Jack’s initial reaction was to scoff. How could he praise the beings that were stealing girls? But he swallowed his retort, remembering Mirin’s old stories. Not all spirits were bad. Not all spirits were good. To be safe, it was wise to fear them all.

He didn’t want to believe what Adaira was telling him, and his mainland opinions rose up in his mind. But then he thought, If she’s right and the spirits relinquish the lasses, I can return to the university within the week.

“Very well,” he said. “I will play this for you and for the clan. For the two missing lasses. Where is your mother’s music?”

Adaira rose and led him to a southern turret of the castle, up a stairwell, and into a spacious chamber Jack had never seen before.

The walls were carved deep with shelves, crowded with illuminated books, and the floor was black-and-white-checkered marble, polished so fine it caught his reflection as if he stood on water. Three large windows let in rivers of sunshine, and there was an oaken table, covered in parchment, inkpots, and quills. In the center of the room was a grand harp, exquisitely crafted. The strings gleamed in the light, aching to be played.

Jack walked to it, unable to take his eyes from the instrument. He knew who it had once belonged to. As a boy, he had listened to her play it in the hall. Reverently, he traced the shoulder of the harp, and he thought of Lorna.

“This harp has been well maintained,” he said. He had expected to find it dust ridden, its frame cracked by the weight of strings. “Do you play?” And he couldn’t explain why the mere thought of Adaira sitting at this harp, her fingers rendering music, made his breath catch.

“Very little,” Adaira confessed. “Years ago, my mum taught me how to care for the instrument, how to pluck a few scales. Unfortunately, the music never took to my hands.”

Jack watched as she sorted through heaps of parchment on the table, eventually bringing a few sheets to him.

It was a ballad, “The Song of the Tides.” And even though the notes and lyrics were silent on the parchment, waiting for breath and voice and fingers to rouse them to life, a warning swelled within him the longer he entertained the music in his mind.

Something about it felt dangerous. He couldn’t fully describe it, but his blood recognized the threat swiftly, felt the bite of its unsung power. Chills swept over his skin.

“I’m going to need some time to prepare,” he said.

“How much time?” Adaira asked.

“Give me two days to study it. That will give my hand time to heal, and I should be ready to play by then.”