“It’s no big deal. They’re not very good.”

I nudged her with my elbow. “Come on. You can’t fool me. I’ve heard you sing at church, remember.”

Delia stood up, a devious glint in her eye. “I know, love. Why don’t you play one of them for Isaak now?”

Tamara’s head shot up, gaping at her mother in horror. “Oh, no, Mama—they’re not ready—”

“Bollocks.”

“I’d like to hear it, Tamara,” I said earnestly. “I mean, I know I’ll hear it next month, but… I’d like to hear it now, too.” I could feel my own cheeks turning red, now.

She looked at me and smiled. “Okay, fine. Let’s go.” She stood and held her hand out to me. I grinned and took it, hoping she wouldn’t notice my sweaty palms.

“The dinner was great, Bryn,” I called over my shoulder. Mama D caught my eye as I rounded the corner, and I nearly stopped short. Did she—did she wink at me?

Oh, no torquing way. Not them, too.

Tamara let go of my hand when we got to the music room. My skin tingled where her fingers had been. In the center of the room was a big grand piano. She sat on the bench, and patted the spot beside her. “It’s not, um, you know, done yet,” she said. “I still have some work to do on the bridge.”

“I’m sure it’s stellar,” I said.

She placed her fingers on the keys, then hesitated. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. And then she began to play.

The melody was lilting and slow. For a minute, there was nothing but the piano chords, casting their spell as they echoed around the room. Tamara’s long, brown hair fell in cascades over her shoulders as her hands danced effortlessly over the keys. I almost didn’t notice when she began to sing, her voice blending seamlessly with that of the piano. The words were whimsical, a tale of a drowned blackbird and an Irish princess. I didn’t really understand it much, but the melody made my arms prickle with gooseflesh.

Too soon, the song ended, the last notes hovering in the air around us like mist over the bay. She lifted her fingers from the keys and sighed. “So?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing with worry. “What do you think?”

I swallowed. “Tamara,” I finally managed, “that was incredible.”

Her face got red again. “Really? You don’t think it was too choppy in the middle or anything?”

“Of course not! How did you come up with all that stuff about the bird?”

She laughed. “It’s from an old book of Gaelic poetry Mama’s nan gave her. ‘An Lon Dubh Baite.’ It’s not actually a real bird, though. The blackbird represents the lady’s lover who died.”