Finish Meal
You do not mention it directly, anyway. You mention it obliquely, like… Well, like a Coward.
No! You are no Coward. It is their fault for not understanding you. Probably?
Anise, suddenly and too casually: “The Vicar is due to pass by here tomorrow.”
Ci, in her always-measured tone: “Yes…?”
Fen looks on in mild amusement.
Anise: “Haven’t either of you every thought about presenting a Vocation? You could both probably be chosen!”
Ci, humoring you: “What Vocation?”
Anise: “Ci, your voice! You’re a better Singer than on any Disk I’ve ever recorded!” It’s true. You didn’t hear her use it for Song until three years ago, when you were twelve and she was eighteen. You caught her using her smoky, textured voice to imitate a Disk the three of you had borrowed from an acquaintance in Towne. With her Precious Headphones on, she’d barely realized she had been singing along. But her interpretation was well beyond anything on that Disk. She added a vibrant and dangerous Soul to what had been just a quaint tune. Since then, Ci has occasionally set aside her cool manner to indulge in Song, and those are the times you like her best.
If Jazz existed, you would credit Ci with inventing it. The Cræft Catalogues that the Office of the Vicegerent publishes every year, and of which you have quietly collected as many Volumes as possible, usually do an injustice to the Vocation of Music. Its Value is after all so very difficult to capture on Paper.
Ci looks away, then puts on her authoritative mask. “It’s not for us.”