Sire Wenceslas and the young boy acting as his servant walk over to Sabine. "Why, hello there. I'm Sire Wenceslas, and this is Timothy. How was the ride here? Was it a long trip for you, all alone?" He reaches out and caresses Sabine's head. "Oh, your hair is so soft." He continues to pet her soft hair.
[Majesty is in effect.]
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Wenceslas interrupts, "That's very good, dear. But you weren't MAKING the beautiful things, were you? You just found them and appreciated them. Think hard, now: have you ever created beauty all by yourself?"
Wenceslas' smile is a bit strained for a moment. "Think hard, Sabine. Can you do that for me?" He strokes her hair a bit more. "Have you ever made something beautiful? Maybe a painting, or a sculpture? A great dance, or a beautiful aria? Have you ever done anything so captivating that others just stood there dumbfounded in awe?"
"Oh, um... I'm not allowed to touch the paints or inks. Mrs. Marta says I'll foul them. But, I learned a dance at the last festival days. And I learned a song!"
"A dance and a song? Excellent! Will you show them to me? I'd love to see your dance and hear your song." Wenceslas glances around the dining room. "But let's go to the next room. There are too many people talking in here; I want to hear just you, dear."
Wenceslas leads the way to an unlocked door, opens it and ushers Timothy and Sabine through it, down a hallway to a smaller salon. He closes the door, then seats himself on a couch. Gesturing to the open area in the center of the floor, "Come child. Show me this dance, first."
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Wenceslas listens to the shouting, hardly any changes in note. "Stop stop stop stop!" [Majesty still in effect.] "Mrs. Marta lied to you, child. She must not like you very much at all, if she told you that horrible screeching was good." The man sighs. "We'll need to start over from the basics, I see."
Wenceslas slaps Sabine across the face. "Stop that, you horrible creature." he says, not shouting, but very sternly. "Crying will only constrict the vocal chords. Never let me see you cry again."
"Now," he sings a single note, bold and clear, "Sing that note."
"That was passable, I guess." he grudgingly admits. "Now, since it like this." He sings the melody of the song as it was meant to be sung. This is much more complex than a single note. [He rolls four successes.]
Wenceslas smiles, "Don't worry child. It's all for the best. It'll only hurt for a little while, but it'll make your song so much better. You want to sing divinely, don't you?"
