Speck sighed. ‘The Artistry challenge will involve music.’ He crossed his arms defensively. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

I paled. ‘Music? Oh, shite.’

Lexie gazed at me in dismay. ‘You’re screwed.’

‘With time to prepare, I might manage it. Taylor can sing, he could teach me.’ I turned to him.

His eyes were wide with alarm. ‘No, no, no, no, no. We’ve been down that road before. My ears are still bleeding.’

I frowned at him. ‘That was eight years ago, Taylor. I was only a teenager.’ He gestured to his ears, wincing as if in terrible pain. ‘You’re a crappy actor,’ I told him.

‘And you’re tone deaf. A block of wood has more rhythm than you.’

Brochan wandered into the kitchen, oblivious to our glares, and slumped shoulders. He filled a glass with water before realising anything was wrong. ‘What’s up?’

‘Artistry,’ Speck said glumly. ‘It’s the first challenge. Tegs is supposed to prepare something musical.’

Brochan went pale too. ‘Ah.’ He put the glass down carefully. ‘The Adair lands aren’t really that important to you, are they, Tegs? I mean, they’re covered in salt and they’re right next to the Veil. They’ll be more trouble than they’re worth. I vote we all stay here and have a party instead.’

Lexie nodded vigorously. ‘Drinking games, not Sidhe Games.’

I cleared my throat. ‘We have almost two weeks. That’s more than enough time to practise.’

Speck shook his head. ‘We’re doomed. This is going to be the longest two weeks of my life.’

***

Speck may have learned that the Artistry challenge involved music but we didn’t know much beyond that. Taylor sat me down with a triangle, wary reluctance all over his face.

I held it up. ‘A triangle? Really? I’m not going to win any prizes with this.’

‘It’s to get you started. Take the small pointy stick and hit it against the side.’

I gave him a long look. ‘I understand how a triangle works, Taylor.’ He muttered something under his breath. It wasn’t very complimentary. ‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going to play you a piece of music. All you have to do is hit the triangle every eighth beat.’

‘Every eighth beat. Got it.’ I paused. ‘Do I hit it hard or softly? Does it matter where I strike it?’

‘Let’s just focus on the beat for now,’ he said firmly. He pressed play. ‘Let’s hear you then.’

I concentrated hard, I swear I did. I heard the first chimes of some classical piece which I was sure I recognised and began to count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Beat.

‘Integrity!’

‘What?’

‘I said every eight beats.’

‘That’s what I did.’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Are you even listening to the music?’

‘Of course!’

He gazed at me, exasperated. ‘So why aren’t you hitting the beat?’

I flicked my hair and pouted while he started plucking the stuffing out of my favourite cushion. Shreds of synthetic wool dropped onto the floor, creating an arc around him as if he could shield himself by dint of polyester. Unfortunately, from that point things went downhill. Three hours later, I was ready to jam the triangle up his nostrils. Preferably the left one – it was hairier.