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Nedaö was the smallest frog in the choir, at the end of the last row. She sang as loudly and proudly as any of the other children, their high voices swelling in chorus, to blend into the myriad voices of the frogs who witnessed The Dream of the Empress Corievo. Min Selorin played the empress. When she sang the final aria, with her thrilling voice as clear as glass, it made Nedaö think, I want to be her when I grow up.
In the meantime, she was determined to do her best: a small frog with a big voice. Real frogs didn't sound like that. Not quite. They went, neep, neep, chirrup, chirrup, croak, croak. But it wasn't really about the sound of a frog, so the director had told them. It was about the feeling of a frog. Nedaö thought she understood what he meant.
She remembered catching tadpoles with her sister Avro in the pond behind their house, watching them grow and transform into something else entirely. Frogs had placid unblinking eyes and an unshakeable sense of calm. They were friendly, comforting, and a little bit mysterious. What do frogs dream about?
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Nedaö was the youngest member of the company. The Zhaö Opera had never had a prima soprano her age before. The first time she stepped onto centre stage in front of a full house, she knew all eyes were upon her. It was her responsibility now: to bring acclaim to the company, to fulfil their confidence in her, to draw audiences and to win patronage.
But for tonight, she was among friends. Her parents were watching. Her sister was watching. Avro was going to join the guilds, to be a clockmaker. Their paths were different, but they were both following their hearts. Nedaö knew this music like she knew her own name. She was the Snow Crane, emerging from her egg of ice, defeating the sorcerer with the power of her voice, and freeing her village from its enchanted sleep.
At the climax, she raised her arms, silken sleeves billowing out like a great sweep of feathers. Reaching inside herself for that emotion, was like the feeling of flying. Lifting her voice, lifting her spirits, lifting her wings. She tilted her eyes up, to the dome lit with a hundred lamps, and it was like looking into the starry sky.
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Nedaö was the newest guest at the salon of the Archduchess Vedero, at the Untheileneise Court. It was an honour to be invited. She had sung for the emperor himself, but she still felt a degree of awe at entering this select company. The women here were scholars, inventors, and scientists. They studied the mysteries of the universe.
But as soon as the demonstration began, Nedaö forgot any self-consciousness. She inched closer to the copper dragon, as did the other attendees, as it emitted the first low and sonorous notes. Dach'osmin Tativin, who was as enthusiastic in volume as she was short in stature, made automatons. Her drawings were pinned up on the wall, each one showing a series of pipes and valves, connected together. This automaton took the form of a dragon, the spines of its back venting steam and song. It was the marriage of two different elements: air and water, making music.
It was truly remarkable. How marvellous the world was, when even the inanimate had music hidden inside them, ready to be coaxed into being. Like the jewellery box she had as a child that tinkled a tune when she wound up the spring. Like the clockwork nightingales that Avro had made to rise in the guild from apprentice to journeyman. Nedaö wanted to sing as fiercely as a dragon and as freely as a bird. She wanted to learn all the other wonders these women had come to share.
Outside the window, in the garden, the sounds of summer filled the air: the songs of cicadas, crickets, and frogs.