But Hæra could love. At the thought, Madeleine’s blood ran hot in her veins, in a way it didn’t even when she burned with desire. The fire at her back was nothing in comparison. Hæra wanted to learn more about love, and maybe someday, together, she and Madeleine could both learn…

Too bad she wasn’t facing the fire. Then she’d have an excuse for her reddened cheeks.

Jonathan shifted in the chair. “My voice isn’t what it used to be.”

“None of us are,” Madeleine heard herself say.

They both glanced at her. Jonathan’s lips twitched. “That’s true.”

“Will you sing?” Hæra asked softly. “For us.”

She held Jonathan’s gaze with an expression Madeleine recognized now. It focused on you until you wanted to do nothing more than whatever Hæra desired. It was half order, half plea, both halves equally hard to resist.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “I can’t promise I won’t sound like a sheep.”

“We’re used to sheep,” Hæra said. “And it can’t be worse than your fiddle.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckled. “What to sing, then. Let me think…ah. I know the one.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to settle into himself, going away somewhere. Madeleine had the feeling she was watching someone returning to the past. When Jonathan began to sing, Madeleine realized quickly it was meant to be a dialogue between two lovers.

Oh lad of mine, where do ye go?

To the high hills, my own one, to the high hills I go.

Why go to the hills, and not come to my arms?

I’m afraid your embraces will do me some harm.

He was a tenor. His voice was scratchy and unpolished after decades of neglect, but it would have been marvelous when he was younger. As he sang, he seemed to become younger, his lined face relaxing into the memory of a lost, happy time. He must have been good-looking, too. Like this, Madeleine could see it in him. A beautiful young man with a beautiful voice. Then he’d lost it to alcohol. Her throat grew thick at the lost potential.

Hæra leaned forward again, putting her elbows on her knees. For some reason, her mouth was pinched as she listened, her knuckles white as her hands gripped each other. Why? There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about the song. It just sounded like folk music.

The song continued:

Why should my embraces then work ye such woe?

You are my true love, but sorrow will show.

How shall ye get to the hills high above?

Farewell, I’ll take flight on the wings of the dove.