Achilles nodded and bent over the lyre. I did not have time to wonder
about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all my thoughts
were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It
was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a
texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few
hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyes as he played. They were fine as
lyre strings themselves, and shone.
He stopped, pushed back his hair, and turned to me.
“Now you.”
I shook my head, full to spilling. I could not play now. Not ever, if I
could listen to him instead.

Chapter 4