The piano stares back at him with disapproval.

He sighs as he sips from the wineglass dangling from one hand. It's early for a libation, but he needs it. Checking his watch, Solas sees that an hour has elapsed and still his legs refuse to stand and take him away from this folly plaguing him.

Even sleep escaped him last night as the slow spark of inspiration took hold and blew into a conflagration.

So now he sits, willing it to pass but failing. He's so very good at failing, after all.

Miserable, he sighs and sets fingers to keys. A simple run warms up his hands, then he truly begins. As melody takes shape under his fingers, he can't help but picture … her. That strange and compelling muse with the flame-colored hair and crooked grin.

Gyrating hips and blinding, youthful power.

His right hand retrieves the pen from behind his ear at regular intervals to make notations on the sheet music before his eyes. Key changes, accidentals and dynamics fall into place where it feels most natural.

Time flies by, and a knock on his door shatters his concentration just as the last phrase comes together.

Irritated, Solas straightens, popping his back, all the while staring at the song he just created. The final measure pokes at him and he writes as he mutters, "Tremolo e diminuendo. Fine."

The knock comes again and he shouts, "Yes, yes! I'll be right there."

Shuffling the papers into order, he stands and strides toward the door. Yanking it open, he says, "Yes? Ah, Miss Cordelia. Come in."

The waifish human adolescent drifts in at his impatient gesture. Her eyes are huge in terror behind her porcelain half-mask. She clutches her cello case in front of her like a shield, making him regret his sharp tone.

Solas softens his gaze as he waves her to her customary seat, the seat all his students occupy when here. "On time today, I see. Did you practice this week as I requested?"

"Yes, Messere," she whispers, timid as a mouse.

He frowns. The term grates on his nerves more than usual. "I thought we agreed that you would call me Solas. I do not require an honorific."

"Mama says everyone is 'Messere' or 'Madame,' even those that don't deserve it, like the poor and even elves."

Keeping his face blank takes supreme effort, but he manages. It's not this girl's fault she was born into privilege, or that her parents are fatuous, bourgeois pigs. "Noblesse oblige aside, respect isn't in a word. It's in the act. You show me respect by doing as I instruct, by being a good student. I show you respect by giving you the best instruction I can. Is this not true?"

She nods, though doubt dances in her eyes. Her precious Mama couldn't be wrong, after all.

"Let us begin the lesson. Tune your instrument and show me." As he sits through the tortured squealing of bow on string, manipulated by untalented hands, he takes in her worrying her lip to near bloody, her shifting gaze sliding all over the room. He himself tries so very hard to remain interested and engaged.

His foot, however, makes no such promises and bounces in agitation. Counter to the beat, it throws the student off and she halts with a grimace. "I'm sorry, Mess-"

"Tell me, Cordelia. Do you even like the cello?" he interrupts, keeping his voice even and mild.

Her face, what he could see of it, wrinkles in confusion. It clearly states, What does liking have to do with anything? "I … like it well enough, I guess?"

"Or rather, if you had the choice of anything you could be doing right now, would it be learning the cello?" He sets elbows onto knees and leans forward, rubbing his palms together lightly. "Is there something you're passionate about? What brings you joy, Cordelia?"

She flushes and looks away, demurely. "I … I like to dance, Messere."

"Oh? Ballet?"

"N-no." The bow in her hands gives a little wiggle in the air as she looks up at him with trepidation. He gives her an encouraging nod. A tiny measure of confidence flickers in her countenance. "Hip hop and jazz."

Surprised, but delightedly so, he smiles.

Cordelia's flush pales as her gaze goes distant. She bites her lip. "Oh, but mama says proper ladies don't dance like that. They sew, or paint, or play. I'm to become accomplished, she says."

Solas shakes his head. "So many things in the world bring us sorrow. So few, joy. Is it so wrong to desire a measure of happiness? I would say not. I would also say that … while accomplishment is a worthy goal, it's ever more gratifying to become accomplished in something you love doing."

He reaches out and takes the bow from her hand, motioning that she should put her cello back in its case. Then he hands her the bow so she can lay it alongside the instrument.

Solas says, "The cello is a passionate instrument. You can learn it, but if you don't love it, it will never be more than a source of bitter frustration. The music will never fly from your fingers as you will always be aware it should. And you may end up hating it, or your parents, or even yourself someday, and what a pity that would be. Because you are a person, and every person is worthy of love and respect."

The fire of rebellion grows in her gaze, and he finds that very gratifying. For people shouldn't be bent or hammered into shapes that poorly fit.

Brave little Cordelia says, haltingly, "What if I already hate my parents?"

He can't help but laugh. "I would say that's perfectly normal. At your age, the collar starts to chafe. They hold the reins to every decision about your life and your goals. You may have already started to wonder what it might feel like to take those reins in your own hand. Doing so is what adulthood is all about. As is living with the consequences."

Her shoulders pull back as her spine straightens. The thoughtful look in her eye tells him his suggestion took root. Latching the clasps on her case, she stands and heads for his door. Turning, she gives him a shy smile. "I … might not be back."

"If that makes you happy, then I am well pleased. Adieu, Cordelia." When the door shuts behind her, he goes to the window and watches his student slide into the waiting car. A long black number that bespoke highly of the wealth of her parents. With a sigh for the loss of their patronage, Solas nevertheless feels lighter than he has for a long time.

Then he wonders how many times this same scenario will play out with his other students. How many angry phone calls is he likely to get? Solas laughs at himself.

I am also so very good at sabotaging myself.

With shaking head, Solas wanders back over to his piano and rifles through the sheet music still waiting patiently there for one last perusal for flaws. He hums the tune as he sips wine through smiling lips. Yes, it's quite good.

Raw and honest in a way he hasn't felt in himself in a long, long time.

"What brings you joy?" His earlier words come back to haunt him as he realizes he's looking at it.

He reaches into a pocket and fishes out his cell phone. Rarely used, it blinks at him beseechingly, begging to be put to purpose.

Pecking out four letters to the only number in its directory, he sends the text, "Busy?"

Swift comes the reply, "No. Not really."

Solas then presses the little handset icon and puts the device to his ear. It rings an … interesting four times before it's picked up. He pictures shock on that other's face as he hears a timid, "Hello?"

"Hello indeed," he replies, with a smirk.

A long pause at the other end presaged a hushed, "You still sound the same."

"Is that such a surprise?"

"Considering our … discussions have never ventured out of the realm of the weekly email in years, yes." There is an accusation in the man's tone. A pang flares through Solas's heart for just a second, the briefest whisper of shame as the man continues, "I've spent the last few frenzied seconds trying to determine just what kind of emergency could provoke an actual verbal interaction."

"Not an emergency."

"Now I really am worried."

Solas laughs.

"And a laugh. I am aghast!"

"Listen, let us skip all that and go have lunch today. I have something that may … interest you."

"All this sudden, unprecedented friendliness has my heart all a-flutter, Solas. Give a girl a minute to process." Solas hears the man lean away and shout at someone to clear his schedule, probably that Harding girl, his longtime assistant. Then, loud and demanding in his ear, "Where?"

"Prendere en Giro?"

"Excellent. Hmm. 11:30-ish? No being fashionably late. For either of us."

"That suits. See you then, Dorian."