Cantiléna wants to kiss him, to put her hymn to his skin and sing with him in a duet. She wants to embrace him and feel warm flesh against warm flesh, but they learned too late Imre's true nature. She lays her coppery hand against his stone chest and listens to the music reverbrating through her.
"Imre the Balgas," she says softly.
His hand covers hers, clumsily, tenderly. "Cantiléna."
He puts such stock in names; she listens wistfully to the music of the stone within them. When she is gone, he will remember her name.
"Remember my song," she breathes.