Ariadne bowed her head politely, the long, rope-like braid over her shoulder bouncing and dangling in the air. "Thank you, my lady," she said, voice like a sparrow's. "I'm sure you'll play beautifully, once you learn."

It was, perhaps, an Alastrian bias. But she firmly believed that everyone was capable of creating beautiful birdsong, like her own.

Music was the reflection of the soul. And everyone had a beautiful soul.

Or so she liked to believe.