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But the woodworker had been able to explain some of it; it was, their mother told them, a song about the North Wind opening doors and carrying messages to and from a beloved in exile. So the girls knew it as the Professors’ Hymn, and though they didn’t really understand it—they argued, sometimes, about whether the North Wind was one of the lovers, or merely a messenger—they enjoyed improvising harmonies into the repetition of nonsense la sounds in the long refrain, inflecting it slightly differently depending on the time of year, and how likely the North Wind was to blow. As Esther and Ysabel grew, as singing became their favourite pastime, they began to play with adding new material to their repertoire. It did the trees no harm, and seemed even to do them some good; their parents observed small shifts of colour in bark and leaf, though any other effects were too subtle to track without a grammarian. But if any grammarian would stoop to such common work, instead of the fire and crackle of conjugation in the king’s service, they hadn’t yet wandered towards Thistleford. Or if they had—and only one had—they tended towards Arcadia, and never came out again. Taste is a kind of language, and siblings speak it with a forked tongue. As entwined as Esther and Ysabel were, there came a point in their childhood where their interests diverged, and, like the Professors, they loved each other across the gap between them. Ysabel loved pickles where Esther couldn’t abide the smell of vinegar; Esther took to foraging while Ysabel preferred gardening; Ysabel was fascinated by boys and their company while Esther found them tedious and enjoyed being alone. Where music was concerned, Ysabel loved flutes and murder ballads best, while Esther favoured harps and riddle songs. They often teased each other over their favourites, argued over what kind of music the willows preferred while gathering branches or stripping bark. “All I’m saying,” mused Ysabel, bundling long strips of bark together into tight coils, “is that if I had died for love, I’d like to hear William and Margaret songs best. Songs of love winning out, of holding each other forever, even at the bottom of a river.” Esther was weaving a basket, but paused in her work to look up and squint at her sister in amusement. “Bel, really? Do you love murder ballads because you want to be murdered? Or because you don’t, not really, but you get to have it safely in six stanzas and a looping refrain?” Ysabel laughed. “You’ve turned it backwards! I’m saying if I were murdered, the ghost of me might still like to hear murder ballads!” “Or,” said Esther, “you might go off them completely. I’d certainly find them less thrilling from the receiving end of a penknife.” Ysabel rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. What do you think they like best?” Esther looked at the trees thoughtfully. “Travelling songs, like their hymn. Sea songs. Songs that bring news from away.” “So, Miss Hawthorn,” Ysabel said, raising an eyebrow and deepening her voice into a pitch-perfect mimicry of an insufferable headmaster from their school days, “it is your contention that people must in fact most ardently desire that which they cannot have? You don’t think that songs of travel are liable to sadden those rooted into the earth? Besides”—she smiled, reaching up to touch one’s trunk—“surely the river brings them all the news worth telling.” “Only from one direction,” said Esther, watching the water flow. “That’s just it; I think they’d welcome news of mortal lands, mortal work. And there’s no singing in Arcadia.” Ysabel went quiet for a moment, then worked her fingers into the grass. Too lightly, she said, “Did Rin tell you that?” Esther nodded, then bent her gaze back to her weaving. Ysabel waited for more, but her sister stayed quiet, so she shrugged. “Well, Rin’s wrong. We sang in Arcadia, when we were lost.” Esther paused, again, and looked at Ysabel; it was so rare that she mentioned it. “But we’re not Arcadian. It’s not that it’s forbidden,” she said, carefully. “Arcadians just … don’t. Or can’t. They play instruments, but they never sing. And if I were ever to live there, Rin said I’d eventually forget how.” “But,” said Ysabel, “you said Rin loves your singing.” Esther looked back to her weaving, nodded. “They do.” Ysabel narrowed her eyes, reached for her sister’s hand, and twined their fingers together tightly. “Well. Rin can think what they like. If you were ever in danger of forgetting how to sing, I would simply have to come and remind you.” Esther chuckled, but Ysabel went on, teasing. “Every other week. You’ll come here, then I’ll go there, and there won’t be a week we don’t see each other, and sing together. I don’t care how golden and honeyed Arcadia is, I won’t let you forget a single word of ‘Tam Lin.’” “Ugh,” laughed Esther. “Mercy! That tedious tune! We always leave off a few verses!” “We won’t anymore! In fact, we’ll invent new ones! I’ll make you learn them!” “Fine, fine,” said Esther, reaching out to pet her sister’s hair. “Thank you, Bel. I accept your proposed tyrannies. And anyway,” she said, aiming for lightness and missing it with a thud, “you know—you do know I would never leave you for Arcadia.”
