He didn’t know what he would do if she wept, but it made something in him ache. At the university, he had come to learn there were moments when words were not enough, and he strode into his bedroom. His harp still sat in its sleeve, waiting to be freed.

He carried the instrument back into the common room and sat in a chair across from Frae. A few tears had trickled down her cheeks, but she wiped them away when she realized what he held.

“Would you like to hear a song, Frae?”

She nodded vehemently, pushing stray hair from her eyes.

“I would be honored to play for both you and Mum,” Jack said, resisting the temptation to glance at Mirin, who was lowering the shuttle of her loom. “But I must warn you, Frae . . . this is my first time playing on the isle. I might not sound nearly as good as I do on the mainland.”

This was his first time playing in Mirin’s presence was what he truly meant to express. He was worried that she wouldn’t be impressed by the craft he had spent years mastering. But Mirin, who never left her loom in mid-weave for anything, stepped away and joined them, sitting next to Frae on the divan.

“Then let us be the judge of that,” Frae replied with a sniffle. Her lashes were damp, but her tears had ceased. She watched with rapt attention as Jack withdrew his harp. Its first time breathing the air of the isle.

He had earned this harp in his fifth year of study. Constructed from a willow that had grown beside a maiden’s grave, its wood was light and resilient, its sound sweet, chilling, and resonant. Carvings of vines and leaves had been burned into the sides, simple adornment compared to other harps his fellow students had earned. But this harp had called to him long ago.

As Jack tuned the pins, he examined the thirty brass strings, and he thought about all the hours he had spent on the mainland playing this instrument, coaxing sad, wistful ballads from its heart. Out of the three classes of music a harp could make, Jack preferred the lament. But he didn’t want to add to Frae’s sorrow. He should play either for joy or for slumber. Perhaps a mix of both. A song framed on hope.

His old plaid was draped over his knees as he continued to tune the harp, and the fabric caught Mirin’s eye.

Jack leaned the harp against his left shoulder.

“What shall I play for you two?” he asked.

They were speechless.

“Anything,” Frae eventually said.