The Audition

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It is perfectly normal—human, even—to want moral support during a difficult audition. I couldn't have taken my father. If he'd had any inkling that I wished to become the assistant to the court composer, he'd have tried to stop me, and auditions are ar­duous enough without climbing out my bedroom window first. My half siblings would have told Papa, and I had no friends to ask. So if I wanted a sympathetic face in the crowd, my only choice was my music teacher, the dragon Orma.

He's better than nothing, I told myself, but that was debatable. He'd spent years in human shape, but inside he was still a dragon: an unemotional, hyperrational being who, hard as he tried, could not quite master manners or understand why blurting out criti­cisms during my flute performance was utterly unhelpful. By the final day of auditions, I regretted having brought him.

As we climbed Castle Hill that balmy autumn afternoon, I decided to send him back. It was impossible to hurt a dragon's feelings, but I still felt guilty. He'd dressed up for our palace visit in a dark doublet and hose, and had even slicked down his shrubby hair, though it was slowly puffing back up as it dried. He saun­tered along beneath the golden linden trees, oblivious to my anxi­ety, probably solving equations in his head.

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