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tunics of the working Housemen and women.
    Since Magret appeared unsurprised, Sira had to assume this was typical. She kept her mind open, but her senior sent nothing. Sira, with her filhata under her arm, followed her up onto the dais. She must clear her mind now. She could think of these things later, when the ceremony was accomplished.
    Those attending the quirunha rose and bowed to the Cantrixes. The chatter subsided, and the atmosphere grew solemn at last. This was the function for which Singers trained. Without the quirunha , the House would grow cold and dark. The plants would droop and die. The people would shiver in the cold, and as it crept through the stone walls, they, too, would die. The quirunha was the reason families dedicated their Gifted children at a young age, relinquishing them to Conservatory. It was a great sacrifice, and it was necessary.
    Magret bowed briefly to her junior, sat, and began the ceremony with a quick strum of her filhata’s strings. Her high, delicate voice had a slight vibrato, a fragile sound like the chiming of icicles striking together. Sira’s own dark, even tone contrasted dramatically with Magret’s. Their filhatas , schooled in the same tradition, made a disciplined counterpoint.
    Sira followed her senior’s lead easily, thinking perhaps Magret, using only the first mode, was keeping things simple for their first quirunha together. Lacy drifts of melody rose to fill the high-ceilinged Cantoris as they concentrated their psi together. The room brightened, and began to grow warm. Sira reached out with her mind to the glassworks, the apartments, the stables, and the nursery gardens, all places she had not yet seen with her eyes. She imagined each seedling and plant in the gardens stretching out its green leaves to receive the blessing of warmth.
    When the quiru was strong and warm once again, Magret laid down her instrument. Sira looked out into the faces in the Cantoris. Wil, the Housekeeper, sat at the end of one of the long benches, his long legs stretching into the aisle. Cantor Grigr sat close to the dais, tremulously nodding appreciation. Rhia was absent, nor was there any man present who looked as if he might be Magister Shen. Sira’s pride was hurt. How could both the Magister and his mate ignore her first quirunha in their House?
    Magret rose then, and Sira did, too, bowing formally to her senior as the assemblage rose. Together they chanted the traditional prayer:

    S MILE ON US, O S PIRIT OF S TARS,
    S END US THE SUMMER TO WARM THE WORLD
    U NTIL THE SUNS WILL SHINE ALWAYS TOGETHER.

    The ceremony was complete. Magret sent, Thank you, Sira. You are as talented as Maestra Lu said.
    Sira was relieved to be able to send to her senior for a moment. You are very kind, Cantrix Magret. It was a lovely quirunha.
    Magret made a deprecating face. Future quirunhas will be more interesting, perhaps.
    Sira caught a flash of wordless feelings, and understood that Magret, in keeping their music simple, was protecting Cantor Grigr’s feelings. Sympathy welled in her. She could think of no heavier loss than losing the Gift. She thought of Maestra Lu, aged and yet still musically and mentally so strong. Perhaps Maestro Nikei really could restore some of Grigr’s health. She sent a brief prayer to the Spirit that it might be so.
    The Housekeeper came to the dais and stood by as first Magret and then Sira stepped down. He was very tall, half a head taller even than Sira. He looked down at her with narrow, dark eyes. “A charming quirunha , Cantrixes,” he murmured as he bowed. There was an undercurrent of something in his voice, laughter or boredom, Sira couldn’t tell which. When she glanced up at him, his thin mouth curved, and she looked away. She felt tall and awkward and childish, not at all the way she wanted to feel. She tucked her filhata under her arm, hugging its weight to her body.
    “Thank you,” Magret said to Wil. She put her hand firmly under her junior’s elbow.