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stool to eat the cake.
    “Indeed and I couldn’t have done better myself, young Robinton,” Washell said solemnly. “You played that perfectly, young man. I’m glad that your mother has you here to keep her strictly in tempo. Do you know any other tunes on that pipe?”
    Robie glanced at his mother for permission. She nodded, and he licked his lips free of crumbs, pulled out the pipe and lifted it to his mouth, and began to play one of his own favorites. When he had finished, he gave his mother a second look.
    “Yes, go on,” she said with a little flick of her fingers.
    He looked for a moment at Washell, who knew enough to keep his expression polite, and then the boy closed his eyes and started the round of variations he liked to wind about that tune.
    Washell bent his head down, over his heavy chest, until he was peering directly at Robinton, who was now oblivious, wrapped up in his piping, fingers dancing, stopping, busy over the little pipe’s holes. The instrument was small and could have produced an unpleasantly shrill sound, but the way the youngster handled his breathing and instinctive dynamics sweetened it to a delightful lilt.
    As one variation followed another, Washell cocked his head in amazement and gradually turned his eyes to Merelan, who was totally relaxed, as if this performance were a daily marvel. Suddenly the muted sounds of the choristers ended. Immediately Merelan leaned forward and tapped Robinton out of his concentration. He looked almost rebellious.
    “That was a very good one,” his mother said, casually appreciative. “New, isn’t it?”
    “I t’ought it up a’ I wa’ playing,” he said and then glanced coyly up at Washell. “It fitted in.”
    “Yes, dear, it did,” Merelan replied agreeably. “The trills were very well done.”
    “Nice to have a pipe just the right size for you, isn’t it?” Washell began, extending his hand for the instrument. Robinton, with a touch of reluctance, handed it over. Washell tried to put his large fingers over the stops and ran out of pipe, looking so surprised that Robinton giggled, covering his mouth and glancing quickly at his mother to be sure this was acceptable behavior. “Maybe you’d like to see some of the other instruments I have that might also be the right size for a lad like you to play on. This one is much too small for me. Isn’t it?” And Washell handed it back with a little flourish. Robinton grinned up at the big man and tucked his pipe back under the waistband, out of sight under his loose shirt.
    “I think you could manage to get the pitcher and the cake plate back down to the kitchen, couldn’t you, Robie dear?” Merelan asked, rising to open the door as she spoke.
    “Can. Will. Bye.” And he walked quite sedately down the hallway with his burden. Merelan closed the door.
    “Yes, my dear Merelan, you do have a problem growing up here. May I extend you my compliments as well as my assistance? If we move patiently, what is an astonishing natural talent can be nurtured. I admire Petiron in many matters, Singer, but . . .” Washell sighed with a rueful smile. “He can be single-minded to the point of irrationality. He will, of course, be
delighted
to discover his son’s musicality, but quite frankly, my dear, I would be sorry to be that son when he does. Which is obviously why you have sent for me, and I take that as the highest compliment you could pay me.”
    “Petiron will push him too far and too fast . . .”
    “Therefore we will lay the groundwork carefully, so that his father’s tuition will not be the sudden shock it could be.”
    “I feel so . . . treacherous, going behind Petiron’s back like this,” Merelan said, “but I know what he’s like and Robie
loves
to make music. I don’t want that to be taken from him.”
    Washell reached across and patted her nervously drumming fingers. “My dear, we can put Petiron’s single-mindedness to our advantage. I gather he has no idea that the