38 | Psychopomp Magazine
good comes of opposing the Emperor."
I frown. "You toil in his garden all day at meaningless work, repeatedly cheated by those less talented than you! Surely you must want revenge?"
The young man shrugs. "I dislike my situation, but fighting such power is folly. We make the best of our station in life."
Our brittle kinship snaps. "I have no interest in your politics. I want you to tune a music box." My command rings bitterly.
He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, looking out the window rather than confronting me. His eyes pass over the garden and settle on Ani, who stands with a hand on her hip, directing her neighbor’s work. “Just a music box?” he asks, hopeful.
I spread a piece of paper on the desk and illustrate the type of mechanism we need. He quickly catches on, telling me how to tune it and suggesting a song that might please the Emperor. By the end of the night, I have enough to finish our work.
Crafting the bird takes many months. The master silversmith does the work himself, for he cannot trust the children to keep quiet about such an unusual job. The weather grows cold again, and I pray for frost. Yet this year brings the same temperate winter as every other, and the fall flowers planted by the head gardener come up vibrant and lovely. I want to mow them down, snapping stems.
Eventually, the bird emerges. We huddle in Eo’s home one last time, looking at the little creature. He is magnificent: every curve, every flat, every movement a work of art. The music box transforms the simple tune into something ethereal and lovely, manmade and haunting.
We wrap the present exquisitely and forge a letter from the emperor of Japan, of whom our Emperor is jealous. This lavish gift should drive him to distraction. When the messenger delivers our gift, the Emperor summons us all, commoner and courtier. We crowd into the Grand Hall, usually unused. The household servants have lit a blaze in the gigantic fireplace with its carved jade face. The icy green gleams in the warm orange light. The chill outside makes our closeness pleasant, but we quickly grow tired of being crammed in, of soft, fleshy bodies and breath. The air grows stale and we see no sign of the Emperor. We stand for half an hour. I hear Ani telling one of her neighbors about the grand dinner she got in honor of her great work at belling. That must have been six months ago—is she still fixated? I glance at Ons, whose eyes reflect the fire. Eo busily quiets his giddy child workers, many of whom are missing fingers from their delicate work.