Pale light bathes the practice hall in the faintest glow. My head slowly raises from being pressed to the harp's frame, and my brow creases, temporarily disoriented.

Then it all comes flooding back. I had planned to return to bed around twelve, maybe one in the morning. My body has adapted to a measly five hours of sleep.

But I couldn't get the song right. I think the notes were there — I think — but I can't get my fingers to use the right speed, the right urgency. My fingertips wouldn't settle on the string in just the right way, with the wires digging into their centers, not scratching any nail. If it goes anywhere other than the neatly circular calluses I've built up throughout the years, I know it's wrong. My tender fingers squeal in pain, telling me that it's wrong.

It's far too dangerous to be wrong, even one time.

I rise from the floor. Is it time to play yet? I haven't had breakfast though; I should probably do that first. I never play on an empty stomach, in case it brings bad luck.

Racing out of the music hall, I nearly run into a tiny student waiting outside the heavy doors.

Several students, actually. There's at least four with an older windweaver, and a fifth peeks his head from around the corner.

The gray-headed windweaver gives me a tight-lipped smile. "Everything all right, dear?"

My eyes stray to the clock, and I gasp. The hand points to seven o'clock.

"Seven!" I nearly shriek.

"Are you unwell?" Sympathy glitters in the woman's eyes. "Evrin can take over for you, if you wish. He's already over there, preparing to play."

"No." I shake my head in horror. What would the prince say if he found out? He wants an answer today.

I suppose I could wait until the evening to play for the wind spirits, but I would hate to be thought of as improper for seeking the prince out so late in the day. Besides, with the princess here, I'm sure their parents have arranged for them to dine together in the evening, and it would be awkward to intrude on them.

Lifting the purple skirt of my dress, now rumpled from sleeping in it all night, I hurry down the corridor. At the end, I reach a door on the corner with a guard standing in front of it. His eyebrows twitch into a slight frown upon seeing me.

"Lady Celia?" he asks.

"I apologize for my tardiness." I give a slight curtsy out of politeness, even though I know it's not necessary for a windweaver to do so. "May I enter?" I take a step forward, but the guard doesn't budge from his position.

"Lord Evrin is already getting set up in your stead this morning."

No, no, no! My brain screams at me to do something. My eyes settle on the doorknob, and all I want to do is push past the guard and turn it. A futile thing, I'm afraid, since he can easily restrain me. Such behavior would surely get back to the king, too.

"I can prepare myself very quickly. It would be best for me to play for the spirits this morning." Another step forward, and the guard nervously glances at the closed door. We stand there for a minute, me with my foot poised to take yet another step, placing me right in front of the door, and the guard glancing between myself and the wooden barrier to my duty.

The guard's shoulders, enrobed with glittering silver armor, deflate. "Very well. You may enter."

He turns the doorknob, and I rush past him. Evrin stands by the glass door to the terrace, hand poised on the metal knob. He glances behind, his dark brown eyes landing on me.

"Lady Celia," he says, his jaw tight.

"I'm here," I say, breathless. I head immediately for a wooden table pressed against the left side of the room. My station is in the center, complete with a mirror, a pick for my harp, and a golden box, which I lift to reveal a sticky, orange substance. It's a resin from the golden trees populating the forest. It directs the wind's attention toward us, so they know the song we are about to play is meant for them.

Quickly, I coat my arms, face, and neck in the substance. It scratches in an uncomfortable way, lightly scraping my delicate, pale skin as I spread it. Even worse is the fact that I'm in a rush and can't take care to not be harsh with it. A few minutes later, I hurry onto the terrace. Morning light warms my face, though the slightest breeze ripples by, cooling its sleepy rays. A stone stairwell ascends from the terrace to a platform on the palace's roof, nestled amidst the treetops. At the top, a harp already is in place, setup by the attendants earlier today.

My fingers position themselves by the string. I ensure my legs are crossed, ankles pressing into them just enough, my arms at that exact angle that pleases the wind spirits. I wait for the wind to brush against my cheeks, ripple at the bottom of my hair, a sign that they are present and waiting.

I wait.

Wait some more.

Minutes seem to pass without a ripple, that sign from the spirits. Am I too late for them? Anxiety stirs in my gut. This is wrong, so very wrong. Something is amiss.

After several more minutes pass with me sitting there perfectly still, except for the rise and fall of my chest in a slightly panicked fashion, I feel the slightest tingle of air against my hands. I pull my fingers across the string in a single swoop, allowing the notes to echo among the trees. Then, I begin the piece, this song that will supposedly allow me to ask them a single question.

Bright notes ring in harmony, like sweetened lemons flowing from my fingertips to the harp's strings to the wind listening around me. I tug the strings with slightly more insistance, intensifying my petition to the wind. Though the notes remain consonant, they grow louder, the sun breaking through the sky after a gloomy thunderstorm, a flower blooming after the harsh winter. The song unfolds just how I practiced. Tentative joy fills my heart. It's working! I'm playing the song.

Once I feel the wind's confirmation, my voice can join the harp's.

Normally, I feel the spirits brush past me, a sign that they are twirling along in delight to the melody. But the air is still except for the slightest rustle here and there. Perhaps they are mesmerized by the piece.

Ha! More likely they are offended that you'd come, asking to communicate with them.

I try to shove the thought aside. It isn't good to have a head full of thoughts while playing. I must be fully invested in the music. Even thinking about refocusing means that I'm not fully focused.

Focus! Focus!

My fingers ascend a scale in rapid succession. The notes dance off the tree trunks, until the whole forest is joining in unison. Where are the wind spirits?

Nervous energy uncoils inside me, pushing me to play faster, louder, begging them to hear me. Please, I just have one question!

The trees sing with the harp, all a beat too late. What was once a beautiful tune becomes distorted as its echo is passed around, lingering in the air too long, filling my ears with cacophony.

Stop it! Make it stop!

The only way to make it end is to end the piece. But I can't do that, not until the wind answers me. I have no confirmation it heard me. Why do I have no confirmation from it?

Tears prick at my closed eyes.

No.

I can't allow tears to fall. It may disturb the resin on my face. It may scatter the wind for good. It...

A blast of air hits my face, and shadows block out the sun. My eyes fly open without me realizing. Immediately, I curse myself for my mistake.

Though it seems that I have bigger problems than my eyes opening.

My fingers slow the tune, though they keep moving. Muscle memory keeps them going. I clench my jaw to keep my mouth from gaping at the figure perched on the edge of the roof's platform.

A small, furry gray creature crouches before me, its claws unsheathed and pressing against the roof's metal tiles. It opens its jaw, revealing thin, but long, jagged teeth, yellowed in some places, stained with rust in others.

The song ends, and my hands fall from the harp's string. Fear paralyzes me in place.

A shadow spirit stands before me.

And I'm the one that summoned it.