He left the room and set himself adrift along the hallways. They were strewn with trails of gold and the mist-foam of gaslight, subdued behind globes of opaque glass. It was impossible to tell which way led to the kitchens; it was impossible to tell if the house had ways, or if it simply spread its endless rooms and halls with a complete indifference to sense.

But then a current guided his drifting. The sound of an instrument came to him in waves and drew him in. He could not quite tell what it was: he thought it sounded rather like a shy pipe organ. He reached a small study and stood by its open doors. Armand was there, wearing a richly-embroidered red robe, and sitting at a small bizarre-looking organ that was embellished with motifs of blazing autumn leaves. He brushed at its keyboard with the half-hearted reluctance of someone attempting polite conversation. It was dispiriting to watch. Percy almost felt compelled to apologize, if only to distract Armand from such despondency. He kept himself moored to the doors, remembering the beast's earlier display of rage.

"Well... I suspect it's not worth much, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Armand's mane of dark hair loomed like a mountain as he faced Percy. Percy could see the first spurs of anger crackle in his features and twitch at his whiskers. But then, to Percy's surprise, Armand took a deep breath, deep as the cave of his voice, and bowed his head once in a regal, solemn nod.

"It's alright. I know you don't understand."

Percy suspected it had taken a considerable amount of effort on the beast's part to not fly into a rage again, and he supposed such an effort should be commended. He also wondered if the fur on Armand's face would soften the impact on his fist were he to punch him. He joined his hands behind his back and dug his nails into the skin of his wrist to forget his anger; he was finally learning how to use hands. Here was a perfect opportunity to gather more information on Armand and his curse. Percy knew, from personal experience, that while the relief of being understood was at times enough to make someone talk, nothing compared to the pleasure of feeling superior by speaking of oneself to another and not being understood.

"What do I not understand?" he asked.

Armand sighed. It could not rightly be called a sigh: it was desert wind blowing over old sand and shaping lonely dunes.

"I have a gift, you see. But my gift is also a curse."

Percy decided it would be best to not roll his eyes just yet. Instead, he kept quiet, and trusted that Armand, as other men who fancied themselves great, would see in that silence nothing more than a gap for his words to fill.

"Only a chosen few have this gift. For those of us who do, we have the opportunity to make something of ourselves, to achieve a greatness that will sear our names in history. Now that that gift has been taken away from me, how am I to fulfil my destiny?"

Percy felt the enticing pull of a familiar story. I have a gift. I have a destiny. I was chosen. He knew well how to shape those words in his mouth, and he was resentful he could no longer taste them. He did not even have a talent he could mourn the loss of – unlike Evans, who would require a battalion of testy fae before he could be stripped of his every quality. Percy stifled a grunt. He could smell the acrid smoke of his own envy rising from within. He had perhaps not acknowledged it enough – that every day he had spent riding with Evans had been a day of putting out his own fires. He had managed to quell them into embers, but not quite into ash, and words like "destiny" were tinder.

"Am I boring you?" Armand sniffed. His whiskers perked up like brush wires as he scrunched up his nose in annoyance.

"Not in the least. Please, go on."

"This city had finally come to respect my music" Armand rumbled. "It took years, they did not understand my art at first. But I won them over. They let me into their most prestigious concert halls. They gave me flowers, threw me flowers. But one day, my gift started to... deplete. I knew I had to find my inspiration again, and I did. I found my muse. She was perfect – so eager, so... young. I had a responsibility to teach her: her education was woefully lacking, and her taste common. But she grew resentful, and I... grew tired of her unwillingness to improve and better herself, if not for her sake, then for my own."

"Right. And how many muses did you go through before a sorceress came along and cursed you for being an ass to them?"

Armand smashed the keyboard, and the organ bellowed out a cry that made Percy shiver out of his shoes.

"How dare you! What do you know of it? I idolized those women!" the beast barked.

"Word about town is that you were cursed for being beastly. Now I know to whom."

Armand rose from his seat, part lion, part blaze as the flames from the fireplace reflected off his red robe and his red rage. He leapt in front of Percy.

"And what did that sorceress know?" he snarled. "What does she know of great men and great art? What right does she have of demanding brilliant music of me, music that no other man could compose, and yet expect me to carry on like any other man?"

A fat droplet of drool made its viscous way down his maw. Percy was eaten whole by sudden fear, but he forced himself to keep staring up at the beast. The pain of it was unbearable: he could feel himself being torn limb from limb as he was stretched between where he was now, mere inches from Armand, and where he desperately wished to be, somewhere dark, hidden, and far away.

"And h... how did she curse you exactly?" he managed to stammer out, hoping the question would remind Armand of how much more interesting he was himself compared to that silly young stick of a man.

It seemed to work. Armand gave another of his desert-wind sighs and started pacing about the room with his hands behind his back. Every great monologue needed stage directions.

"She tricked me. I thought she would be my next muse. I knew nothing of her sorcery. Of course I was impatient. I didn't snap, or mistreat her. I just forgot she was there. And I warned her when she was taking up space my music needed. Perhaps I was a little ill-tempered, but then what? It's how I am. I have this gift. My head is always full of music. Nothing matters beyond it. I don't have time to think of mundane things. That's what other people are for. The people of this city understand that now. But she didn't. She transformed me into this hideous creature, and worst of all, she stole my gift. I can't compose anymore. Or at least, I can't compose anything great. Anything that's not mere hack work. Nothing remotely worthy of a masterpiece. And all this, right as I was composing my ode for this year's festival. The city needs me to win. And all I have now is... is... drivel and babble worthy of tavern songs! They all expect me to write something brilliant, and this is what I have to show them!"

He stomped over to the organ, ripped away the music sheets he had been scribbling on, and fed them to the fire with a cruel delight.

"She must have told you of a way to break the curse. In my limited experience, that's what they like to do. There's no fun in it if they don't watch you squirm a bit."

Armand glared at him, which Percy took as the surest sign that he was right.

"I must find a muse who will have me. Only then can the curse be broken and my gift returned to me."

"Shouldn't be that hard. It sounds like you've had plenty of muses before."

Armand stood in front of Percy, large and looming and all of him brooding. Percy looked away from him. He felt thick fingers of sweat grip at his throat. The study was getting suffocating, crowded with what they both knew very well, and neither was saying aloud. Percy did not know what Armand looked like before his curse, but he assumed he must have had at least some charm. And charm no doubt was harder to exercise when he looked as he acted: as a raging beast and a spoiled kitten.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

With a theatrical flourish of his robe, the master of the house grumbled and thundered his way back to the organ. He held his paws over the keyboard, but did not play.

"Why did you drag me in here? Just for picking a rose?" Percy raised his voice from the doorway. "How long will you keep me here?"

Armand merely shrugged, and kept his attention fixed on the keyboard. Percy wrinkled his nose in a grimace. He had expected such a reply, but it still enraged him. Nothing mattered beyond the music, even when it did not come. And Percy was merely a speck of dust that listened.

"What about Delia?" he insisted. He could at least be a loud speck of dust. "Why is she here?"

"She understands me. She inspires me. And she gives me the space I need" Armand growled.

"If you need that much space, why did you bring her in in the first place?" Percy scoffed. "I don't think you need space. I think you need to feel big to write big things, and you don't know how to feel big unless you're crowding someone out."

"She is lucky to be here!" Armand snarled, banging his paws on the instrument. It gave out a little wheezing moan. "Her life beyond this house was dull and unremarkable. At least here I can give her access to great music and great art. What did she have before I brought her here? Nothing. A provincial upbringing and miserable piano lessons that wouldn't have taken her anywhere. A life so disgustingly banal that I would weep for it, were my feelings not devoted to higher matters."

Percy clenched his fists and muttered through gritted teeth. He did not know if it was courage that drove him now, or the frustrating realization that far more people seemed to deal in higher matters and destined greatness than he did.

"Higher matters?! What higher matters? You just climb up this stupid stepladder of your own making and think you can see the world from there."

And then, Percy left, for he was certain he would feel very small and squishable if he remained there and gave Armand a chance to react.

He stormed away from the study and down the corridor, but the house's silence son intimidated him into a quieter step. That heavy, dusty quiet reminded him of something. It reminded him of churches.

Enough distractions; he had to find the kitchen door. But with so much talk of higher matters and great things, he was beginning to doubt the house had a kitchen at all.

The sound of an instrument came to him once more. It reached him clearly, as clearly as that odd organ Armand was playing. Every other sound in the house, steps, cutlery, fire, clacking doors and creaking chairs, seemed muffled and cowed into submission, cowering in corners. Only the instruments were unafraid to sound.

This time, the sound led him to a wider and brighter room. It had light blue silk wallpaper, a harpsichord along with a few other string instruments, a small gathering of empty chairs, and, by the window, Delia, plucking at a psaltery. She looked up at him as he entered, and for the first time since he had met her, gave him a smile that was not pinched or slanted with hidden meanings.

"Well? Did you apologize?"

Percy scowled, but went to her nevertheless. He tried not to glance out the window. He had the disquieting feeling that the garden outside no longer existed, and neither did his friends. It struck him that he had never thought of them as friends until now. He had never dared to, so practiced was he in luring himself into a false sense of insecurity.

"Are you never frightened of Armand?" Percy asked, leaning on a chair.

"I wouldn't say never. A little, sometimes. But I don't let it get to me. I'm better than that. It beats having a husband. And there's this wonderful music room I can use. It has instruments I didn't even know of before I came here. I play a little."

Percy's eyebrows arched in surprise. She did not look up, and instead kept her fingertips fluttering listlessly on the strings of the psaltery, no longer plucking, but only lifting from them the lightest of whispers.

"Were you in imminent danger of marriage?" he asked.

"How could I not be? At my age and with my prospects?" she sneered. "My family isn't well-off, and as for earning a living... People here adore the idea of women playing privately as much as they abhor the idea of women playing professionally. I just want to tend to my music. But no employment I could ever find with decent pay would leave me enough time for it."

"So the only option left was marriage."

"Yes. Which rather cancels the 'option' bit."

Percy held his breath for a moment. Only then could he hear the hushed secrets that she drew from the psaltery with absent-minded tenderness. It was beautiful. She played beautifully, even when she was barely playing.

"Do you know about his curse?" he asked eventually.

"Oh. He's told you about it too?"

"Only because I asked."

"It's killing him, you know? Being unable to compose anything worthy. That's what's worse in this curse for him – not the beast he was turned into. He remembers too clearly how it feels to write a masterpiece, and to be adored for it. In his last concerts they always gave him flowers – roses, no less."

Percy rummaged around in his mind to remember the words Armand had used.

"He said all he could compose now was drivel worthy of tavern songs."

"Did he? Of course he did. That's what he used to compose before he set his sights on nobler genres, you know? Drinking songs and some music for the theatre. Nothing like the brilliant things he writes now – certainly nothing that would ever get him picked for the festival. Don't ever tell him I told you that, though, he's terribly ashamed of it."

"Have you considered he might be planning to make you his new muse?"

Delia had a little chuckle that sounded hollow and stiff to his ears.

"That's nonsense. I don't inspire him."

"But he seems to value your company."

"I manage his schedule and his household. That's all."

"And his moods."

"The moods of a genius" she countered sternly, returning her attention to the psaltery with a frown. "It's not much to endure in return for what he brings to the world. If there are ways for me to aid his greatness, however small they may be, I will do all I can."

Percy slumped down in the chair closest to her. He'd heard all these words often before; but now that they were not applied to himself, they sounded like they were tossed about carelessly. Gifts, destinies and chosen heroes: Delia and the master of the house spoke the language of predestined greatness with a fluency that only natives ever achieved.

Percy stared sullenly at Delia as she plucked at the psaltery. He felt an odd repugnance for how quick she was in declaring her vassalage to Armand's brilliance. Somewhere between a minor chord and an augmented third, he realized why. This eagerness to serve the purpose of another, this readiness to hack and splinter and chip away at her life so that its grounded dust might cushion all of Armand's falls – this was what Percy had expected of others; this was what was expected of him now. The thought of it made dread crawl through him. Even if he would be doing it for Evans.

Even if? Why did those words come to him like well-meaning strangers?

"I can tell you're feeling a little tense. Shall I play something for you? I've been practicing some of his new pieces so that I can play them back to him whenever he needs me to. I think this is one of his best so far. And to think that man started out writing mere ditties!"

Before he'd had a chance to respond, Delia graced the psaltery strings with a firmer touch of her fingers. Her claim of "playing a little" would have been true, had she modified it ever so slightly: she played a little too well. She was one of the best musicians Percy had ever heard. Each note she sounded came to her with grace, and she greeted them with effortless delight.

But the piece she was playing was another matter. Percy considered standing up, but the moment she began playing, it was no longer an option; he was compelled to stay sitting down. And stay, and stay, and feel his time sweat out of him and pool at his feet in a puddle of hours. He had not known until then that sound could be so heavy, that it could have his bones and flesh ground down onto the polished parquet of the music room. The piece was not dull, exactly; it would be wrong to say it was dull. Dull was for half-hearted speeches, sluggish monday mornings and thrice-eaten rations on the trail. This was not dull; this was perched so far above in the stratospheric heights of its own greatness that it would never stoop to being dull. This was ostentatiously ponderous. Every bloated chord, every melody stretched on the rack of pompous harmonies, every note grandly condescended to tell Percy something he already knew.

He wished, wanted, needed nothing more than to have that elephant of major chords and perfect cadences roll off his chest, but the weight of the music pinned him to his chair. He waited, in vain, for signs that the piece would end soon; and they came, but only to taunt him by dangling bombastic cadences that promised a conclusion, and immediately broke that promise with sadistic joy. There were pauses, at times; but they were merely scraps of silence that had tried and tried to squeeze through the dense crowd of chords, yet had not managed to escape. Percy sat there, commiserating, just as unable to escape. He cursed whatever curse bound him to that chair out of respect for music that could only ever be endured, and never enjoyed.

Delia lifted her hands from the instrument, and the elephant at last lifted mercifully from his chest. She sat in silent reverence and contemplation, holding her back straight and her eyes closed as she recovered from the greatness of what had just passed.

Percy was recovering, too. Positively convalescing. He inhaled and coughed on a stray minor fifth that had not dissipated quite yet. He wanted to breathe easy, but he still couldn't: he was held hostage by that gesture of hers, her hands still hovering over the silence of the stilling strings.

She dropped them at last, and his body dropped with them.

"Isn't it marvellous?" she smiled at Percy.

"It's... unbelievable" he said. It was not, strictly speaking, a lie.

Then his head turned to a golden clock that ticked and taunted on the mantelpiece, and his jaw fell open. An eternity had passed. His head snapped back to Delia. Her grin now had a slight malice to it, as she savoured the power her playing had held over him.

"It's late" he mumbled, too exhausted and confused to fully display his frustration.