The lute is custom made for his small size, slender fingers, and petite body structure. Though a bit rounded at the hips, he has to admit as he sits down and the curved belly of the instrument presses against his tummy.

  It has always been this way; it is the appearance he has been given.

  Why?

  The question began to circle around Efa. Mowr Ees thought it with extreme, horrified surprise one morning as he brushed his fur, guessed it on the lips of the less glossy ladies and clumsy knights, even heard it whispered by a page taunted by the grassgirls.

  The Queen created them all. That idea was always enough. There was never anything else to know, no doubts and no accusations.

  But if the Queen created them with her powers, isn't it possible that maybe...?

  Maybe she herself was someone's creature.

  Maybe there were other beings above Efa, dwelling in the cream-colored sky, powerful and immeasurable gods who created the gardens, the wonders of the labyrinths and pools, this very enchanted land.

  And for what purpose?

  He could never believe it, Mowr Ees, never even entertained the idea that there could be anything superior to his lady, and stubbornly preferred to believe that the Queen was mocking him when she sighed, when she twisted her pretty gloved hands and cast dubious glances at the sky as if she felt she was being watched.

  There were beings up there, she once told him, beings to whom even she was answerable.

  “The Supreme God begat me and gave me this world,” were the Queen's whispered words. “I must keep the promise I have made.”

  “But the Supreme God sleeps,” he remarked, reciting ritual praise. “After completing the creation of all things, He fell asleep and has been unconscious ever since, watched over and cared for by his children in the sphere between the Nine Gates.”

  The lady sighed, her silver slippers crunching on the gravel of the driveway.

  “No, it is not like that. His materiality is frozen in the form of the Plant and may appear inert and unconscious. But His spirit, His soul, is almost always dispersed in a myriad of sparks, black flakes that swarm like insects on its leaves... He listens. Watching. One can never know who or what He is spying on, but He is alert, and if He doesn't like what He sees...”

  He almost burst out laughing, Mowr Ees, heartily.

  “How could he not like Efa?”

  The Queen stared at him with an intensity that made him burn.

  “I will pray to the Plant for you every day,” he promised her. “To tell Her again how wonderful you are, Your Majesty.”

  He tries not to look at the statue as he tunes the instrument, concentrating on perfecting the intonation, taking more time than necessary, stretching and releasing each string just a fraction.

  But eventually he has to look up. It hurts him to see her image so beautiful, so serene, so realistic.

  The Bronze Queen, they call her. Her real name is no longer spoken. No one dares.

  He himself keeps that name deep in his soul, guarding it jealously like the most precious of treasures to be defended with his life. It is something that no one will ever take away from him.

  He begins to play, almost casually, trying a few chords that he slips into the melody.

  He does not sing. He never does. As expressive as he is in speech —and loved by his lady— his deep voice has always seemed incapable of the grace needed to infuse a song with feeling. Besides, he prefers to let others perform: he creates, and that is usually enough for him.

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  That was the role of the First Counselor, which he still tries to honor.

  He recites the text while accompanying the music. The small lute produces sharp, tinkling, but delicate sounds, the sound that a discreet drizzle might make by tapping on a thin sheet of silver.

  Happy is the one who beholds you,

  but even happier is the one who sighs for you.

  Out of breath, he lingers in a bold variation to delay the cadence.

  Happiest then

  he who makes you sigh.

  The little one listens attentively, quite upright, unsure whether it should leave its favorite position on the pedestal, between the tips of the little shoes that peek under the hem of the Queen's gown, to ask this old friend for a cuddle.

  Mowr Ees smiles at it.

  Blessed star

  who for such a beautiful woman

  can make happy to the end

  the eye and the desire!

  But what did he mean by these words? How had he come to feel such an abnormal, inexplicable, and misplaced desire for his lady? To touch her... for what purpose? Why was it so important, so desirable?

  The blind eyes of the statue seem to be illuminated by a flickering brightness. Could it be the reflection of the water in the ornamental pond?

  The little one has leaned back on the edge of the pedestal, its head dangling out, turned in its direction. It wiggles its ears, little round pavilions.

  Who can say for sure: this heart is mine!

  Mowr Ees does not feel like giving the closing the emphatic and joyful tone that he had in mind when he wrote it, an era ago. Instead, he ends the song with a soft chord and an arpeggio that fades into pianissimo.

  No, he no longer thinks that way. With disrespectful carelessness, he has since begun to undermine the perfect balance on which Efa's happiness stood.

  Yes, the happiness was already there, in the watching. Why did he not understand?

  His left hand grips the handle of the lute too tightly. The First Counselor removes the instrument from his lap, but instead of placing it on the bench next to him, he holds it in the air and looks at it as if he does not recognize it.

  A voice has called to him from the depths, and though he knows it is only his own conscience, it has taken on the worshipped voice of his lady to better drive words of harsh rebuke into his heart; though he knows it, he gasps, succumbing to the impact of emotion. The lute slides on the gravel, smeared with white dust. He covers his mouth with his hands, shedding tears of shame.

  Do you regret loving me, Mowr Ees?

  He shakes his head in denial, chasing away the shameful accusation.

  He rises again, palms to the sky, has the strength to protest, to answer the metallic image that seems to mock his pain with that indestructible smile.

  “My love killed you!”

  The sky remains clear, spotless. A fragrant breeze blows, tickling the skin as if nothing had happened.

  These other gods don't care.