The silk felt like a tourniquet. The Falci family. Of course. It was always them, pulling at the threads, tearing at the fabric of anything good. Her mind, usually quick to seek the path of least resistance—preferably leading to a plush sofa—now whirred with an uncharacteristic sharpness. This wasn't about a simple slight, not anymore. This was a calculated strike. “The Royal Conservatory commission,” Elia murmured, the words tight, almost a hiss, before she could think better of it. She glanced at Dante, who had turned from the armonica, his sharp gaze fixed on her. The mask felt thin, suddenly, a fragile shell. “They mean to discredit the masked composer entirely. Not just to win the Solstice Gala, but to ensure there are no other contenders for the Grand Orchestral Endowment. No other voice to challenge their mediocrity.” Dante’s dark brows drew together. “The Grand Orchestral Endowment? The Academy's largest patron initiative, ensuring the future direction of Serezzian music for the next century?” He stated it like a question, though his tone was one of grim realization. “That’s… an astronomical sum. And an even more astronomical influence.” He took a step closer, his eyes probing the silver mask. “How could you know their intentions concerning such a private matter?” Elia’s mind raced. She couldn’t reveal her identity. She couldn’t reveal that she had heard the Falcis boasting about it in hushed, triumphant tones at the Coda Club, believing no one would connect their words to her phantom identity. She couldn't admit to having lingering connections within the guild, friends who still whispered secrets, fearing her relatives' reach. But she could, perhaps, hint at her alter ego's legendary reclusiveness, his supposed network of unseen ears. “Our reclusive friend has… many ways of knowing things,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, theatrical baritone she had been practicing. “The usurpers have grown too bold, too careless. Their ambition is a loud, vulgar song that echoes through the city’s quietest corners.” She met his gaze with feigned confidence, hoping the silver gleam of the mask obscured the frantic calculations in her own eyes. Dante studied her for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Vulgar song,” he repeated, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It vanished quickly. “You believe they intend to seize control of the Academy's entire musical direction? To turn Serezzia’s artistic heart into a stagnant pool of their preferred, profitable artists?” “It’s not just a belief,” Elia said, a fierce conviction burning in her chest. This was more than revenge for her stolen benches and glass lathe. This was for every artisan, every aspiring composer, every quiet talent her aunt and uncle would stamp out. “It’s their design. They would choke the city’s vibrant pulse, replacing true artistry with sycophancy and stolen glory. They will make Serezzia’s music a dull, predictable echo chamber for their own self-aggrandizement.” Dante’s expression hardened. He looked at the Valeriana armonica, then back at Elia. “Then we cannot let them,” he said, his tone flat and icy. “If what you say is true, then this goes beyond a mere duel. It’s a fight for the soul of our city.” Elia nodded, a surge of unexpected alliance warming her. “Exactly.” The details of their conversation filled the rest of the evening. Dante, now convinced, proposed a counter-strategy, using his broadsheet columns to cast doubt on the accusations and amplify her persona in the public eye. Elia, though weary, found herself energized by the unexpected camaraderie. It was late when she finally returned to the tailor's atelier, the scent of dyes and fine fabrics a comforting anchor. She recounted the evening’s events, pacing the length of his cutting table, her voice animated, stripped of her usual indolence. The tailor listened, needle suspended in mid-air, his gaze fixed on her with each revelation. “The Grand Endowment? Control of the entire musical future?” the costumer finally exclaimed, dropping a spool of cerulean thread. “The utter gall! That’s… that’s beyond even their usual avarice!” He clapped his hands together, a sharp crack. “Right! Operation: Quiet Thunder just got upgraded to ‘Operation: Cataclysmic Crescendo!’ We don’t just win the gala, Elia. We shatter their entire rotten empire!” Elia stopped pacing, looking at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “You understand, don’t you? It’s not just about my lost livelihood now. It’s about every quiet talent they’d crush, every genuine voice they’d silence.” Riccio’s usual theatricality faded, replaced by a grim resolve that tightened the corners of his mouth. He picked up a piece of velvet, running his thumb over its nap. “Believe me, *cara*. I understand all too well.” His gaze drifted to a faded, framed photograph on a dusty shelf—a young couple, smiling, standing proudly beside a storefront sign that read ‘Bellini Haberdashery’. The sign was crooked, the letters worn. “My family… we were tailors of some renown, you know. Not grand theatrical costumes, but bespoke suits, elegant gowns. Your aunt and uncle… they coveted our prime location near the Rialto Bridge. They used every dirty trick, every baseless accusation, every backhanded deal to drive us out. They ruined us. Left us with nothing but debt and a tarnished name.” He looked up, his eyes now blazing with an intensity Elia had never seen. “They think they can do it again, don’t they? To you. To every other artist who doesn’t bend to their will. But this time… this time, they picked the wrong targets. And *this time*, we have a phantom prodigy.” A quiet understanding passed between them. Their goals, once disparate, now intertwined, forming a formidable, if unlikely, alliance. They spent the next hour strategizing, their voices low, punctuated by the rustle of fabric and the scratching of a quill as the tailor sketched out ideas for her next public appearance, something bold, something unforgettable. “We need to make a statement,” Riccio said, holding up a drawing of a cloak shimmering with embedded crystal shards. “Something that declares our composer is not just an artisan, but a force. A disruptor.” Elia nodded, her mind already composing. A new piece, perhaps. Something that spoke of the city's hidden pulse, its vibrant, untamed spirit. Something to counteract the stolen repertoire. A sudden, insistent knock echoed through the front parlor. The tailor startled, dropping his quill. No one visited this late, especially not in this quiet, residential corner of the Golden Lyre District. “Who could that be?” Riccio whispered, his eyes wide. He glanced at Elia, then towards the bolted door. Elia, still clad in broadcloth and velvet disguise, felt a prickle of unease. She had thought the evening was over, her public persona safely tucked away until the next performance. She certainly wasn't expecting an audience now. The knock came again, firmer this time. Riccio slowly approached the door, peering through the small, grimy peephole. His breath caught in his throat. “It’s… Dante Aligeri,” he whispered, turning to Elia, his face pale. “He’s holding something.” Elia’s stomach twisted. Dante? Here? What could he possibly want? Riccio unlatched the door, opening it just a crack. Dante stood on the stoop, the street lamps casting long shadows behind him. He looked tired, but his gaze was sharp, unwavering. In his hand, he held a small, elegantly framed oil portrait. “Musician,” Dante said, his voice devoid of its usual wry amusement, replaced by an unsettling gravity. He held the portrait out, its canvas capturing the soft glow of the gaslight. It depicted a young girl, no older than ten, with a serious face framed by dark, unbound hair. Her eyes, though youthful, held a familiar weariness, a quiet strength Elia knew intimately. “I’ve been investigating the name from that letter,” Dante continued, his gaze fixing on Elia’s masked face. “Tell me everything you know about Elia Valeriana.”

The Price of a Name