Outside, it was all the rich golds and dull blues of twilight, with long shadows cutting across the yard in the shapes of spectral trees. Fireflies glowed in the tall grass on the edge 62
of the yard, and a mourning dove called, low and sad and beautiful. I found a seat on the crook of a tree and leaned my harp against my shoulder. I didn't know what to play, so I just let a little lonesome tune escape from the strings. I really ought to have played an I'm a Pining Idiot tune instead.
Mysterious. Extraordinary. That's what I wanted. I began to play a slow reel, "The Maids of Mitchelltown," a tune that promised mystery. The wind lifted the leaves of the trees; it was scented with mown grass, flowers, and thyme.
My fingers stilled and I lifted my head, catching the breeze again. I wondered if I'd imagined the smell. But no, the scent of thyme was undoubtedly there. Not only there, but getting stronger. I squinted at the shadows around me, trying to catch the direction, but it was impossible.
A shadow flicked across one of the bright strips of evening sun, and I jerked to look at it. There was nothing there. Then, between two of the oaks at the edge of the yard, I saw a form. The face looked at me and smiled--red-haired, freckled, reeking of thyme.
The kid from the reception. I blinked, and in that second, he was next to a beech tree, ten feet closer. My skin crawled.
"Beautiful night."
The voice was right beside me.
In the second it took for my blood to run hot with adrenaline, I swung a hard fist, feeling skin beneath my knuckles.
"God," groaned Luke from next to me. "Remind me never to sneak up on you."
My breath caught in my throat. I suppose I should've
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felt embarrassed, but I was too overwhelmed that it was Luke. I laughed in amazement. "I thought you were that freaky guy from the reception."
He stepped into the light, rubbing his jaw. "No, I'm not. Well, I am a guy from the reception."
His light hair picked up the gold of the evening and lent him a brilliant halo. He looked at where the four-leaf clover sat on my leg and took it, making a face. "Why do you seem to always have these with you?"
"Why does it always seem to bother you?" I immediately regretted saying it. The last thing I wanted to do was to drive him away again by violating the rules. "I thought you were gone for good."
Luke crouched next to me. He looked over at the beech tree where the ginger-haired boy had been, his eyes intent, then dragged his gaze back to my face. "You sound so sad, pretty girl."
I looked away, pretending to pout to cover up how I'd felt the past two days. "I was so sad."
"I thought I was gone for good, as well." He settled down, cross-legged, and set his flute case across his lap. "Unfortunately, I'm still fascinated. May I play with you?"
"Even though I punched you?"
"Despite that. Though you didn't say sorry."
"You partially deserved it, for leaving without any warning." I grinned and put my fingers on the strings.
Luke lifted the flute. "After you."
I began to play "The Maids of Mitchelltown" again, and Luke jumped in immediately, recognizing the common
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tune. Funny how much difference two instead of one made. With both of us playing, the reel was so beautiful I could have gotten lost in the threads of melody we wove.
Luke's eyes were far away as we played, staring at the beech tree near the edge of the yard, though there was nothing there. I abruptly remembered the freckled kid again-- somehow, Luke's presence made me forget everything but Luke--but there was no sight of him. I didn't want to think about what could have happened if Luke hadn't arrived.
The tune ended. As if sensing my troubled thoughts, Luke lowered his flute and said, "Let's play something a bit happier, shall we? Something that makes you smile?"
You make me smile, I thought, but I obliged him with a crooked grin and began to play "Merrily Kiss the Quaker's Wife" instead. He joined in immediately, and turned his back firmly and deliberately toward the beech.
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five
Thursday found me back at Dave's Ice, wearing the usual white T-shirt bearing the image of Dave the penguin. My coworker: Sara. We managed to avoid anything but trite conversation during the busy morning, but as the day wore on, the clouds began to threaten rain, and customers slowed to a trickle. I tried to fight off further contact by pulling the Thornking-Ash application out of my backpack. Leaning over the icy cold counter with my back to Sara, I began writing my name at the top, very slowly, hoping she'd get the hint.
It didn't work.
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"So, you know you've got to dish." Sara's voice was ominously close. I wasn't sure how to respond. This was possibly the first time anyone had ever expressed interest in my personal life, and I wasn't sure if I should answer her or chronicle the event in my scrapbook.
"About this application?"
Sara snorted. "Duh. No. About the hottie you brought in the other day. Are you two going out?"
"Yes," I lied, without even pausing to think about it. I didn't want her getting the idea he might be available. I'd hate to have to punch her like I did Luke last night. Swallowing a laugh at the mental image, I wrote my address on the application.
"Whoa. No offense, but I never thought, like, you'd be the type to get a guy, so ..."
I turned around. It occurred to me, in a me-looking-at-my-own-life-from-outside-my-body way, that Sara was being condescending. I raised an eyebrow.
She said quickly, "Not that you're ugly or anything. You're just so ... ordinary. "
I wasn't ordinary. I was fascinating. "I guess he didn't think so,"
