I sang, my voice timid at first, and then stronger as I realized I wanted to impress him.
The sun shines through the window
And the sun shines through your hair
It seems like you’re beside me
But I know you’re not there.
You would sit beside this window
Run your fingers through my hair
You were always there beside me
But I know that you’re not there
Oh, to be by your side once again
Oh, to hold your hand in mine again
Oh, to be by your side once again
Oh, to hold your hand in mine—
I broke off as I heard his flute joining in. “You know it, then?”
“Indeed I do. Do you sing the verse where he gets killed?”
I frowned. “I only know the part I sang. I didn’t know he died.”
“Poor lad, of course he dies. It’s an Irish song, right? They always die in Irish songs. I’ll sing it for you. Play along so I don’t wander off tune.”
I plucked along, bracing myself for whatever his voice might sound like.
He turned his face into the sun and sang,
Fro and to in my dreams to you
To the haunting tune of the harp
For the price I paid when you died that day
I paid that day with my heart
Fro and to in my dreams to you
With the breaking of my heart
Ne’er more again will I sing this song
Ne’er more will I hear the harp …
“See, he gets killed—”
“—sad,” I interjected.
“—and it’s a very old song,” continued Luke. “That bit you sang—‘oh to be by your side,’ that bit—must have been added on somewhere along the way. I’ve not heard it before. But what I sang—that’s always been part of it. You didn’t know it?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, adding truthfully, “You have a wonderful voice. You make it sound like something you’d hear on a CD.”
“So do you,” Luke said. “You have an angel’s voice. Better than I expected. And it’s a girl’s song. The lyrics are girly, you know?”
My cheeks flushed. It was stupid, of course, because all my life I’d been told—by highly qualified professionals and people who should know and folks “in the business”—that I was good. I’d heard it so often that it didn’t mean anything anymore. But my heart leapt at his words.
“Girly,” I managed to scoff.
Luke nodded. “But you could do so much better. You’re not pushing yourself at all. So safe.”
My mood immediately shifted from pleased to irritated. I’d practiced “The Faerie Girl’s Lament” for months—I had arranged it with so many impossible embellishments and chord changes that even the most cynical of harpists would be awed. I didn’t think I could take the designation “safe,” even from the enigmatic Luke Dillon.
“Any less safe and it’d be impossible,” I managed to say evenly. I get my temper from Mom; like her, though, I never show it. I just get frostier and frostier until I freeze the person out entirely. I think Luke’s comment sent me to somewhere between “pretty damn cold” and “frostbite warning.”
Luke gave me an odd little smile. “Don’t be angry, pretty girl. I just mean that you could really write a nice little interlude in there that was all yours. Improvise a bit—be spontaneous. Make something happen. You’ve got the talent for that; you just aren’t trying.”
It took me a moment to get past his flirting to realize what he was trying to say. “I’ve written some tunes,” I said. “But it takes me a while to do it. Weeks. Days, anyway. I guess I could see where I could put something in there.”
He slid closer on the table and lifted his flute up. “Not what I meant. Write something now.”
“I couldn’t. It would be slop.”
Luke looked away. “Everyone says that.”
I sort of had a strange sense then that a lot rode on that moment, on whether I gave up or tried. I just wasn’t sure what. I just knew I didn’t want to disappoint him. “Then play it with me. Help me think of something. I’ll try.”
He didn’t look back at me, but he lifted his flute and played the opening notes. I joined in with my harp half a measure later, and together we played. The first time through, my fingers automatically found the notes, as I had trained them to for months. Just like I’d automatically followed along with Luke and all his strangeness for the last half hour, taking the script as it was written for me.
But the second time through, my fingers plucked out a little variation. Not just a few notes, either. It was something more—a decision to take control and make the tune my own. For once, I was calling the tune and it felt amazing. No regrets. No second-guessing.
By the third time through, Luke dropped out after the first verse and I coaxed eight measures of something brand new from the harp.
Luke smiled.
“Gloating is very rude,” I told him.
“Very,” he agreed.
I bit my lip, thinking. Now I was in completely unfamiliar territory and I didn’t know any of the rules. “If—what if—would you play with me this afternoon? If I switch my name over from solo to duet?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go do it now.” I started to rise, but he reached out and caught my arm.
“They already know,” he said softly. “Would you like to practice some more?”
Apparently, I wasn’t in control. Frozen by his words, I slowly sank back down, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Something in me prickled with either a warning or a promise. I had a choice—the power to decide which one it was. In a safe world, it would have been a warning.
I nodded firmly. “Yeah. Let’s practice.”
“Dee—there you are.”
Distracted, I turned to find James standing behind me. It took me a moment to remember the last time I’d spoken to him. “I threw up.”
Luke said, “Nice kilt.”
James looked hard at him. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“Parking lot,” Luke said mildly. “Of the music store.”
It was peculiarly difficult to imagine Luke someplace else, someplace ordinary, but James seemed to believe him. “Oh—right. What happened to that fiddler you were playing with?”
“He had to go home.”
I had the curious sensation both were leaving things unsaid. I resolved to ask James about it later.