Modern Magick

Music and Misadventure: 7

'Right, then,' I said, searching in vain for somewhere to stuff my new collection of music. 'New plan?'

'Find the lyre-thief,' said Mother promptly.

'You think it was stolen?' said Jay.

'Sounds like it.'

'By whom?'

'How should I know?'

Jay did his arms-folded-and-staring thing. 'It occurs to me that you might have been the last person to see that lyre.'

'If I was, why would I be looking for it now?'

'Are you looking for it now?'

'Why else would I be here?'

Jay shrugged.

Mother gave a sigh, and rubbed at her eyes. 'It's possible that it went missing on the night that I saw it,' she allowed. 'But if it did, it certainly wasn't me that took it.' She paused. 'Not that I wouldn't have, given half a chance. It had that effect on people.'

'What effect?' Jay said, looking at Mother intently.

She shrugged. 'You couldn't see it, and hear it played, without wanting it. That's why they kept it in a vault, I suppose.'

'The effect is long-lasting, it seems,' said Jay.

'In that I still want it, three decades later? Mm.'

That noncommittal mm at the end sounded off to me. 'Is there anything you haven't told us, Mother dear?' I said. 'Is this only about the lyre?'

'What do you mean?'

I mimicked Jay's folded-arms posture and icy stare. 'What about the lyre-player that you mentioned?'

'Could he have taken it?' said Jay.

Mother spread her hands. 'I don't know. Perhaps he could have.'

'Who is he?' I prompted.

'I never knew his name.'

'That's going to make it pretty difficult to find him, then, isn't it?'

'Few people can play a lyre like that. It can't be that hard to track him down.'

I felt like grabbing my mother and shaking her silly. 'Mother. Please. Just tell us the whole story.'

Mother gave me a tight-lipped nope look.

'Ves,' said Jay. 'I know this is a highly inappropriate question, but...'

'But?'

'How old are you?'

'Thirty—' I stopped.

'Thirty-one,' said Mother. 'And a bit.'

My mouth felt suddenly dry. 'And how long ago was this wild party you've never forgotten?'

She smiled, very faintly. 'Thirty-two years, or thereabouts.'

There followed one of those pauses people call pregnant. In this case, it was pregnant with an imminent explosion courtesy of me. 'No,' I said, backing away. 'I know my father. His name is Richard Rosser and he's a dragon photographer. Last known location somewhere in Croatia.'

'It probably is Richard,' said Mother.

'Probably?'

'I've never been certain. And that's eaten away at me over the years.'

I said a few inarticulate things at considerable volume.

Jay, rather uncharacteristically, came my way and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. 'Calm,' he said. 'Everything will be fine.'