“Mm . . . no.” She sighed and nestled deeper. “An aria. Beth will never sing me those—she hates opera. Silly girl.”

“So does Bram. He always makes fun of me when I sing them. Or maybe it’s because I’m not all that good.”

“I love to hear you.” Mamm-wynn gave her a small, tired smile. “Sing ‘L’amour est un oiseau rebelle.’”

“One of my favorites. I always sing it when—”

“When you’re painting. I know.”

She could sit here wondering how, when Libby had never admitted that to a soul here, or she could give her this simple gift she asked for. She chose the second option, launching into a quiet rendition of her favorite song from Carmen.

“Love is a wild bird that no one can tame, and you’ll waste your time trying to catch it.” She’d always loved the first verse. It was no wonder it sprang to mind when she was painting, given how often birds were her subjects.

And how true those words were. Love really was like a bird. You didn’t know where it might settle, or when. You couldn’t tame it, couldn’t force it. Couldn’t often predict it. You could call and call for it and never would it flutter down. Then, at the most unexpected time, in the most unexpected place, there it was.

Here it was.

By the time she finished, Mamm-wynn had fallen asleep again. For a moment she felt guilty that she’d monopolized her entire waking and hadn’t told the lady’s grandchildren that she’d spoken, responded, seemed like her usual self, just tired. But she’d go and let them know now.

She scooped Darling into her arms and turned, jumping a bit when she saw Oliver leaning into the doorframe, Bram a step behind him. She expected her brother to give her his usual sigh over the opera or joke about her torturing an ill old woman with it. But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Oliver. He just tracked her approach with that watchful look of his, and when she paused in front of him, he looked deep into her eyes. No doubt seeing, because he was Oliver, all the thoughts that had settled. All the peace that had taken the place of the questions inside her. The fresh yearning to learn more about the beyond, as well as the here and now.

And he smiled.

Mabena turned her face toward the rising sun and let it warm her. She breathed in the scents of salt and sand and sea. Felt the smooth wood of the oars in her hands, the firm seat beneath her. The pull of the water against the paddle. Birds called out to each other, chattering about where the fish were swimming and what predators circled above, no doubt. From the distance came the fading shout of a fisherman.

Home.