The Lord with the Golden Lyre

The light crept up between the shutters;

The sparrows flitted in the gutters.

Sitting along the bed’s edge, 

She curled the papers from her hair

And clasped the wooden god

In the palms of both soiled hands. 

The city of Chairn was muggy in the evening. Smoke from the factories and heat rising from the river met in the air and formed a sticky fog. Through the fumes shone the sun, not yet setting, and through the fumes stood ornate stone buildings. Phoebe walked from the west of the city towards the Halls. Her skirt was smudged with dirt from where she kneeled at the cemetery and her hands smelled like hyacinths. 

            Eliza. 

            The traffic and its noise grew thicker as Little Chairn neared. The gritty growl of motorcars and neighing of mares still bound to carriages; the clop of pedestrians as they made their way home. Phoebe breathed long and deep and tried to hold the shattered pieces of herself together before the faces of strangers. 

            Eventually, she arrived at the Halls. Oblong and of stone, the Halls of Courtiers stretched along the northern bank of the Jewell. Curved around its spires and embellishments were veins of gold, twisting through the walls from their roots in the ground. The building stood as a dignified shadow in the fog. Phoebe stood heavily against a streetlamp on the street side and watched clerks and politicians flow steadily from the building. She scrubbed her hands on the skirt of her dress. She really shouldn’t be here. Yet her tired body needed magic, and Apollo was the one who could give her that magic.

            A newspaper boy yelled the evening news. Stores closed their doors. 

            The Elpis magic Apollo was privy to had no promise attached. Phoebe could use it when only when needed. It would slip through her fingers, and that would no longer worry her. Eliza’s face hovered in her mind and raised an eyebrow. 

            Phoebe drew a breath and hurriedly weaved her way across the street. She paused again at the entrance to the Halls. Pedestrians with parasols and pipes stepped around her. 

One had to claim Elpis magic. Everyone knew that. A promise to the soul of the city: continual reliance on its magic. What Apollo was rumoured to have…it had merely been taken from the vault. Yet she needed something to blunt the pieces that stabbed her insides and something that let her soul stay hidden. 

            Phoebe shoved Eliza’s face deep down, scurried through the crowd and into the Halls. 

            The atrium was empty of disgruntled citizens. Clerks tidied desks and men in waistcoats strode down the marble staircase. Their stares seared as Phoebe watched lines of grey swirl up onto each step. Up and up to the third floor. 

            It smelled of dirt and smoke. At the desk, Nymphadora held a cigarette between her fingers and a telephone in the other hand. 

            “Yes, I know it makes things difficult for you, but he told me to tell you that he’s working through his portion of the new bill today…” There was chatter through the line and Nymphadora rolled her eyes. “If he’s uninterrupted today he’ll be more inclined to be interrupted tomorrow…Yes, I’ll make sure he’s expecting it…” A huff. “Of course I will!...Ok, goodnight.” The receiver was returned to its cradle with a clang. Nymphadora sighed and took a drag of her cigarette. She looked steadily at Phoebe. “I don’t get paid enough for this, Miss Waifare.” Another drag. “You’re welcome to go in. He’ll love being interrupted by you.” Nymphadora snuffed the cigarette out on the ashtray.

            With a stomach flutter, Phoebe gently knocked on the door and stepped into Apollo’s office. 

            It was excessively golden. On the left was an unlit fireplace; the lounge facing it was crowded by cushions with golden tassels. A glinting gramophone sat on a side table. On the far right was a large desk with the legs and drawer handles coated in gold. Apollo was sitting at it, forehead resting heavy on a stack of paper, groaning dramatically. On the ceiling, golden cornices. From the ceiling, panels of glass stretched to the floor. And, on the coffee table, on the coffee table in the middle of the room, balanced Apollo’s lyre. Intertwined through the strings were strands of rusty gold - it was the strands plucking the strings into a wordless lilt that settled through the office. 

            Phoebe gently shut the door behind her. 

            Apollo glanced up and his face widened into a smile. ‘Phoebe!’

            The music stopped and the strands on the lyre disappeared. Apollo stood from the desk, left the paper where it was and crossed the room. He pulled Phoebe into him and pressed her face against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his torso, hesitantly, but then her stomach swooped and she pulled away. A shrug to Apollo’s frown and Phoebe wandered over to the windows. She pressed her forehead against the glass.

            Apollo spoke. “What did you do after I called?”

            Below, figures scurried like ants. “I wandered down there, in Little Chairn.” Golden veins flashed through the cobblestones. Phoebe abruptly turned around. “Was that Elpis magic you were using before?”

            Apollo hesitated. “No…” He plucked the lyre up off the coffee table and held it sheepishly in the crook of his arm. “At least, not by definition. Well, it depends on what definition you use…No, it wasn’t.”

            The excitement in her chest deflated. 

            “Come,” Apollo reached out his left hand. It was bandaged. “Sit.”

She put her hand in his and he winced. Apollo led her to the lounge and slid a basket of records from underneath the gramophone table. “What would you like?”

            “I don’t mind.”

            Gingerly, Apollo flicked through the collection, chose one and carefully placed it in the gramophone. The needle made contact and from the record came an orchestral theme.

            “So,” he flung himself down next to her, “have you played anything new recently?”

            Shards stabbed as Phoebe felt the memory of Eliza’s fingers on her own, guiding hers across the keys. The melody was unsure and intermittent with Phoebe’s unconfident fingers, but Eliza had coaxed them gently.

            She shook her head “No.” 

            “I’ll bring some new sheet music to Swan’s tomorrow.”

            Phoebe looked down at the mahogany. “It’s ok.”

            “But…” There was a subtle helplessness in his voice. 

            She dredged up the words. “I haven’t been playing recently.”

            “Why?”

            It wasn’t a hard stare, but the question still peered into her soul in a way she wasn’t expecting from Apollo. 

            “The piano needs tuning.” The lie slid easily. 

            “Why don’t you get it tuned?”

            “I just haven’t yet.”

            “I can help -”

            “Apollo,” she snapped her head up, “it’s fine.” There was shock on his face. Phoebe felt it soften the frustration on hers. “Sorry,” she muttered. 

            Apollo nodded and winced again as his left hand fidgeted. Exposed skin was red - silence gaped as Phoebe stared. Despite the pounding in her chest, no words could be dredged up. 

            “I played something new yesterday,” Apollo’s opening was tentative, and Phoebe let the words fill and flood the space between them. “‘Ode to the Lilies.’ The note changes were a little more complicated than normal and I was, “he paused sheepishly, “trying to play without my physical fingers.” Phoebe looked up. “It burnt my entire hand. But it’s worth it,” Apollo rushed on. “You’ll be able to play like that one day.”

            Non-committal Elpis magic that would burn her fingers, rather than slip through. But she couldn’t promise herself a reliance on Chairn’s soul. 

            “Why not now?” Phoebe needed it now. 

             “Are you asking me to spill secrets…?”

             “No.” Yes

             Apollo frowned. “What are you asking of me?”

             “I…nothing.” Phoebe leaned back on the lounge. “I want to hear the rest of your story.”

             He regarded her for a moment longer. The look was similar to that of when he played the lyre. Actually played the lyre.

             “Very well.” Apollo crossed one leg over the other. “It reminded me of the Philharmonic’s waltz. The note change, and that it’s a waltz.”

             Apollo’s words filled and flooded the space between them as the pounding in Phoebe’s chest contracted into a squeeze and her mind tossed up the memory of that first masquerade.

            Don’t show your scar, her sister had said - that snaking scar that wound down and across her chest like the roots of a tree – but the benefits of doing so were too great: showing herself, despite the half, peacock-coloured mask that she held up to her eyes.

             But then the swish and swirl of skirts began, and she was not led out to join them. Ladies stared from beneath their eyelashes and men held those ladies’ hands tighter. The stares even continued when the young aristocrat - “Lord Apollo,” whispers said - brought Phoebe a glass of punch and led her into the swirling skirts.

And Apollo had asked no questions. Asked no questions when they danced again years later and then when she served him black coffee with cream at Swan’s. Unsaid things screamed inside, and she really shouldn’t be seeking secrecy, but when she was flailing his face flashed before her because he never peered at the confronting things inside of her. 

There was a knock at the office door. Phoebe blinked. She turned her head and Nymphadora entered the room.

“I’m going home, Apollo.” An envelope was passed across the room. “Apparently this is the last time you can miss a session.” 

Apollo groaned. 

“He’s serious. Go tomorrow.” Nymphadora turned and winked at Phoebe. “Have fun.” She teetered from the room.

            Apollo stood from the lounge and walked over to his desk. He dropped the envelope on it, hesitated, then picked it up and tore the seal open. He read, chewed on his fingernails and paced over to the windows. 

            Apollo stood, looking out over Chairn. Then, with an abrupt decisiveness, he whirled around to face Phoebe.

             “Do you want to come over for supper?”

            He never asked any questions. But the grief of Eliza hurt her chest, and Apollo had the easy kind of magic.

            “I would love to.”

Apollo retrieved his lyre and took her hand. “Follow me.”

It had darkened outside, and while the air was no longer sticky, it was still thick with heat. They walked quickly through the twilight grounds of the Halls, past the other house-shaped silhouettes, each various masses in the gloaming. Apollo’s cottage was last. 

            It was small and the colour of sand, with flowering vines winding and intertwining up the stone walls, Elpis veins feint beneath them. The garden beds had plants of laurels, fenced by a hedge. At the doorway was a porch, supported by columns, the same vines and veins sculpted and winding.

            “I had this built after…well, that thing with my father.” Apollo’s face was hard as they stepped onto the porch. 

            Phoebe ran her fingers over the columns. The veins were delicate and grand. From the golden veins came a dull throb. 

            Apollo cleared his throat. “Darling,” he unlocked the front door, “welcome to my home.”

            Inside, he fumbled in the dark and lit the lamps. Everywhere was carelessly messy. In the living room stood a pianoforte, closed and covered in objects. His lyre joined it. The armchairs were just as plush as in the office and stood around a rug. Apollo drew the curtains shut and Phoebe followed him into the kitchen. It was clean - too clean - and small. She peeked into the pantry. 

            “Do you see anything you like in there?”

            “There’s nothing much…”

            “Nonsense!” Apollo stepped up behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Look. Plenty of things for sandwiches.” He moved around her and began pulling food from the shelves, with his unbandaged hand. “There’s bread and onion jam and mustard and lots. And lots. And lots of cheese.” With every indentation, Apollo added a parcel of cheese into his arms. “And there’s butter, honeyed ham and roast chicken in the icebox.” He walked out into the kitchen and everything in his arms tumbled onto the bench. “Could you get them for me?” 

            Phoebe foraged and set everything down. 

            “Thank you.” Apollo clumsily sliced and buttered. “What would you like?”

            “Chicken.”

            “Cheese? Jam?”

            “Both. Thanks.”

            Apollo one-handedly assembled the sandwiches. “Oh! I have wine in the icebox!” He rushed towards it and triumphantly pulled a bottle from it. “You do like white, don’t you?”

            “More than red.”

            Apollo poured two large glasses and carried them into the living room. Phoebe followed with the sandwiches. He had cut them into triangular quarters. They sat on the floor. 

            “So,” Apollo swirled his wine, “what’s it like working in a coffeehouse?”

            Fine until Eliza died. 

            “It’s tiring,” Phoebe said softly. She sipped her wine. “Lots of early mornings.”

            “Ugh. I can’t wake up early. Sometimes session is called in the middle of the night and that, Phoebe, I cannot do.”

            She bit into a quarter sandwich. The onion relish was really good. 

            “What’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened?”

            When Eliza was suddenly gone and now Phoebe had to flip chairs onto the floor alone. She separated her sandwich, then dropped it onto the plate. Another sip of wine.

            “Phoebe?”

            “When you were no longer just a patron.” The sentence emerged unbidden and there was a flare of panic in her chest. The wine. 

            “You mean, after the masquerade a few months ago?”

            Phoebe nodded hesitantly. 

            Apollo placed his glass on the rug and leaned forward. “Why was it strange?” 

            His closeness dredged up the words. Against Eliza’s raised eyebrows, Phoebe answered, but to the disintegrated sandwich on her plate. “I never thought I’d end up with a minister of the cabinet.”

            A pause. 

            “I was surprised no one had asked you to dance.”

            That snaking scar burned. 

            “I mean, it’s just a scar.” Apollo’s eyes looked down to her hidden chest. “Will you still not tell me what happened?”

            Screams as she awoke to a scalpel slicing open her chest and Eliza’s hand gripping her own. 

            A whisper. “I can’t.” Courage dredged from her stomach. Phoebe lifted her head to see Apollo. “Give me Elpis magic.”

            Apollo huffed and reached over for the wine bottle. “You know I can’t do that.” He poured himself another glass. Swallowed a mouthful. “At least, not yet…”

            “When?”

            “Soon.”

            Phoebe took a gulp of wine. Apollo watched her with his head angled to one side. 

            “Why do you want it so desperately?”

            She said nothing. Her vision stared to blur and she blinked ferociously. 

            “Oh, Phoebe.” Apollo shifted so he was sitting next to her. “Phoebe, darling, what can I do?” 

            She blinked and breathed until her eyes were dry and her chest stopped shaking. 

            “I’m fine.” Phoebe smiled at him and stood. “Can I take your plate?” She took it from the floor and carried both into the kitchen. 

            “I wasn’t finished yet!”

            Phoebe stood still at the bench. Apollo was moving, but the sound of his footsteps was distant. She breathed deep, and shoved down everything that was pounding inside her chest. She needed his magic to stop the pounding. To stop the tears leaking down her face. She squeezed her eyes tight. 

            “Phoebe.” 

She whirled around. Apollo was holding a small box bound with purple ribbon. 

“Here.” He held it out. “This is for you.”

She moved slowly across the kitchen. 

“Open it.”

Phoebe pulled the ribbon. It unravelled lazily and fell to the floor. Eased off the lid...Lying on a satin pillow was a bracelet. Silver, dangling with charms. A lyre and a mask. 

Tears built again. 

“Do you like it?”

Apollo had given a gift without her needing to give anything. The safety in his ignorance caught her, and the sensation overwhelmed down to her bones. 

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’m so glad. I’ve never seen you wear jewellery, so I wasn’t sure...Are you certain you like it?”

Phoebe thrust all sincerity into her smile. “I do.”

Both their stares hovered. 

“Can I put it on?”

Phoebe nodded and held out her wrist. Apollo fumbled; Phoebe fingers met his own and they closed the clasp. His hand held hers. 

“I have an idea.”

Apollo drew Phoebe back to the living room. He retrieved his lyre and held it in his left arm. With his unbandaged hand Apollo brushed against the strings and a vein pulsed in his neck as he appeared to be gathering something from deep within him. Then the lyre was placed down on the floor, and, as a string was given a violent pluck, cords of rusty gold intertwined themselves around the strings and began to play. 

“Ow.” Blisters started forming on his right hand. 

“Apollo…”

“Shhhh.”

He pulled Phoebe towards him. The song emerged as that of the first masquerade and Phoebe soon found herself swaying in rhythm. It felt so wrong. The way Apollo held her, like he was extracting something from her, like she wasn’t a fragile reconstruction of what had shattered inside when Eliza died. But there was an ease in the ignorance and her stomach no longer swooped like she was flailing. 

“Why come to me for Elpis magic?”

Phoebe lifted her face. 

“Why not claim it through the vault?”

            Eight beats played through the lyre. 

            “You’re the only who can give me what I need.”

            Apollo smiled. Impulsively, insides screaming, Phoebe stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Seconds hovered. 

            Then his lips found hers, gentle and deep. 

            “Are you sure?”

            Phoebe’s stare fastened to his. “Yes.”

            And there, in the living room of Apollo’s cottage, she let him blunt the shards that had been stabbing since Eliza’s ashes floated into the sky. Phoebe found herself falling onto Apollo’s lounge and allowing his blistered fingers to trace the clothed surface of her body. 

            “Can I -”

            “Yes.”

            Breathing deep, and keeping her soul hidden where not even she could see, Phoebe helped Apollo unbutton the way towards her snaking scar. 

~ October 2025