Damiano's Lute Read Online Free PDF Page B

turn around in his traces.
    â€œI’m sorry, Dami,” said the Archangel Raphael, settling in all his immateriality next to Damiano. “I don’t know what to do about that.”
    Damiano gave a sweeping wave of his hand, accompanied by one scornful eyebrow. “Don’t think about it, Seraph. It is my little problem. At least I can hear you perfectly, and that is more than most people can. Besides, I remember well what you look like.” He opened his eyes, staring straight ahead.
    And he sighed with relief. It was pleasant to talk to the angel again. Very pleasant, especially now when he was feeling so completely friendless. But conversation was one thing, and study another. Today Damiano was not in the mood for a lesson.
    Yet Raphael was his teacher, and so Damiano felt some effort was incumbent upon him. “I’ve been saving a question for you, Raphael. About that joli bransle we were toying with last week.”
    â€œThe bransle?” A hint of surprise rested in the angelic voice. “You want to talk about the bransle right now?”
    â€œI was wondering if I ought to play those three fourth intervals in a row. Or not, you know? It’s not like they were fifths, which would be too old-fashioned and dull, but still, I feel the measure would go more if I descended in the bass.”
    There was a moment’s silence, along with a rustle like that of a featherbed. Then the corona of radiance said, “Dami, what are you going to do about Gaspare?”
    Involuntarily, Damiano glanced over. Silver filled his eyes, cool as starlight, chillingly cool, set off by seas of deep blue. Damiano was falling, fearlessly falling, out into depths of time.
    There was a curtain of silence. He tore it.
    And the brilliance then was white-hot and immense. It was not infinite, but full within limits set perfect for it, shining round and glad, and it would have been meaningless to suggest this brilliance might want to be larger or smaller than it was, for it was glowingly content. And it was a brilliance of sound as much as of light: wild sound, like trumpets in harmony, yet subtle as the open chords of a harp. It drowned Damiano. His problems dissolved.
    â€œDami,” came the soft, cool, ordinary voice. “Dami. Damiano! Close your eyes or I’ll have to knock you off the wagon.”
    Eventually the young man obeyed, dropping his head, clutching the seatback as though fighting a formidable wind. “I… I… ooof! Forgive me, Raphael. It leaves me a little sick.”
    The angel emitted a very melodic sort of whine. “That’s terrible, Dami. What is the matter with me that I affect you so badly?”
    Through his undeniable nausea, Damiano had to laugh. “The matter with you, old friend? Don’t worry about it. It’s what I get for being neither witch nor truly simple. And the sickness I feel happens only as I come back to myself.”
    He sat upright once more, and reached out at random to slap an immaterial shoulder. “It’s good for my music, Seraph. You have no idea how much I learn each time I get sick looking at you.”
    Raphael’s sigh was quite human. He plucked at Damiano’s head. “You have sap in your hair,” he observed.
    Damiano wiggled his fingers into the snarl. “I know. Gaspare wanted to cut it out. That seemed a very radical solution to the problem, so I…”
    â€œGaspare,” echoed the angel. “What are you going to do about Gaspare?”
    Damiano bristled his brow. “How can I tell you? He just ran off not an hour ago. Maybe he’ll come back. And how did you know about that anyway, Raphael? You were listening?”
    Wings ruffled again. “Yes, I was.” After a few seconds’ silence on the human’s part, Raphael added, “Shouldn’t I listen?”
    Damiano shrugged. “It makes me feel I have to be always on my best behavior, that’s all.”
    This