And it feels like me on a good day [seasonal event]

a m a l i a His apology only wounds her further, driving home the weight of her ineptitude and abashment. She does not look up as he draws near, her gaze still downcast, frustration and shame written across her face. Tongue-tied and troublesome, her mother would call her. Why start something if you cannot finish it? It had been a common refrain in the girl's adolescence, a repeated mantra driving home her inadequacies, her anxieties. Her mother believed it possible to cure unreasonableness by smothering it with reason. She did not have time to sing to Luxere; it was far more expedient to offer them grain and let them about their business. Amalia clenches and unclenches her hands. "I'm sorry," she echoes softly, more to the ground than the buck or man. Movement to her left draws her from her reverie; despite herself she is curious, cautiously intrigued by the stranger's next move. From behind lowered lashes the glances sidelong as he reaches into a hidden pack, extracting an instrument unrecognized to the girl. The first note rings out clear and clean, soothing and softening Amalia's concerns. She had expected laughter, abandonment, haughtiness, but this? This is kindness, empathy, and the girl does not know whether to laugh or cry. Carefully she listens to the woven notes, their effect on the luxure evident as the beast steps closer, its gentle eyes warm. A thin, grateful smile flickers at Amalia's lips; they part slightly, as quietly, a hum joins in with the notes of the flute, quickly turning into words as the girl catches the tune. Closing her eyes Amalia sings, willing herself to be brave, the words of a poem half-remembered easily fitting into the tune. "How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free, Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day."