Fly me up on a silver wingBefore you come in, you have to pass my test, Caleb tells me with great amusement. I roll my eyes. So tired I feel like I've been drugged, and I'm not in the mood for whatever he's up to. Name the composer.
Past the black where the sirens sing
Warm me up in a nova's glow
And drop me down to the dream below
I listen intently. Shostakovich.
Bravo, Princess. Some days you make me so proud.
Few are as morose as he was.
Name another melancholy one.
Tchaikovsky.
Another?
Chopin! Jesus. Are we done?
No, Bridget. Jesus was not a composer, he was a prophet.
And a king. Don't think he didn't compose. Everyone with an overflowing head composes music to keep the voices drowned out.
Do you?
Of course. But my compositions are not set to music.
I'm aware. I suppose you would like your paperwork so you can go ahead with your grand plans to be steerage. Sorry for the delay. I was busy.
Steerage? Give it a rest. And yes, you're late with it.
On the desk. He turns up the music. The conversation is over.
When I go to the desk, there is a stack of four envelopes tied with a grey satin ribbon monogrammed with his initials. CXC. Three envelopes are white, one is dark grey. My heart begins to make the long slow climb toward my throat but I fix my neutral smile, pick up the stack and turn back around.
He switches to Grieg (not morose) and returns my smile with a mischievous one of his own.