The kids spot her and the place erupts.
“She’s here!”
“Miss Siobhán!”
“Look! Look! I made you a flower!”
A swarm of small humans rushes her, arms full of roses—pink ones, red ones, some so wilted they must’ve been held in warm fists since dawn. She kneels instantly, slipping into their level with practiced grace.
“Are these for me?” she asks, hand over her heart.
A little girl with braids nods so hard her hair flies. “We all brought one! ‘Cause you’re the best piano lady ever!”
Siobhán laughs—soft, warm, honey-sweet. She thanks each child by name if she knows it, asks them about their days, touchestheir hair, fixes a collar, ties a shoe. She has always been this way—gentle, endlessly giving, born to be adored by those small enough to see magic clearly.
The teachers hurry over, laughing as they shepherd the kids into some sort of line, trying to part the sea of adoring chaos. “Alright, alright—let the poor woman breathe,” one of them jokes.
“She has to actually gettothe piano to play for you lot,” another adds.
“Let her through, loves—Miss Kelleher can’t play from the hallway!”
The children reluctantly peel away, still buzzing, still clutching their roses as though she’s a storybook character stepped off the page. She glances back at me once—just once—over her shoulder. And Christ, that look could bring an army to its knees.
She steps onto the small stage, her gown catching the lights, every inch of her luminous. She smooths her skirt, takes her seat before the polished piano, and the children scamper into their rows, chattering excitedly.
Rouge and I take our positions in the back—two shadows, two sentries, surrounded by toddlers and paper snowflakes. And for a moment, everything feels… still. The moment her fingers touch the keys, the room transforms.
A single twinkle of sound—soft, snowy, familiar—and the kids gasp as if she’s performed real magic. Then she launches into“Let It Snow,”bright and playful, her wrists dancing, her foot tapping lightly on the pedal.
“Come on,” she calls to them, eyes sparkling. “You know this one.”
And they do. Thirty little voices belt it out, completely off-key, completely earnest. She laughs mid-measure, that warm, bell-like sound that makes even the walls feel like they’re leaning in to listen. She nods at the shy ones, encourages the loud ones, and when a tiny boy screams the wrong lyric at the wrong time, she winks at him like he’s just saved the entire performance.
Then she slips smoothly into“Winter Wonderland.”The kids clap wildly, teachers swaying, Rouge humming along like a man possessed. He pretends he’s not emotional, but the bastard’s eyes shine every time the chorus hits. Her playing is flawless—the kind you only get from genius and heartbreak and years of using music to survive.
She plays a few more Christmas songs—“Silent Night,” “Frosty the Snowman,” even a silly, fast little jingle that gets the toddlers bouncing in their chairs like popcorn kernels. Then she settles her hands on the keys and grins wickedly at the adults.
“This one is for you,” she teases, and begins“Fairytale of New York.”
The teachers cheer. Rouge claps a hand over his heart and groans, “Finally,” before joining in on the very first line. And God help me, it’s beautiful. The adults sing. The kids try their best. Siobhán’s voice wraps around the room—clear, aching, Irish to the bone.
A tear slips down her cheek, catching in the stage lights. But she’s smiling, glowing, alive in a way I haven’t seen in years. She’s singing with them, letting herself belong—really belong—to this moment. I find myself singing too, quietly at first, then louder, unable to stop.
Because this is everything she deserves. Everything we dreamed about in the dark when we were young and stupid and in love. Four bedrooms at the stable. Four children. A life where her music is free and she is safe and I am hers without blood on my hands. It hits me with the force of a bullet: Istillwant that life. Istillwant it with her. And I want it now.
As the last chord fades, the children erupt—cheering, clapping, waving their roses like tiny victorious warriors. She bows, radiant, wiping her cheek before anyone can notice the tear. Rouge gathers her case. Teachers thank her. Parents approach with gratitude spilling from their mouths.
And she handles it all with grace. My woman. My siren. My impossible dream. But underneath it—underneath the glow and applause—I feel it.The weight. The truth. What waits for me at the manor. What I have to do. What I can’t let her see unless I choose it. And God help me, Iamchoosing it.
The moment the car doors close, silence blankets the three of us. Not the peaceful kind—from the hall. The heavy, storm-brewing kind.
Siobhán leans her head against the window. Snow gathers in soft, scattered constellations along the glass, melting into dark trails as the city lights blur past. She looks tired. Too tired. And I hate myself for dragging her into a life that takes more than it ever gives.
Rouge drives, eyes sharp on the road, jaw clenched. He knows what’s coming. He knows what I’m about to do. I rest my hand on Siobhán’s thigh, grounding her. Grounding me.
“You did beautifully,” I murmur.
Her eyes flick toward me, soft but shadowed. “They were sweet. I… needed that.”
