The order of the contest was decided by order of admission. That is to say, the contestants were called up to perform in the order that their applications were accepted. This, of course, meant that Joanne Smith (which is the fate John Smith used for Cindy to keep her a secret from the Gibbses) would be one of the very last to perform- one of the very last out of almost a hundred. And while the vast majority of her rivals were predictably dull, almost two dozen wound up giving her serious reasons to be concerned. Unfortunately for Cornelia- and, quite frankly, everyone listening -Darius (who was thirty-eighth in line) was not such a talent.

What shall I tell them, when they ask of you?

That you are friendly and all too generous?

That you are sweet and pious to what's true?

Why must I lie afraid to make a fuss?

Afraid to share the ways you ring my head?

Of all the times you made my house a mess?

Say, can I speak of friends you've left for dead?

Of all these joys I never could express!

O how you break my heart! I come alive!

Behold my darling! Praise the broken dream!

Say, who can find the fear that makes him climb?

Her worth is more than jewels or high esteem.

If ever I could sing, I'd sing of her.

For evermore, she kills me every year

Rather obviously at parental command, Darius performed the song from the first dance of Lord and Lady Gibbs. The issue was that the song was meant to be played as a sort of sigh; an admission from one lover to another that "I love all of you; flowers and thorns" in spite of all reason and counsel. When Lord James had Smith tutor him into mastery of that song all those years ago, the good sir was proclaiming to all his stock that he was not blind to his Lady's faults but rather he knew them perfectly and loved them too. Whether that feeling remained years later was besides the point. There and then, he meant it and the music proved as much.

On the other hand, Darius' playing was not the passion of a man defending the honour of his love against the objection of his kin. It was the monotonous, grey and choresome playing of a boy who was tired and bored and beaten and full of hatred toward something his mother clearly wanted for him. All the notes were correct but the timing and the stress and even the boy's posture were all detestably off. As she heard all the right notes being played in all the wrong ways, Cindy could not help but pity her brother. What had been done to him did not sit very well with her. And she approved even less of what was done to him after his performance by the alien boy who looked younger than he and no older than she.

What is your fate?

Darius, Master Overseer.

Well Darius, I have to say, your music truly speaks to me. Indeed, for the past minute, it has been screaming at me to cut my ears off and choke-

(to Guardian) That's quite enough. (to Darius) Thank you, dear boy. Why don't you take a seat?

Cornelia had, herself, been unable to ignore Darius' poor playing. But, for his sake, she managed to keep a smile, however awkwardly arranged. Then the smile came undone at what the Guardian had to say and, under her breath, she muttered...

What an insufferable little prig.

I heard that...

His voice boomed from his seat all the way to hers and sent a shiver down her spine so that she sat straight up- with her shoulders back -as soon as she heard him. Then he turned, looked the woman up and down, and continued, saying...

(getting up) And I apologise.

Brother, don't.

(walking to the Gibbses' table) I should not have been so harsh on him. After all, (looking down on Cornelia) the spawn of a witch can hardly be expected to sound any sweeter.

I will not be insulted in this way. Not even by-

How would you prefer to be insulted? I take requests.

Why you little...

Would you like me to point out how jealous you must be of the woman who will someday marry your son? All this time spent crafting the prince of your dreams, only to see someone else steal him away. Or, perhaps, I should touch on the girl you keep as a slave. I'm sorry, "servant". I've heard she is no taller than your waist.

Though she was half-a-head taller than the boy standing up, the Guardian's confidence was not in the least eroded by the former Lady looking down at him. Freely, he continued his tirade and all the while, Cornelia felt terribly tempted to beat him but she stayed her hand since she knew that it would, very likely, break in the attempt.

You must feel very big, bossing such a person around. Although, perhaps that is your version of kindness. It's hard to say since you seem to boss around your husband as much. It is no wonder he spends all his time in his study. Who could enjoy the company of such a woman? Especially if she were so inclined to sleep with his son. (full of pride) Like how I got full circle there?

(heading over to his son) That is quite enough.

Hang on. I've yet to imply that her accent is about as valid a mark of nobility as my fart is a mark of good cooking. You're not fooling anyone, peasant. (His father then began dragging him away). Come on, father. One more joke about her wanting her son to fill up her privates again! (His father's grip tightened) Thank you! Thank you! I will be here all night!

I'm so very sorry for the trouble. The boy is not himself today.

On the principle of good manners, the party wanted to believe that, but on the principle of common sense, they couldn't. His character was decided. While an argument could have been made in his defence if his first outburst came after thirty-eight frustrating performances, not all of the prior performances were frustrating and he had been- to their minds -a mean little runt since before the contest even began. He acted as though they all knew he did not want to be there and that each party member had personally made sure that he would be forced. Further, he seemed to have accepted a theory that politeness was equal to falseness and so returned every polite gesture with insults and sarcasm, testing the limits to see what would make the actors (as he would have called them) break character. Indeed, he made no secret of what he thought of them and made full use of every opportunity to accuse them of being, behind their masks...

...selfish, ignorant, loud, obnoxious, condescending, self righteous pretenders. Cowards and jesters of the highest order.

For all these reasons, Cindy found herself rather disgusted by him and so discounted all the good opinion his Overseer-ness had bought him. She then counted herself lucky since she was under the impression that she would not have to bother about him very much.

Surely his judgement is of little merit. His ear must be as worthless as a deaf man's.

When the boy and his father were a fair distance away from the tables, a Beenu- looking to be made of glass -appeared where the Silencer's figure had been, wearing the Silencer's own forest-green cloak around his waist. Then, in a burst of wind from his wings- which behaved as though they were true Beenu wings and not glass -he flew into the sky, bringing along the Guardian gripped in one of his talons. Much of the surrounding party rushed toward the spot from which the two had shot up and, from there, they looked up as if they had any chance of hearing what the two were saying. The other Overseers only sat in sad silence.

How often must we play this game for you to be bored of it, father?

Careful.

Go on then! Drop me! As if you'd dare!

Dare to what? Break your legs? They'd be healed within the hour.

At such a reply, Malachi- who was called the Guardian outside of the Underground -gave a more earnest look down and realised that the fall would not kill him. This made him a little more afraid than he already was.

I will not stand a whole night of this.

I am fully sympathetic and I am perfectly willing to be grounded for the rest of my life. Shall I be heading home now?

So this was your plan: Irk me into sending you home?

Correction: I irk you and I want to go home. Do not mistake lethargy for strategy, father. I just have no good reason to censor myself.

Is gratitude a non-reason? We did this for you. We are here for you.

Really? That's not how I remember it. I have no memory of asking for this. In fact, I distinctly remember asking all of you- repeatedly -not to do this. No. This isn't for me. This is because you can't admit that I don't need a fellowship. So you and mother drive this whole, poor town mad on the off chance that this lyricist could make me amiable. Are you so desperate? Am I so detestable to you that you would go this far simply because I said I liked a song? As if terrific songs never came from terrible people?

Unnumbered replies echoed through the Silencer's head but he kept most of them- the meaner ones -to himself. Instead, his heart softened and the two began their descent. And as they drew nearer to the ground, the crowd beneath them dispersed. Yet, while they were still high enough to not be heard, the father uttered a final reply to his son, saying...

Go home whenever you like but I want you to think very carefully about how much you actually want us to give up on you.

Then the glass shattered and its pieces were thereafter nowhere to be felt or found. Being an Overseer himself, the Guardian did not flinch at the occurrence. Once more in Who-ish flesh and Who-ish bone, the Silencer returned to the Overseers' table while his son went away to sulk in a corner. While there, the boy took off his wig to scratch an itch and, afterwards, kept it off, only just managing to resist the urge to pull off the mask as well. But, of course, no one who with any common sense would give him credit for such restraint- only blame for having the audacity to remove his wig. And the obvious quality and expense of the wig did not help matters at all.

More trouble than it is worth.

Upon returning, the Lord Overseer took on a discussion with his wife and children on how the contest would even proceed. The truth of the matter was that none of them had any qualifications for judging the actual quality of a lyricist beyond the general "nice to hear" or "painful to hear" that every person has an opinion on. The contest was not about quality and it never claimed to be. It had only one purpose which deemed Cindy the only possible winner from the beginning- and Guardian, the only possible judge.

However, having given up on helping Malachi find the lyricist he heard that fateful day, the Overseers decided to also give up their intended search and leave the victor up to an audience vote at the very end of the night. This did not encourage much more attention from the audience- most of whom were determined either to vote for the candidate they brought in or to vote at random. Still, Cindy was far too nervous to play to realise how little the quality of her playing would matter in terms of the contest. And what followed was the most terrifyingly terrific performance yet.

Well it's tea time one and all!

Take a glass! Have some more!

"But I haven't had any at all!

So I can't very well have more!"

That's nonsensical, young one!

A small drop is more than none!

So if you've had less than one!

You can't very well have less!

It's only common sense!

Well it's school time, don't you know!

Hip hip and tally ho!

"But it's a waste for me to go!

I can't learn! I'm awfully slow!"

How nonsensical that sounds!

Those at home need not be found!

Fools ought to go school-ward bound!

Know-it-alls are a waste of tests!

It's only common sense!

It's the holidays! Ya-hoo!

There's nothing that you can't do!

"That's nonsensical, you fool!

It's 'plenty' that I can't do!"

So you say but here you are

Talking, breathing, thinking, pointing

Doing plenty right now, you are!

What you really can't do is nothing!

There's scolding, laughing, thinking, breathing

Jumping, falling, smiling, coughing

Working, resting, eating, drinking

Oh and dying too that's something!

And once you're dead there's no more you

So even then you can't do nothing!

It's only common sense!

And it heralded a series of increasingly nonsensical songs played with the uttermost passion and skill. So perfect was their playing that Cindy's full attention fell on that aspect and she did not realise that they were all children from Darius' class. And it was no coincidence that they were. A conspiracy had been undertaken. An alliance had been formed. A plot had been plotted. The children of 2-A had decided to, in protest of their parents, practise different, nonsense songs in the secrecy of their school's music room. To be sure, their playing ended up being leagues better than whatever would have resulted from them playing the songs their parents had drilled into their knuckles. However, that didn't stop said parents from being completely and utterly livid. Cornelia, for her part, felt a lot better about Darius' performance. And, indeed, it was her- let's say, "maternal style" -that kept Darius from following through with his part in the scheme.

There was a rat, a little boy-rat

Atop the butcher's stall;

And there he asked "Ya got some cheese?"

As the butcher's knife came thun'dring down

And he pittered and pattered away.

Next door there was a flower girl

Helping out her old papa.

To her he asked "Ya got some cheese?"

And then she "squeed" and then she "shooed"

And he pittered and pattered away.

Across the road, a seer's tent

Had newlyweds to host.

To the groom he asked "Ya got some cheese?"

And all three leapt up in surprise

And he pittered and pattered away.

A setting sun, ten sleepy men

Were packing up their tents

To them he asked "Ya got some cheese"

And all ten gave him ten large blocks

Then they pittered and pattered away.

With each passing phrase- each bravely played bar -Cindy felt her courage dwindle more and more until she found herself hardly able to stand at all, much less stand tall. And the conspirators were cleverer than their parents when it came to the contest. When it came to the weakest of their number, a very silly boy called Bruce, they made sure not to exhaust him with a needlessly complicated song but rather to have him play perfectly and creatively, a simple song. Indeed, the simplest in the pantheon of renowned nonsense songs.

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

How I wonder what you're at!

Up above the world you fly,

Like a tea-tray in the sky!

Glitter, glitter, little mouse!

Stealing shoes from every house!

While spaghetti monsters peep,

Underneath the town you sleep!

Sparkle, sparkle, little bee!

Please do stay away from me!

I have never seen your gold,

Candies rot your teeth, I'm told!

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!

How I wonder what you're at!

And he was, indeed, masterful. Despite- or, perhaps more accurately, because of -the gap between the raw calibre of their songs, Darius was nothing compared to Bruce. Worse still, for the young Gibbs, Bruce was nothing compared to the girl after him who sang...

There was a tax collector

Who hid behind a rock

And when no one was looking

He whipped out his little-

Leather bag of money

It really made him sick

That they'd pay him that much money

Just to be a-

Public mathematician

Who never worked past four

With a girl who'd take his money

To dress up like a-

Lady of the city

And schmooze the upper class

His fellows, they all liked her

Cause she let them ride her-

Trophy-winning pony

Who'd never made a buck

But still he won three tourneys

And no one gave a-

Grand... Old... Motherf*cking... Crap!

The Overseer children- Malachi included -were on the very edge of laughter. They snickered and giggled away where they were as their parents tried to keep them well-mannered. Though he reprimanded the contestant for her foul language, even Silencer could not help but be a little pleased at seeing his children- Malachi included -enjoying themselves at last.

Cindy, on the other hand, was having a very foul time and could bear to hear no more. Lauren's was the song she never got the chance to master. And there it was, on the stage, played in its fullness. As her response, she ran off. Away from the tables, she fled as the continuation of protestant melodies faded away behind her. And so, far away from the tables, she sat in horrid silence at the foot of a terebinth tree.