She heard the violin before she saw it and was indignant almost to the point of being furious. She strummed harder at her lute and raised her voice. Her audience clapped laughed, and a few tried to join in on thew well-known tale, but she drowned them out. The sound of the violin died and she felt it safe to reduce her volume. Her audience didn’t notice.

The sweet smell of some garden flower pervaded the evening air. It wafted through the garden up the stairs and into the ballroom where the real party was. Women in brightly colored gowns giggled to one another behind equally bright, plumed masks. Couples on the dance floor talked and laughed more then they actually danced.

Her song, basically about a hunter who’d gone to the woods and shot a unicorn, was very popular and had been the only song she’d played in days. Frankly, she was quite sick of it. Suddenly the violin struck up again in a lively tune. She turned her head up sharply as her audience also turned to look.

An older man stood at the top of the stairs. Quite a few of the dancers had followed him out; some stayed to listen, some moved down to gaze at the foliage but still within hearing range; still others started to dance on the lanai.

The bard glared at the violinist, and even though his eyes were closed, he smiled as though amused at her reaction.

She’d long since stopped her song, but the people around didn’t seem to notice or if they did, they didn’t care. Jealously coursed through her veins and she took every note as a personal insult.

The song wound down; the notes quieter and the beat steadier. The lively dance became a slow lullaby before totally dying out. As soon as the last note sounded, his group, which now consisted of hers, burst into wild applause. He smiled and bowed, then held up his violin. They clapped harder.

She quietly got up from her stone bench and brushed herself off, nursing bruised pride.

It wasn’t the violin or the violinist himself. Not even that he’d lured off her group—at least, not totally. She had no problem sharing the spotlight, provided she got paid fairly. But it was that look he’d given her, just as he’d finished his piece. The blatant smirk that said "You may be good, but I’m better."

She fumed silently to herself.

The time the moneybag smacked angrily from hand to hand as she tossed it. It was lighter than last time, but still considerably heavy. She wished it were heavier so it would have left a mark when she tossed it at that smart violinist’s face.

Whammo!

The bag landed with a multiple jingles several feet ahead of her on the deserted country side road. Then, in a fit of immaturity she stomped her feet and yelled. Some birds from a nearby bush took off screaming.