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Master Cornflower watched the novices and low seated apprentices work on the transposition of "Moonlight Dance of the Phantoms" from the key of C to the key of F, which was more suitable for the common ranges of popular professional singers amongst aristocrats.    He remembered it being almost impossible to do without having access to at least one of the big harps, or two of his fiddles-having been admitted to the academy for talent and not because he was well-trained, and having to learn to read and write on top of dealing with music theory, he had to rely on his first methods and not what they tried to teach him.

He'd come around to learn the "official" way to do it after he'd found good reasons to do so.  He smiled to himself as he thought back to a trip he took, motivated out of stubbornness and a desire to see what else was out there to learn in the wide world, and he remembered her:  his phantom of the nighttime sky, the beautiful bat Oringa.

"I cannot live here, Remi," she had told him.  She had been hiding out in the steep tower named "Thin Singer".  Many theorized it had been a lighthouse, but there was no evidence or equipment to back up that claim.   It was now unused and accessible by a terrifying series of ladders; the rat had found that closing his eyes and humming along in rhythm with the padding of his feet up the rungs was calming enough to forget what he was doing.  But he'd brave many things for the chance to talk to the bat.

"I cannot.  Finding food is difficult; you cannot come every day to bring what I need.  When I am seen, I am cursed and chased.  None of my kind lives here.  I thought I could come here and live with you but that cannot be."  And she had flown away.  He heard her call out, squeaking, and knew she was capturing one last impression of him; one last impression to remember him.

He would climb the tower and play his fiddle, calling back out to her with his music.  It had brought them together once.  It might do so again, but maybe not unless the venue for the performance was correct.  

Some whispering brought him back to the present.  "It's completely true," said a mouse.  "There is a special magic key that if you transpose songs to, they become hypnotic commands!"  He lowered his voice even further.  "Master Cornflower himself learned these methods in the desert!"  

The squirrel he was whispering to twitched her ears and her tail jerked about, betraying her skepticism.  "Then couldn't he or any of the other master performers simply command wealthy patrons to shower them with money?"

Remi stepped between them.  "Oh, they do shower us with money.  Why do you think we have this marvelous school of the musical arts where you two great talents have spare time to gossip instead of working on your lessons?  Was your tuition the price of a song?  I don't think so."

Chastened and subjected to soft chuckles, the pair bent over their papers and started to work again.  Remi laughed and said "But there's some truth to it.  Like many secrets of the stage and of performance, the reality is not as impressive as the impression that it makes.  Music can charm, and that is sometimes literal, but the audience needs to be receptive, and the artist needs to be..." he trailed off for a moment, looking out the window at the Thin Singer, and then at his hand.  "The artist needs to have some special qualities or skill.  Let's dismiss early today.  I won't tell Master Tenelli if you won't.  But you still have to give me your key transposition exercises before the end of tomorrow evening."

Some students wandered away; others stayed to continue working.  Remi went to a breezeway veranda where he could see the tower, and thought of another lost friend who had died of old age.  "I wish I could have gotten more secrets from you, little Handspan.  But maybe one of your relatives could help me if I dare go back to the desert and face your matriarch again."