by Jameyanne Fuller
Tavery was late to rehearsal the day after the fire, but only half the orchestra had even come. Too many Harmonies were destroyed when the instrument house burned, and too many people were now grieving. No one was in their seats except Last Clarinet. The clarinet wasn’t really her Harmony. It was easy to hear, the way she determinedly squeaked her way through a set of arpeggios–no Resonance with her instrument at all. Tavery understood her, struggling with an instrument she felt Dissonance with long after her peers found their Harmonies. It had been like that for him when he was her age.
Everyone else, from the eight-year-old Last Violin to the eighty-year-old First Harpist, was talking in groups around the room. Tension hummed in the air, and Tavery saw the anger and resentment in the looks they threw at each other. The moment he entered, however, everyone turned and went to their seats. Third Flute knocked over Last Clarinet’s stand as he passed, spilling her music everywhere. No one avoided stepping on it as she tried to pick it up.
Tavery tapped his baton on the podium. The already-hushed orchestra fell silent. “You all know there was a fire yesterday.” His cheeks burned. Obvious. So obvious. He was terrible with speeches. What he wanted to say was always clear in his head, but it never came out the way he intended. There had been other times when the orchestra struggled, and he’d always fixed things, but nothing like this had ever happened. They were all hurt: No one was dead, but many were injured, and so many instruments were damaged or destroyed. And he didn’t know what to say to make that right.
So he changed the subject. “The Harvest Festival is next month. It’s the time to pay homage to the Phoenix who dies with the year and to prepare for her rebirth in the spring. We give her the music she needs to guide our world’s transformation through the winter. Our music is her life, and her wings are the heartbeat of our world. We have suffered a terrible loss, but if we work together, we can heal.”
He had to impress upon them how important this was. “If we don’t come together, if we don’t give the Phoenix back her song, our world will die, and we will lose everything. We are all hurt by what happened. I understand that. But we need to move past it, and we need to come together as an orchestra more than we ever have before. It will be hard, but we can do it. We must do it.”
He could have gone on about hope and change and new beginnings and how they were usually out-of-tune and filled with wrong notes. But he hadn’t lost his Harmony, and neither had these people.
He flipped through his notes, looking for something to rehearse with only half the orchestra. He chose Yani Kellerson’s “Harmony of the First Phoenix,” and adjusted the score.”
“Kellerson,” he said. He waited for the paper rustling to stop. Then he lifted his arms, and the orchestra lifted their instruments in one fluid motion. Tavery counted off, feeling the beats in his very bones. One, two, three, four. His fingers tingled with the joy of Resonance to come, the wonder and rightness that would fill him when all the instruments folded together into a symphony, one living, breathing being led by his hand.
He waited for the swoop of the woodwinds, the fanfare of the brass, the crescendo of the bells–
The oboe squawked.
Tavery counted another measure aloud, hoping they’d pick it up. “One, two, three four. One, two . . . ” He dropped his arms as First Clarinet put her face in her hands. She was still playing her child’s clarinet, but she’d been crafting her own Harmony, all ivory and gold leaf, and it was destroyed in the fire. Her younger sister, Last Clarinet, gathered her things and walked out.
“Let’s try again.” He didn’t want to waste their rehearsal time.
They played, at least. The woodwinds did well on their descending run, but someone squeaked horribly on the trill, making everyone wince. Then Percussionist on Bells dropped his mallets. The trombones came in two beats early, and the violins missed their cue and entered three beats late. Tavery’s teeth ached. He struggled to keep a steady beat as his world crashed down around him and a fount of misery and grief erupted in his chest. He kept conducting, waiting for them to pull it together. Instead, they plowed on in a cacophony of wrong notes and mistaken entrances until it became a howl.
Tavery waved for quiet, not even bothering to cut them off. They stopped playing, their faces uncertain. They’d felt the Dissonance of the orchestra too. He didn’t know what to say, so he shook his head. “Let’s leave it here for today. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Tavery bade goodbye to the members of the orchestra on the rehearsal hall steps, shaking hands and patting backs and saying things would get better. He watched them head down the street and disperse, going about their regular business. Morning sunlight spilled between the buildings, flooding the street like burnt gold. The maples were just turning yellow. The breeze was warm, but he shivered. It had been years since he’d felt Dissonance like that. He was weak and shaky, as if he had a fever. He took deep breaths to steady himself.
Someone hummed to his left. He turned. Last Clarinet was sitting on a bench in the sun, clearly waiting for her family. She was humming “Harmony of the First Phoenix” and tapping her foot. But it was the pencil in her hand that caught Tavery’s eye. She’d been making notes on her part, but now she was beating the pencil back and forth like– like a baton. A smile spread slowly across her olive cheeks. He stared at her, numb with shock and overwhelmed with his own memories.
“Look! Tavery feels Resonance with a stick!” Sarelle shouted to a chorus of laughter and jeers. Tavery stumbled back into the center of the market green, clutching the gnarled stick like a sword. His fingers still tingled with the warmth of Resonance, but now dread chilled him as they closed in. He didn’t understand. They’d been chasing him, bent on pummeling him because he had no Harmony, and he’d grabbed the stick and brandished it, trying to fend them off. And everything felt right, like a piece that had been rattling around in his chest had finally clicked into place. Could it really be Resonance? But a stick wasn’t an instrument.
Now Tavery stared at the girl on the bench. It was like looking at himself twenty years ago: fourteen years old, lost, confused, and not knowing he’d just found the Harmony that would save him.
But this couldn’t be right. The old conductor had died just after Tavery completed his apprenticeship. He’d been seventy-eight, but Tavery was only thirty-four.
Horror rose inside him. He’d always imagined he would be old and wise when the Phoenix chose the next conductor. How could he train this girl when it would mean his life was ending?
Of course, she might not be a conductor at all. She could be a percussionist, and she was just moving her pencil like that because she didn’t know what to do.
No. That was stupid. She was right there, leading an invisible orchestra with her pencil: She was a conductor.
He stepped forward. “Excuse me.”
She jumped. “Oh. Hello.” She looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry about rehearsal. I mean, about leaving.”
Tavery sat next to her. “It’s all right. This is hard for everyone. How are you doing?”
She shrugged. “Fine, I guess. But . . . Annabelle’s new Harmony’s ruined, and my mother’s arm’s broken. The physicians say she won’t be able to play in the Festival. And I feel–“ She shook her head.
“It’ll be all right. New phoenixes are born from every fire.”
“Guess so.” She shifted, fingering the corner of her part. “But it can’t always happen like that, can it? Isn’t the fire sometimes too hot, and the new phoenix dies?”
He didn’t answer. It had happened before. They said it was the cause of the Hundred Days of Darkness two centuries ago, when the sun never rose and the rain never fell, when the ground dried and cracked and they all starved. This wasn’t the time to think like that, though.
“I mean,” she said before he could decide what to say, “you think it will get better, right?”
“Of course.” Tavery smiled, trying to ignore the fact that he had never led a worse rehearsal. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”
Tavery nodded. He’d seen her and her sister come into rehearsal with their mother, Sarelle. No wonder she still played clarinet. “Kiramin, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your Harmony.”
Kiramin stiffened. “I’m sorry. I have to–” She stood.
Tavery caught her arm. “Wait. I know the clarinet isn’t your Harmony. You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”
“I’m not ashamed.” Before she could go on, her sister came out of the rehearsal hall, her face red and blotchy.
Tavery stood. “Annabelle, are you doing all right? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can’t do anything. You have no idea what it’s like.” Annabelle shoved past him. “Just leave me alone.”
Tavery sagged onto the bench and watched the girls walk away. He was the conductor. He should be able to help, but Annabelle was right. He didn’t understand, because he didn’t really feel Resonance with the baton. He felt Resonance with the whole orchestra, the music they created when they came together. It was his job to lead them through the music. They all knew it was important, but they still said the conductor was just someone who couldn’t fit anywhere else.
There were three weeks until the Harvest Festival, then two. The orchestra only went downhill after that first disastrous rehearsal. Those who had lost Harmonies found suitable replacements, but the music wasn’t right anymore.
Tavery grappled with what to do. He wanted to ignore the fact that Kiramin was a conductor, but he couldn’t help feeling glad that she’d finally found her Harmony, because he’d felt just like her when he was younger. Just as Resonance was a connection stronger than reverie, Dissonance was a repulsion stronger than disgust, and she’d lived with that every day of her life. Now that she’d found her true Harmony, who was he to wish she hadn’t?
But he didn’t want to face what Kiramin’s Harmony meant. Leading the orchestra was his job. It was the only thing he could do, the only place he fit. But he couldn’t pretend anymore. The Phoenix chose new conductors when the time was right. And whether that meant he was going to die or Pizzicato Crossing needed a change, Kiramin needed to take up her baton. Tavery hated to admit that he wasn’t the best person to lead Pizzicato Crossing now, but he’d failed to bring the town back together. They were running out of time before the Harvest Festival. Maybe Kiramin could do what he couldn’t.
So he approached her one day after rehearsal. “Look,” he said, sitting beside her, “I know this is hard for you, but we need to talk about your Harmony.”
Kiramin yanked a cleaning rag through her clarinet. “I don’t know what you mean. I play clarinet.”
“Remember the day after the fire? Do you remember what you were doing with your pencil?”
She shook her head jerkily, but her eyes were startled.
“You were conducting, Kiramin.”
She jammed her clarinet into its case and stuffed it into her bag. “I have to go.”
Tavery let her leave. She didn’t feel Resonance with the clarinet, but something was holding her back.
So that evening, Tavery went to Kiramin’s house to talk to her parents. Her mother Sarelle, Second Clarinet, answered the door, invited him in, and poured him a mug of tea. Her left arm was bound in a sling across her chest.
“It’s about Kiramin,” Tavery said. “I don’t think the clarinet is her Harmony.”
Sarelle smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, Master Tavery, but our whole family feels Resonance with the clarinet. Kiramin just won’t practice. I try to encourage her, but everything’s so busy. I’ve been really worried about Annabelle since the fire.”
“Mistress Sarelle, I believe Kiramin is a conductor.”
“No I’m not!” Tavery turned. Kiramin stood in the doorway, glaring. “I told you! I’m not!”
Sarelle went to her. “I’m taking care of it, Kirie,” she said, putting her good arm around her. “Master Tavery, she’s a clarinetist”
Tavery pulled out his baton. Kiramin eyed it as if it might burn her. “Just take this, Kiramin.” He held it out to her.
“I’m not a conductor.”
“I’m just asking you to hold it.”
Kiramin extended a shaking hand. Tavery balanced the baton on her palm. She hesitated, then curled her fingers around it. Her arm moved, bouncing the baton in the standard four count measure. She looked up at Tavery, her face alight with wonder, but her eyes full of tears.
She thrust the baton back at him. “I can’t be the conductor,” she whispered. “I just can’t.” She turned and flung herself out the door.
“See?” Tavery said.
Sarelle stepped back, cheeks flaming. “I just– I thought she’d grow into the clarinet. How could I have . . . ? You’re so young.”
Tavery’s throat closed for a moment. “I’ll go talk to her.” He followed Kiramin outside and looked around. She was almost at the corner. He hurried after her. “Kiramin, wait.”
She broke into a run. Tavery followed her as she zigzagged through Pizzicato Crossing. It was growing dark, the sky in the west stained a fiery red. Kiramin turned onto Corkwood Street and headed for the remains of the instrument house.
Tavery followed her around the blackened shell of the building and found her sitting on the ground, half-folded over her child’s clarinet, tears falling into her lap.
Tavery sat on a rock beside her. “You know, being a conductor isn’t so bad. A little scary at first, but really, it’s an honor.” He drew breath. “People say I– we feel Resonance with a stick, but it’s the orchestra. The baton is just a tool. The entire orchestra is our instrument. Every string. Every reed. All these different instruments and all these different people, and you pull them together into something beautiful. When it comes together . . . there’s nothing like it. It’s hard, but the Phoenix chose you. You can do it.”
Kiramin looked up, her face shining with tears. “I wouldn’t have to play my clarinet again?” she asked in a small voice.
Kiramin looked down at the clarinet in her lap, then she wrenched off the mouthpiece and hurled it into the instrument house.
“Did that hurt?”
“No.” Kiramin seized her barrel and threw it away too. “Actually, it felt good.” One by one, she threw away the pieces of her clarinet.
Tavery wished he’d had such an easy way to let go of all the instruments he’d tried. When the builders found Kiramin’s clarinet, they’d think it was just one more broken Harmony. If he’d smashed every instrument he’d felt Dissonance with twenty years ago, the town would have cast him out. He’d certainly been angry enough to smash things, angry and frustrated and . . . lost. Because he didn’t have the part of himself that anchored him in the orchestra and the town.
Kiramin threw her bell into the instrument house, rolled her shoulders, and turned to Tavery, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.
Tavery put a hand on her shoulder. “Now tell me. Why can’t you be a conductor?”
Kiramin drooped, then drew a shuddering breath. “It’s my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
“The fire,” she whispered.
“The fire. I started the fire.” She looked up at him, and he could see the truth in her tear-filled eyes. “I didn’t mean to, but–“
Cold anger swept over him, driving everything else away. He’d accepted her Harmony, whatever it meant for him. But now he was giving up what he loved so this girl could take his place? He’d felt Dissonance too, but he’d never exploded like this. And now he would leave the town in the hands of this monster.
“You’re right.” Tavery stood. “You can’t be the conductor.”
Kiramin looked stricken.
“A real conductor couldn’t destroy the orchestra like that. Just like a real clarinetist couldn’t destroy her clarinet.”
Tears started in Kiramin’s eyes again. “But I didn’t mean– I said I didn’t–“
“The conductor is supposed to help people find their Harmonies and bring the town together,” Tavery spat. “You’ve just destroyed it.”
He strode away, leaving Kiramin sobbing in the dirt.
The days leading up to the Harvest Festival flew by. Five days to go, then four, three. Tavery hadn’t spoken to Kiramin since they’d talked behind the instrument house. She’d stopped coming to rehearsals, and Tavery found he didn’t care. He would have to do something about her eventually, but he needed to get the orchestra through the Harvest Festival, and Kiramin couldn’t help with that.
He didn’t even see Kiramin until two days before the Harvest Festival. He was in the market, examining a bushel of apples. Some teens were kicking a ball around the green, but Tavery wasn’t paying attention to them until a boy shouted. “Look who it is. Heya, Kirie, Want to play?”
Tavery looked up in time to see Kiramin hurrying around the green, clutching an armful of books.
“Maybe you can actually play something,” a girl yelled. The others laughed. Kiramin lowered her head and rushed up the row, knocking into Tavery as she past.
Tavery paid for his apples and turned, almost smashing into Sarelle. “Sorry,” he said, making to go around her.
Sarelle stepped into his path. “I want to talk to you.” Tavery stopped, uncertain. “You turn my daughter’s whole life upside down, and then you just abandon her.”
“Mistress Sarelle, your daughter–“
“Made a mistake.”
Tavery blinked. “She told you?”
“Of course. I’m her mother! And she doesn’t have anyone else.”
“She started all this trouble.”
“You really think that?” Sarelle took a breath. “I know it’s hard for you, but it’s hard for her too. How do you think she feels? Her sister’s crying every night, and you think she wanted that?”
“But she said it was her fault.”
“She thinks it’s her fault. She’s fourteen. You remember what it’s like to be fourteen?”
“If you listen, instead of acting like a child with a grudge–“
“I have a lot to worry about right now. I’ll talk to her after the Festival.”
He turned away, but then he saw Kiramin, hesitating at the edge of the square. She checked that the teens were absorbed in their game, then edged around the green.
She was halfway around when they noticed her. A boy kicked the ball hard at Kiramin, and it struck her head. She stumbled and fell, the books spilling from her arms. The teens surrounded her, treading on her books. One of them reached to help her up, then dumped her in the dirt again. Tavery strode forward.
The teens saw him and scattered. Tavery ignored them and went to Kiramin. “Are you all right?”
She scrambled up. Tavery picked up her books and was about to hand them to her when he realized what one of them was: a copy of the score of Yani Kellerson’s “Harmony of the First Phoenix.”
“I’m fine.” Kiramin snatched the books from him and fled.
“You can’t leave her hanging like this,” Sarelle said behind him.
Tavery turned to her. “How long have you been watching this? Is it like her trouble with the clarinet? She’ll grow out of it?” Tavery walked away. He followed Kiramin north along Treble Way, out of the town, and down to the Pizzicato River
She sat on a rock facing the river and opened the Kellerson score on her lap. She raised her Child’s Baton and began to conduct. Tavery stood on the road and watched her, emotion swelling in his chest. She moved her arms with perfect rhythm and grace, the beating wings of a phoenix. He could almost hear the swoop of the woodwinds, the fanfare of the brass, the swell of the melody in the strings, the harmonized canon in the winds and bells. So natural, so beautiful, every part folding into one living, breathing symphony led by her hand.
“You missed a cue,” he said, surprising even himself.
Kiramin jerked around, clutching her baton.
“The horns.” He stepped off the road and sat.
“Oh.” Kiramin went red and checked the score. “Right.”
“What do you think of this song?”
“I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
“Good choice for the Harvest Festival.”
“Glad you think so.”
She turned a page. “What will happen if we can’t do it?”
“I don’t know. “There will be other towns there.”
“But the Phoenix needs all our music, doesn’t she?”
Tavery didn’t answer. What would happen if they couldn’t give the Phoenix back her song? He imagined Pizzicato Crossing burning, people screaming, Dissonance roaring around them as the world crumbled.
Kiramin looked him straight in the eyes. “It was an accident, sort of. Those older kids, the ones playing ball, they were picking on me in the instrument house, pushing me and stuff. Things just got out of hand, I guess. I wanted to scare them, so I– I knocked a lamp into one of those big boxes of rosin. I thought we could put it out, but . . . I just wanted them to stop, you know? I didn’t want this.”
Tavery remembered the other kids chasing him down Corkwood Street away from the instrument house. “Tavery’s got no Harmony!” What he would have given to make them stop, to make it all just go away.
“What now?” Kiramin whispered.
It wasn’t just Resonance that drove him to conduct. It was Dissonance. When he became the conductor, he didn’t have to deal with them teasing him anymore. So he didn’t deal with it, and it was still a part of him, imbedded in the heart of every piece he conducted, wedged so tightly into the Resonance he felt that he’d barely noticed it until he’d met Kiramin and had to deal with her mother again. It was a poison, and he knew only one antidote.
Dissonance was a part of Kiramin too. She had problems, just like his, some worse than his, but her response to his anger at her was to pick up the Kellerson score and try to make it right. She’d made mistakes, but she could fold that Dissonance into her Resonance, and use it to lead their town.
“Now, he said, “you lead the orchestra.”
“You already have. New Phoenixes are born from every flame.”
“The fire wasn’t too hot?”
“Not this time.”
Tavery’s stomach twisted as he looked out at the sea of faces before him. There they all were, his town, the people he was born to lead. And here he was, telling them on the eve of the Harvest Festival that he wouldn’t be leading them anymore. He could still conduct for the Harvest Festival, and then hand the baton to Kiramin. But he’d already made this decision. The Phoenix chose Kiramin. And Kiramin had started all this trouble. So Kiramin would fix it. Still, they knew him. They depended on him. They trusted him. And was Kiramin really the best person to lead them?
“We are–“ He stopped. What could he possibly say to make it all right, to allow them to come back together as a town so they could give the Phoenix back her song and their world could survive another year? “I think we all agree–“
He couldn’t do it. If he stepped down now . . . He found Kiramin in the crowd. Her eyes met his. “Just say it,” she mouthed.
“It is time to give the Phoenix back her song. But . . . If we’re going to have a song to give. . .” He fixed his eyes on Kiramin. She was on the edge of her seat, her hands clenched in her lap. He took a breath. “The Phoenix has chosen a new conductor.” The crowd murmured in shock. Tavery ignored them and waved Kiramin up to the podium. She stood, shaking from top to toe.
“She can’t be the conductor!” Fifth Cello yelled, jumping up. “She started the fire!”
“Rovan,” a woman said, “don’t talk nonsense.”
“She did!” Rovan shouted, pointing at Kiramin.
Kiramin stumbled back and hit her chair. She opened her mouth and closed it. The orchestra murmured uncertainly.
“Kirie, no!” Annabelle flung herself past the other clarinets, grabbed Kiramin’s shoulders, and shook her, her eyes wild. “You didn’t do it! Say you didn’t do it!”
“Traitor!” someone yelled. The uncertain muttering broke into angry shouting. People leapt up, a few brandishing their instruments at her.
“No! It was an accident!”
The crowd converged on her. Tavery went to her side.
“How can you defend her?”
“She should be locked up!”
Sarelle pushed her way through the crowd and put an arm around Kiramin. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, attacking a child because of your problems. I wanted her to play clarinet, even though she never felt Resonance with it. And look what happened. We all do it. Our children need to play clarinet, or tuba, or violin. And if they don’t, they’re shut out and not given what they need.”
There was absolute silence. Everyone stared at Sarelle. Then, almost in unison, they turned to Tavery. His throat clenched.
A small hand closed on his arm, and he looked down into Kiramin’s eyes. “Say something!” she whispered.
Tavery faced the orchestra. “I can defend her,” he said, “because the Phoenix chose her. I trust the Phoenix, and I trust Kiramin. I believe–“ And as he spoke, he suddenly realized that he did believe it. He stood straighter and put a hand on Kiramin’s shoulder. “I believe she is the best person to lead us. Look at us.” He gestured around the room. “We’re always fighting. We have been for a long time, even before the fire. We expect our children to have our Harmonies, and they suffer for it and fight amongst each other. Dissonance has been growing here for years. I didn’t realize it until I met Kiramin. I’m not saying what she did was right, but it has allowed me, and I hope it will allow you, to see we need a change.”
Tavery gripped Kiramin’s shoulder, looking from face to face. His breathing was shallow, and his heart pounded. He’d never managed to make a speech like that. So why wasn’t anyone doing anything?
“I’m sorry about the fire,” Kiramin whispered. “It was stupid, and I was scared, and I thought I’d be able to put it out. I didn’t think it would– I mean, I never wanted–“ She looked down, then looked up and spoke in a stronger voice. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was scared and angry, and I reacted badly, and I had no right to do that. I want to make things right, if I can. It’s like Tavery said, isn’t it? We’re falling apart, but if we work together, we can heal.” She drew breath. “We can create a symphony.”
“Please,” Tavery said. “Just give her a chance.”
He led Kiramin up to the podium. The crowd parted, their faces ranging from still angry to curious and slightly hopeful. Kiramin took her place behind the podium, still very pale. Slowly, the people returned to their seats and picked up their instruments.
Kiramin looked up at Tavery, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath, her forehead clammy with sweat. “I can’t do this.”
Tavery picked up Kiramin’s child’s baton. He placed it in her hand and curled her fingers around it. “Yes you can.” He squeezed her hand, then let her go and stepped back
The following night, Kiramin stepped up to the podium and faced the town assembled before her. Behind them, all the other towns waited to watch Pizzicato Crossing’s performance. High above, at the top of a rock spire, the Phoenix waited for the last tribute of song.
Kiramin raised her arms, and the orchestra raised their instruments to the ready position in one fluid motion. Kiramin closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Then she opened them, counted off one measure, and began to conduct.
First came the trill and the swoop of the woodwinds. The fanfare of the brass. The strings took up the melody. Tavery watched the smile spread over Kiramin’s face as she conducted the orchestra through the canon. The music swelled, and he looked out at the orchestra, seeing the same smiles on their faces. They moved with the music together. They became the music together, one living, breathing instrument led by her hand.
Joy filled Tavery’s chest, and even though he was just watching, the Resonance filled him too. He glanced over at Sarelle, watching her daughter make music for the first time in her life. Sarelle’s eyes were fixed on Kiramin. She was beaming, and tears were pouring down her cheeks. Tavery silently offered her his handkerchief.
From above, the Phoenix began to sing, a perfect counterpart to the Kellerson song, and took flight, bursting into flame. The music rose over the fire painted river, and Tavery stepped back into the shadows as the first stars appeared.
Jameyanne Fuller writes fantasy and historical fiction and combinations of the two. She graduated from Kenyon College in 2014 and then she received a Fulbright scholarship to teach English for a year in Assisi, Italy. Now she is applying to law school to become a disability rights attorney. She is particularly interested in depictions of family relationships and memory in fiction. She placed in the 2014 and 2015 Dell Award, and her short story “The Collector” was published in the British young adult podcast, Cast of Wonders. When she isn’t writing, Jameyanne enjoys reading, hiking, and playing with her Seeing Eye dog, Mopsy. She blogs regularly at jameyannefuller.com and tweets sporadically @jameyannefuller.