“I did too here in the East.” He gives me an acerbic look. “It smacks of my Gardnerian blood.” He glances around at the tree-lined space. “It’s part of the reason I’d never let anyone come up here, even if they could. I can be myself here without anyone seeing the ‘polluted’ parts of me.” The undercurrent of deep-set pain in his tone strikes hard, feeling all too familiar.

“I know all about being judged for things I have no control over,” I say as a kindred bond sets down unexpected roots between us.

Or’myr lets out a bitter laugh. “Yes, well, I’d rather judge people based on the things they can control, and make no mistake, cousin, that still leaves me with quite a bit to judge.”

I lower my gaze toward the purple-wood flooring and notice a wine-hued violin propped in the shadows between tree trunks. My pulse deepens with emotion as I scan the entire lower portion of the circular room and take in the multitude of violins recessed between the trees, some of the instruments of an unfamiliar Noi design, black lacquered and imprinted with pearlescent dragons, some possessing extra strings.

Grief pressing in around my heart, I remember Uncle Edwin, patiently teaching me to play and sharing the craft of violin making with me. As well as Lukas’s dream...how he placed the violin and bow in my hands...

“I play violin too,” I tell Or’myr, my voice hitching. “I’m a luthier, as well.”

“I know,” he says, voice subdued. “Trystan told me.”

Uncle Edwin taught me, Or’myr, I think, but am unable to say. But he should have been able to teach you too. Tears glistening in my eyes, I turn to the nearest violin and the haphazardly stacked pile of music next to it, taking hold of the first few pieces, absently riffling through them. My hands still as my eyes light on a familiar composition.

Winter’s Dark.

“This was Uncle Edwin’s favorite piece,” I murmur, lips trembling, as the song’s melancholy notes fill my mind. “We used to play this piece quite a bit...” A memory of Uncle Edwin, Trystan, and I playing the melody by a winter’s fire in our cozy cottage in Halfix suffuses my mind, Rafe drinking hot cider as he listened.

“My mother is a musician, as well,” Or’myr quietly says. “This was the song she and my father chose for their private Luth’yllion in Gardneria.”

The rune behind my ear translates the Urisk word—their binding as life mates. Understanding rolls through me as I finally comprehend, in this moment, the mournful look that came over my uncle’s face whenever he played this piece.

He was grieving when he played it. Grieving for his love, Li’ra. And for Or’myr too.