Curious Fictions: Sing to Me of Love and Shadows
In this medieval murder mystery, a chanteuse traces the history of opera to solve the crime.
A snippet:
On a honey-scented spring morning, the young widow Solange sat spinning the wool from her own sheep and patiently repeating the melody of her newest song while Gaétan the minstrel struggled to set chords to it. The sun cast a narrow strip of shadow from her house, one of a half-circle that made up the tiny village. A breeze carried the mingled smells of hot earth, leeks, and thyme. A short distance beyond lay the manor house of Val-Joli, whose ancient, battered stones had been pried from the last remnants of the Roman road.
Blowing out his breath, Gaétan set the lute across his knees and stretched his fingers. He was only a few years younger than Solange and almost as homely.
“Don't give up,” Solange said, tucking a tendril of russet hair under her linen coif. “You sing so well.”
“Yes, I can sing. But nobody wants to hear my chansons de geste any more. They're bored with tales of high valor; today it's all love and ladies' favors, and I'm no good at that.” He sighed again and stroked the feather he used to pluck the paired strings.
“Maman sings pretty songs,” said Jeannette, Solange's stepdaughter, as she wound the spun thread on a frame. Although she was twelve, she still wore an outgrown child's smock.
A smile curved the edges of Solange's mouth. She'd started making songs when she was a new widow. Some said Jeannette ought to have died of the same fever, but whether it was by the Virgin's blessing or some other power, the child had lived.
The minstrel picked up his lute again. Solange began humming and gradually a melody unfolded.
“A sky so pure,” she sang, “a sun so bright.Love brings hope to darkest night.A man of feathers longs for his promised bride,A golden pipe moves the hardest heart to stone,Through fire and water—”
“Hark!” Gaétan rose to his feet. “There, on the north road!”
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