It couldn’t be this simple. One conversation on the beach, followed by one chat with a friend, wouldn’t erase a lifetime’s worth of doubts and fears. But for the first time in decades, she felt something like peace. There was nothing wrong with holding on to it as long as it lasted.

And to think, she owed it all to a supernatural creature. She looked at Hæra again. Maybe tonight, she could ask Hæra to transform into her Each-uisge form. She might be ready to see it now.

Jonathan’s song drew to a close. Madeleine and Hæra applauded politely. “It was shite,” Jonathan confessed as he set the fiddle in his lap.

“Usually is,” Hæra agreed. “Can I sing with the next one?”

Jonathan laughed. Madeleine sat up straight and said, “You sing?”

“Worse than I play,” Jonathan said on Hæra’s behalf. “How about ‘The Rowan Tree’?”

At Hæra’s enthusiastic nod, his fiddle launched into a folk melody Madeleine didn’t recognize. The original composer, whoever it was, likely wouldn’t recognize it either. Hæra’s singing didn’t help. However attractive she was, she had a singing voice like…well, like a horse’s. Madeleine grimaced.

Nevertheless, when they were done, she clapped. Thankfully, Jonathan said, “That’s it, my wrists and fingers are giving up. Madeleine, would you honor us?”

Hæra leaned forward on the couch. “You told me you like singing.”

It was another piece of Madeleine she seemed eager to consume. In spite of the day’s revelations and her newfound peace, the greed in Hæra’s eyes made Madeleine’s stomach flip over in a not-unpleasant way.

“I do,” Madeleine said. A lightbulb went on over her head. “Some folk songs, even. French ones my mother taught me.”

As always, at the memory of her lost family, her heart clenched. Though somehow, it wasn’t so bad talking about it with Hæra and Jonathan. Even with the Daughters of Grace, a wall had raised itself around her heart as she tried to tell herself Christ’s love was enough. It hadn’t been.

Or maybe this was just a new way of feeling it. She wasn’t sure yet.

Hæra smiled. The greed had gone from her eyes, replaced with the most human expression Madeleine had seen there yet: simple understanding. Hæra had lost her family too. She said, “Go on then.”

Madeleine cleared her throat. “I’ll have to do it a capella. This one’s ‘Le Petit Cheval’—‘The Little Horse.’”

When they nodded, she began to sing. “Le petit cheval dans le mauvais temps, qu'il avait donc du courage! C'était un petit cheval blanc…”

She wasn’t half bad, especially compared to Hæra, and heaven knew she’d gotten enough practice with hymns. Her voice was a pleasing alto that glided nimbly through the notes.