"Yes, that's me. And what on earth are you doing here?"

"We've come to break Armand's curse" Evans said, holding up an appeasing hand, while his other hand remained ready to answer his sword.

Delia turned to Percy and narrowed her eyes into a glare.

"I knew you had a reason to pick that rose" she hissed.

"So did you."

He realized how childish he sounded, though Delia seemed just as ready to continue the exchange with all the tongue-pulling and grimacing required, and he respected her for it. He could not help it; he seemed every time to be unable to rise to the occasion.

"Why wouldn't you want us to break his curse?" Evans asked.

There was no hint of confusion or impatience in his voice: just his own earnest curiosity reaching out to her. She softened at it.

"Please don't tell him that I picked that rose on purpose."

It would be wrong to say she pleaded; her opening "please" had been little more than protocol. It sounded as all voices sounded at dinner tables when someone asked to please pass the salt.

"I'm doing well here, and he is doing well with me. It would be stupid to end that. And for what? I know very well I don't qualify as his muse. This was the only way for me to live comfortably, unmarried, and with enough time for my music. He doesn't need to know that I came here for that. I run his house, make sure he feeds himself, I weather his tempers, humour his whims, listen to his music and help him perfect it. And I want nothing else – truly! His music is not of this world. Do you know how extraordinary it is to be by his side while he creates and struggles?"

Valeria shrugged. Percy knew at once from Delia's indignant expression that it had not been the right reaction.

"I've known plenty of extraordinary people. I found most of them to be very unpleasant" said Valeria. "By which I mean, I found them to have a stick so far up their arse they spewed splinters from their mouths."

Delia froze further into her defensive stance.

"We both get something from this. Me and him. Why should I get nothing just so he can have a true muse, and for the curse to break? It is a stupid curse."

"That's something we can agree on" Evans reacted at once.

Percy turned to him in surprise. This was not Evans' usual diplomatic tone, a reliable oak core, every inch padded with smooth velvet. This stirred, rather than soothed. This had the crackle of rekindled flame.

"That's why I don't want you to break it" she pleaded now, as though Evans' words had thawed her. "He'll need to find someone else for that to happen, someone blank and empty and easy to flatten, who will break the curse by being his all-devoted muse. And I'll be thrown out in an instant."

"He cares for you, I think" Percy said. "Perhaps he would not be so quick to throw you out."

"He cares, yes" she smiled. "But if there's a chance of him getting his gift back by breaking the curse, he will have to take it. Not just for himself, but for the sake of everyone in this city."

"This is ridiculous" Valeria rolled her eyes.

"I understand you don't want to leave" Evans said, his voice returning to softened velvet. "But we have to break the curse, if not for his sake or yours, then for the servants who were turned into objects. What if there was a way to break it without having to find him a muse at all?"

"That's not possible" she murmured. "That's how the curse was written – he told me himself."

"I know. But that doesn't mean it's the only way the curse can be read. Could you please take us to him?"

Delia arched one eyebrow, just enough to show her surprise, but not so much that it would brighten off the scepticism on her face. Evans made for the door and glanced back at Valeria. They shared a look of silent understanding. She edged closer to Delia, and Percy guessed at once what they had just agreed on: keep Delia from interfering by any means possible, if any means preferable were found wanting.

The five of them filed out of the room, leaving a trail of muffled steps as they travelled along the darkened hallways. For all its lavish, gilded ornamentation, Percy found the house sterner than ever in the stuffy silence nurtured within those walls. Each mirror they passed seemed to hush them and remind them they were not worthy of sounding in those halls. It all had the feel of high-born intimidation, and Percy's body recoiled into a safe, respectable smallness. Beside him, Myrtle too looked a little cowed: she hunched her shoulders as though to make her unremarkable appearance more unremarkable still. But, striding ahead of them as he followed Delia, Evans seemed as unconcerned by the shushing and tutting halls as Percy expected him to be. He did not walk or speak louder than he needed to, or puff his chest with engorged confidence; but he did not flinch or tiptoe either. He owned each inch of space that was his own, with no instinct to either cede or conquer.

Delia stopped in front of the closed double doors of the music room. They could hear a faint string of sound on the other side, notes wandering aimlessly along a keyboard.

"He never sleeps" she explained in a barely audible murmur, cringing at the very act of speaking while he played. "My bedroom is just next door, in case he needs to rouse me to speak of an idea he had, or to play me something he just composed."

Valeria rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Evans nodded to Delia before turning to Valeria.

"I'll need to use a gap" he said gravely.

A gap. It had all the might and weight of an old word. She nodded. Percy looked from one to the other, waiting for an explanation. He bristled when he realized none would come.

"A gap? What gap?" he asked.

He glanced at Myrtle, now that he knew she held secret knowledge gleaned from unused libraries, but she looked as confused as him. As for Delia, she was not listening at all: she was staring down the double doors with an unflinching look of hope and dread.

"I'm sorry that I can't explain right now" Evans said to Percy with all the softness of sincerity, "but I promise you, I'll tell you as soon as I am able to."

It was what a worthy parent might say to a child, yet Percy did not feel spoken down to. Evans closed his eyes before gripping the door handles and swinging them wide open.

On the other side, sitting in indulgent despondency at the harpsichord, Armand's feline features looked up at them. He sprung up from the red velvet stool like a scalded cat.

"What is this? Who are you and how dare you set foot in my domain?" he roared.

Percy hissed as Armand's howl crashed over him. Of course it was a matter of domains. Beasts and lords had lairs and fiefdoms; only mere mortals had homes. From the corner of his eye, Percy saw Evans' feet lift just an inch above the polished parquet. And then, steady and calm, they eased back down onto the floor.

"My lord" Evans spoke, raising a hand to his heart before bowing down low, lower ever than Percy had seen him bow to the fae they had crossed. "Please forgive our intrusion. We promise we are not usually this ill-mannered, but you will understand, I hope, that our passion for your music drives us to wild doings that society would frown upon."

Percy widened his eyes. He realized, in an awe-struck moment, that he had never seen Evans lie. Not truly. As he listened to him now, Percy wondered at how well that man went about jewel-smithing every elegant detail of his deception, with the skill and devotion of the practiced craftsman.

Even Armand looked taken aback. He placed a great conquering paw on the finely painted harpsichord.

"What are you going on about?" he growled, although Percy could hear the stirrings of a purr in his voice.

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"We are strangers to this city, and have travelled quite a long way to partake of the divine music it has to offer – yours in particular" Evans went on, only now raising himself back up from his bow. "We were hoping to hear you at a concert, and were devastated to learn you now never leave your domain. Of course, that made us want to see it, and we were walking past the house when we heard you playing. And we thought... well, we did not think at all, that was the problem. We felt compelled to come closer, and, upon finding an open door, we came in, in hopes of hearing you play. I realize now how foolish I sound for saying it, but your music makes fools of us all."

Percy, who had kept his eyes fixed on Evans, now turned to look at Armand. Anyone with a pair of eyes and the will to use them would have doubted Evans' claims upon seeing Valeria: she stood beside him with an expression as far removed from adoring foolishness as there could ever be. But Armand, after his first roaring instinct, seemed willing, eager even, to believe the intruder's words, and to revel magnanimously in them.

"Well, it's... been quite some time since I've had visitors as yourselves. And I don't just play for any stranger who walks uninvited into my halls."

"Of course" Evans said at once before bowing once more. "Our deepest apologies for the intrusion. We will leave at once so that you may carry on composing untroubled."

"But since you have come from so far" Armand said almost immediately, "I could play you a piece. Just one. I care not for what others think of my music, for true artists do not concern themselves with such trifles. But I am no monster who would send away someone so devoted to art without first satisfying their noble passion."

Percy frowned, trying to swallow down his distaste. Armand was all of him preening with pride, and Percy could almost see his fur rippling and shining as he gestured widely, wide enough to fit the entire world in each of his words. He had the manner of a king gracing his subjects with his splendour.

"We do not deserve it – that would be an honour beyond any ever bestowed upon us" came Evans' response, melting like candle-wax brought too close to flame.

Armand paraded back to the harpsichord, letting the weight of his words and gestures and beastly shape collapse upon the velvet stool. Its creaks of protest were soon muffled by the unfurling thunder of Armand raising his arms and clacking the long sleeves of his robes.

"What shall I play for you, then? A reduction of one of my symphonies? Or perhaps one of my quartets?"

"Oh – in truth, we were hoping to hear some of your older work, master."

"My older work? Surely you can't mean my opera overtures. Frightful amateur slop."

Percy caught the whispered shift in Evans' body, like a cat tensing ahead of the pounce.

"No, not that. Your older work still, your first work. Your drinking songs."

Delia drew in her breath sharply. When the unspeakable was spoken, it tended to stir and prod the air into gasps. Armand let out a little squawk of disarmed surprise, but soon resumed the more intimidating demeanour that befit him.

"My... drinking songs?! I would thank you, sir, not to ever mention such filth again!"

"But why not? They've brought us a lot of joy over many a year. Far more joy, I must admit, than your current work" Evans said with merciless simplicity.

"It is not a matter of bringing joy!" Armand roared, slamming his paws down on the harpsichord. It shuddered in a choir of quivering strings.

"Perhaps not. But I believe it should not be a matter of killing it, either."

"You are uncouth and uncultured, and you understand nothing" the beast hissed. "Drinking songs! They are unworthy of any true artist It was not me back then. I did not know what I was doing. I had not found my muses. Now be gone; I cannot waste my time on you when the city waits for me to compose something worthy of the festival."

"But I am the city, too" Evans said, his grin sharpening in fierce enjoyment. "And on that second point, I must reassure you: the city has chosen someone else to represent it in the festival."

A deafening silence held the room in its grasp for a long moment. When it loosened its hold at last, Armand threw back his mane-heavy head and tore into a soul-wrenching howl. A shiver crawled over Percy and made his hair stand to attention. Armand's howl had sounded like a mewling cat, but it had felt terribly human.

"That's a lie!" Delia seethed, turning on Evans.

"How would you know?" Valeria countered. "You've been in here for a while, but we've just come from outside."

"How could they betray me like this!" Armand wailed.

He scratched his paws on his robes, each claw an inch away from ripping out the fine embroidered fabric. An infuriated roar sent his arms storming, toppling down three chairs at once. Even Valeria, who Percy was certain had witnessed her fair share of tantrums in her nanny days, seemed shaken: her arms looked locked in place more than comfortably crossed.

"They didn't betray you. They still sing your drinking songs in the tavern" Evans said with a smile. "No other composer can claim that honour."

Percy felt the twitch of a threat in the room. He knew it came from Armand's enraged growls, but he still could not take his eyes off Evans.

"Honour? Honour?" Armand hissed in a shudder of disgust. "Those songs can bring no honour. They belong in the gutter."

"The gutter has its uses, too. I would not be so quick to dismiss it."

Evans drew a step forward, his eyes trapping Armand in their unrelenting focus. It was only then that Percy noticed Myrtle was holding back Delia. The girl's expression twisted in concern, but she was not struggling; in fact, she seemed thankful to be given an excuse for staying back.

A brushstroke of crimson caught his eye. From the folds of her blue tabard, Valeria revealed a red rose from the garden. She held it up, her fingers curled around its fragrant head, threatening to tighten her hold and choke off its petals. Upon seeing it, Armand let loose another howl and lunged at Valeria, but Evans stepped in front of him at once.

"I would be obliged, master, if you would do us the honour of playing one of your drinking songs" he said with all the calm in the world.

"You cannot destroy it!" the beast huffed in a panic, his jowls stretched over his teeth in a horrible grimace.

"We won't. Will you please play for us?"

Evans gestured towards the harpsichord. Armand sat down at it once more, but gingerly this time, guarded, squeamish almost, as though he feared those ivory white teeth might bite him to avenge past violence.

"Why do you want me to play it so much?" he mumbled, his broad-boar shoulders hunched under his robe. "They're meaningless scraps of music, all of them."

"I don't believe so, and I suspect you don't either" Evans smiled still. "I believe you enjoyed them, when you allowed yourself to. When you were not so eager for greatness and glory. Now that those are out of your reach, will you keep denying yourself the joy that may remain?"

Percy was enthralled by the ruthlessness of Evans' words. His voice was still soft to the touch, as soothing as Percy had ever heard it; but under the velvet, he could feel now the glint of a blade.

Under Evans' steadfast gaze, Armand started to play. It sounded absurd at first, laughably out of place: Percy recognized the drinking song he had first heard in the tavern, with each note gilded and polished by the timbre of the harpsichord. After the first few bars, Armand rebelled.

"This is ridiculous" he growled, scrunching up the notes by slamming into the keys.

"Then be ridiculous."

Evans stood by the harpsichord, looking down at Armand. There was something in his soft voice that could topple. The beast flinched under Evans' blunt words, but soon gathered enough courage to place his paws back on the keys and start over.

This time, the music sounded like a stranger, but not an intruder. After the first few self-conscious chords, it unwrapped from Armand's fingers with gladness. The light simplicity with which the music was spun could not be further from the lumbering, majestic weight of Armand's piece that Delia had played for Percy. Then, no note had moved an inch without first having a valet announce it; but this piece went everywhere unannounced. Each note was a sleight of hand, each shift in the rhythm an invitation to trip. And yet, it was disarmingly simple. Percy thought it brilliant. Armand's ease with it grew with each measure.

"The sorceress who cursed you" Evans said while Armand played. "As I understand it, she cursed you to be incapable of composing until you found a muse who would have you as you are now. Only then would you be changed back, and your greatness restored. This was her curse, was it not? I put it to you that you have broken it already. You simply have not noticed it yet. You can compose. You do not need a muse. And if you do not need a muse, there is no curse for you to break."

"That's not true" Armand shook his head, though he kept playing. "The enchantress said – she said I would not be able to compose unless I..."

"But are you not proving her wrong as we speak? I may be mistaken, but..." Evans said, not with the careless haste of one eager to brush such an admission away, but calmly, affording the words the time they needed to mean. He glanced back at Percy as he spoke them. "I believe she said you would be unable to compose anything great. But you do not need to compose anything great. You do not need to write a masterpiece. Your being does not depend on it. And you do not need a muse to write drinking songs. That sorceress has nothing on you."

Armand looked up from the keyboard, between a c-sharp and a breath. His expression was almost grotesquely distorted with confusion. But he played on.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice pitched high above his usual low growl.

"I believe you may bear two curses, but solving the first will solve the second" Evans smiled. "Your first curse is your gift. Well, not your gift itself: the value you place on it, and the greatness you expect it to bring you. You value it over yourself and others. You must perhaps accept that, while you may have delighted in it in the past, you now value it so much above happiness that it can only bring you misery. If you do, the second curse is broken, because its foundations collapse. No need to recover your talent, no need to be a genius, no need for a muse, if you have no need for greatness. There is still music to be had without it."

Percy watched, mesmerized, as the thick fur of Armand's mane seemed to bristle and prickle as Evans spoke.

As every nobleman and prince, and as every commoner who aspired to such glittering ranks, Percy was well-educated in music. Other lessons, such as geography and mathematics, he had been wrung through and grinded by; but music he had learned gladly. He knew what voices were made of, and how instruments made sound. He knew it, but he was rarely ever reminded of it beyond the confines of his lessons. Yet now, now he was reminded of it. He knew voices came from strings, stretched taut in every living neck. But he had never before heard the strings in a voice. Now he felt them as Evans spoke, bowed or plucked in words long or brief. He had heard the viol played in many a concert, and he recognized the grain of its timbre now in Evans' speak-singing mouth.

"Give up my gift? But it's my life!" Armand mewled. And he played on, each note tinkling from the harpsichord like a jewelled trinket lost in treasure.

"Then, by all means, let it be your death."

Percy had never before heard such pitch-black tar in Evan's voice. It lasted only a moment. Evans placed his hands on the harpsichord and leaned over Armand.