Unicorn Vengeance Read Free Page A

readily donned for his audience.
    Genevieve turned away with the rest of the crowd now returning to their various occupations even as she tried to make sense of what she had seen. The Templar strode back to his party and swung into his saddle, his brow drawn in a frown as he gave his spurs to his beast.
    Silver for a song, indeed, Genevieve mused. The idea had merit in itself, even if the singer’s character was less wholesome than she might have hoped. Genevieve could not sing, but she had her lute. She tapped its round belly speculatively as she walked.
    Mayhap it could earn her enough to fill her own belly. The possibility fairly made her dizzy. ‘Twas true she had a quest to fulfill here, but with her belly hollow, she could not consider what to do with any skill.
    First Genevieve had to eat.
    She had but to find a spot in which to settle and play. One well trafficked, where she might be readily seen. Flushed with excitement, Genevieve wound her way through the streets, selecting and discarding locations with lightning speed.
    Quite suddenly, she came into a square that was dominated by a high tower opposite. Indeed the tower was taller than any she had yet seen, and she gaped at it for a long moment before she saw the walls that rose high around it.
    Some establishment of repute was clearly trapped within those walls, which surrounded a goodly number of buildings in addition to the tower. A moat encircled the walls, much to Genevieve’s surprise, for they were within Paris itself. This solidly built edifice looked more to be a structure one might find isolated in the wilderness.
    â€˜Twas busy here, despite the imposing walls, yet she could find refuge from passing feet against a far wall. ‘Twould suit her purpose well, she decided with an assessing eye. The gate stood opposite and people flowed through it in both directions. Noble people, by their garb. Wealthy people. Mayhap kindly folk were within.
    Mayhap she might readily earn a meal. Her heart overflowing with optimism, Genevieve found a sheltered spot in plain view. She unwrapped the lute from its protective blanket and examined it carefully for any sign of damage gained in its travels. Genevieve knew full well that she was but delaying the moment she was coming to dread as fears multiplied in her mind.
    What if no one listened? What if they did not hold the lute in regard here in the north? Her examining fingers found no new blemish on the instrument, whose surface she knew as well as her own skin, though they moved with a quickness that revealed her agitation.
    The lute was fine. Genevieve breathed a sigh of relief and sat down carefully on her cloak. She swallowed nervously as the crowd brushed past her and wondered whether she was being foolish.
    Even if they did not stop or listen, playing would soothe her spirits. It always had. And Paris unsettled her with its noise and activity. That conviction alone made her choice.
    Blind to all around her, Genevieve bent over the instrument and coaxed a tune from its reluctant strings. Mute it had been for too many days, and for an instant she feared that she might have lost her touch.
    But nay. Genevieve closed her eyes as she smiled at the rising sound, reassured by its familiar beauty. She imagined the wind at Montsalvat, the way it tore through her hair as she stood on the high walls, and her fingers took on a grace that eluded them in all other facets of her life.
    Naught did she hear but the music, and indeed, it wound its very magic into her soul. It tempted her smile to broaden, it recalled the craggy hills around her home, it reminded her of the taste of the salt in the wind. It caressed her, it was the lover she had never known.
    The music was everything, just as it always had been. When she played, naught else mattered in her world. Though indeed Genevieve wrought the sound herself, ‘twas as separate from her as though she but released it from its prison.
    She was lost in a spell of her