodded and put a finger to her lips.
“Thalen played that one,” her mother said, her eyes unfocused. “I remember him practicing it upstairs. He was just playing it the other day—did you hear?”
“That was Caelen, Mama,” she whispered back. “Let’s listen to the music.”
Her mother pulled out a ball of yarn and a crochet hook from her bag to busy herself during several songs.