Black Family Tutelage Ⅲ

Eventually, the topic begins to change as Rowan as subtly as possible says, "Godmother, do you have any photographs of the elder members of society? I would like to be able to recognize them at first glance." 

Dorea thoughtfully purses her lips. "I have several and I am sure that Cassiopeia has some, don't you, Cassie?" She called out to her sister's pet name and whom had been quietly sitting at the back of the music room.

"I have some," Cassiopeia sniffed unhappily at being called her childhood pet name in public. She sat up and caused her chair to float slowly behind her. The chair floated gently to a halt next to the table as Cassiopeia joined them. "Though they are put away, I will have to have the house elves look for them. I am certain that Arcturus and Pollux will have more as well. I will see what I can do."

"There you have it," Dorea smiled at her sister with gratitude. "On that note," her face visibly brightened before becoming damp again. "It is a shame that Barry is not holding a Birthday Party this year. It would be a good occasion to introduce you to members of the elder generation, Rowan."

"Barry?" Rowan curiously gazed at her godmother.

"Ah, yes, Barry Wee Willie Winkle."

Rowan wasn't quite sure of what to make of the name. She didn't know if it was a running joke or if that really was the wizard's name. She wisely opted to remain silent.

"What is he going on 700 now?" Cassiopeia grumbled.

"Why I do believe seven hundred and forty this year, come August," Dorea promptly responded after doing the math in her head.

"Tch," Cassiopeia clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I still don't bloody understand how he's lived that long. I still say that Barry used the Philosopher's Stone and then hid it away."

"I doubt that dear sister," Dorea responded with amusement. "Nicolas Flamel was not born until 1330. Barry easily had 94 years over Nicholas Flamel. And Barry was never any good at alchemy, or cooking for that matter if his teacakes filled with eggshells are anything to go by."

"It could all be a clever rouse," Cassiopeia firmly retorted. "I wouldn't past that wily old coot!"

The two witches change the subject, but Rowan is left in genuine wonderment at their conversation. How in Merlin's name is it possible for a wizard to live to 740 without the use of a Philosopher's Stone? It should be impossible, really!

Before Rowan can think further on the subject Cassiopeia claps her hands to gain Rowan's attention. "Well, I think we have talked long enough. Shall we get down to business?" She paused to stare at her younger sister, Dorea. "Do you terribly mind, Dorea?"

"Not at all," Dorea magnanimously gestured to her older sister, Cassiopeia to take over the lesson. It would give her time to rest up for tomorrow to give a more thorough lesson.

"The art of music is carefully cultivated by a lady of proper breeding," Cassiopeia said as with a wave of her wand the musical instruments floated over to them. "A good wooden flute is made from granadilla, boxwood, mopani, cocobolo, couswood. However, there are just as good flutes made by ancient flute makers that still practice the art of carving flutes made out of ivory, bone, reed, crystal, or even nephrite," she gestured to the pale, glistening flutes. 

"It all wholly depends on the music desired to be expressed," Cassiopeia raised a baroque flute to her lips and began to play a gentle ode. The notes are simpler and gentler than modern metal flutes. They have smaller embouchure holes making the tone of the notes sweeter and quieter than their modern counterparts. 

Rowan closed her eyes enjoying the art performed by a true master. Sadly, the music is cut short as Cassiopeia reaches for a crystal flute on the table. "A crystal flute for example contains the air very well, but the harmonic's itself is absorbed less and lost, yet this makes for a clear bright tone of sound," and begins to play a jolly reel.

Cassiopeia only plays a few bars of music, before halting. "Naturally, there is the harpsichord as well, but we shall move on for the sake of time." The tips of elegant pointed, aged fingers point to the array of flutes. "Go ahead, and pick a flute to play, Miss Prince."

Rowan's face tragically pales and weakly reaches for the wooden flute nearest to her. She clutches the flute with a somewhat sickly expression. She really didn't have a talent for making music. She could sing and hum properly but that was the extent of her musical abilities. Upon being given a recorder to play, her primary school music teacher had quickly taken the recorder away and had politely suggested Rowan concentrate her talents elsewhere…

Raising the flute in her hands, Cassiopeia begins to show Rowan how to place her fingers on the flute. She corrects Rowan's posture as they go and shows her how to blow and hold a moment. This lesson went very well until this juncture at which point Rowan shrilly blew into the flute.

"Stop, stop!" Cassiopeia shouted and showed Rowan again how to properly place her fingers and blow a note.

Tragically, this scene carried on for over an hour until Cassiopeia had enough. "That is more than sufficient," and rubbed her aching head with her fingers. "It would appear that you do possess not a single artistic bone in your body, Miss Prince."

Rowan, not very apologetically at all shrugged her shoulders in response. She could have saved them time and effort, but she doubted she would have been believed. After all, most people are capable of learning to play the recorder… (Flute, recorder, they're all wind instruments!)

Seeing her older sister's clear vexation, Dorea says, "Well, in that case, it would appear that music is simply not possible, Cassiopeia. What about fans and flower arrangements?"

"Fans?" Rowan blinked. She already knew how to use a fan. She had been taught by her Aunt Georgine for her presentation ball. She might be rusty though. And as for flower arrangements, meh, she could fake it. Probably.

Seeing the young woman's unconvinced expression, Cassiopeia flourishes her wrist, and a beautiful fan made of wood, ivory, and mother of pearl flutters in the air. The fan is embellished with silk and lace with a delicate flower pattern embroidered upon it. 

Through privately Rowan wonders where Cassiopeia made the fan appear from. It would be a handy skill to learn if she could make her wand appear out of nowhere. A most useful trick.

With grace, Cassiopeia used the fan, "An arrogant muggle by the name of Addison once remarked that 'women are armed with fans, as men are with swords.' The statement is satirical in nature, nevertheless, the statement is true. A fan has been used since ancient times in Egypt and since then throughout the world. A lady's choice of weapon."

Using the fan, Cassiopeia touched the tip of her finger. "What did I just say?" She promptly asked.

"I wish to speak to you," Rowan responded after a pause. Truth be told, what Aunt Georgine had taught her regarding the use of the language of fans, she hadn't kept her skills up to date. It wasn't like she used a fan often enough to be fluent.

"My point exactly," Cassiopeia fluttered her fan expressing disappointment. "Though you have been taught, well, you are far from proficient, Miss Prince." 

Turning her other wrist another fan is conjured by Cassiopeia, before being offered for Rowan to take. Rowan gingerly accepts as Cassiopeia expectantly waits for Rowan to properly hold the fan. "Then let us have a simple conversation with our fans. Try to respond as much as possible with your fan, Miss Prince. I shall commence by asking do you have any experience with flower arrangement, Miss Prince?"

Rowan raised her fan and let it rest over her left cheek in response gesturing a very clear no, before bringing her fan back down to center.

The conversation continued for a time until Cassiopeia understood the fluency of Rowan Prince. "I believe that is more than enough for today," she promptly said and elegantly snapped her fan shut, before gracefully laying it on the table.

Rowan with great relief set the fan down and rubbed her aching wrists. She had forgotten just how tiring it can be to flutter a fan. Ug.