“Go away,” she told it. She balled up a soggy washcloth. “It’s rude to spy on a woman in the bathroom. Don’t make me throw this at you.”
It turned tail and skittered away.
“I give up.” The ability to relax in the bath now completely lost to her, she rose and wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel that was pleasantly warmed by the heated towel rack. That was a nice and unexpected discovery.
She dried off, dressed in her flannel pajamas and ratty house slippers, then shuffled back into the main living area and checked on the fire. A damp cold still permeated the place, and she couldn’t figure out why. Making the rounds, she touched all the radiators and found each of them hot to the touch. The apartment should have been as hot as an oven, but it simply wasn’t. She had to be coming down with something. She downed a couple of aspirin just to be on the safe side.
A small, glossy black spinet across the room made her frown. Hadn’t Keeva said they didn’t have a piano that size? Leaving herglass of water on the kitchen counter, she went to check out the instrument. “Aren’t you a little beauty?”
She ran her hand across the smooth painted surface of the fallboard, then lifted it and folded it back to reveal the pristine ivory keys. “Someone has taken very good care of you.”
Seating herself on the bench, she ever so gently fluttered her fingers across the keys, playing a simple melody. “Lovely sound and perfectly tuned. My name’s Lyla, and I am so happy to meet you.” She glanced up from the keys and discovered the lizard was now perched on top of the piano, watching her. “Hello, Mr. Lizard. Do you like music?”
It stared at her, then finally blinked once.
“I’ll take that as ayes.” Closing her eyes, she played the song that had filled her dreams ever since she was a little girl. The song she’d written for violin, flute, and piano—the old friend who had helped her through some of the most difficult times of her life. All her tension, all her worries, melted away as they always did when the melody, the soft, gently lilting song of her soul, filled the air. She’d worry about all the weird stuff later. For now, she had her music, and that was enough.
Unable to look away,powerless to stop watching her, Magnus wished he could shift into the form of a common lizard just as Talon had, so he might join her. But he couldn’t. Shapeshifting was not one of his powers. But he could view the lovely Lyla with Rurik’s scale. The ancient’s scrying gift had even granted him that ability without the benefit of Talon’s blood to activate its powers. Not only that, but he could speak with Lyla, and she could speak with him, a rare gift from the divining scale. It had to be a sign that this lady was indeed the one of the prophecy.She had to be his fated mate—the one who would heal the Thirteenth Realm.
He closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to float along with the ethereal melody she played. That song surely possessed the power to heal anything. A sly smile came to him unbidden as the image of her soaking in her bath filled his mind. His palms itched to cup her smallish yet perfect breasts and slide his hands across the slippery wetness of her body. Long and lean, with nothing voluptuous about her, she was almost fae-like—as delicate and airy as the music she coaxed from the box with the ivory teeth. Rurik’s scale had allowed him a glimpse of her past, when she could still sing. The purity of her voice had sent chills to the very core of his soul.
A heavy sigh escaped him as he opened his eyes and watched her dance her fingertips across the instrument. If only she still had her voice, he’d have no doubt whatsoever that she was the healer they all needed—the one his heart and soul needed most of all.
“You have to be the one,” he said, but kept the words from passing to her. The longer he watched her, the longer he played the dangerous game ofwhat if, the more he realized that if she wasn’t the one, it would not be an easy discovery to bear.
Chapter
Five
Lyla meandered through the practice rooms, trying to find something to do to get out of her own head while still being available to anyone who happened to stop by. She felt more and more out of place by the minute and wondered if this adventure had been a wrong turn.
The old, high-ceilinged rooms had been adapted into sound-isolation booths so that music students could work on their particular instruments without disturbing anyone else. These weren’t therapy rooms—or at least not the sort of therapy rooms she had envisioned. Had she been that far off base with her expectations? She hadn’t come here to give lessons on how to play an instrument. She’d come here to help people learn to use music to heal themselves. Yet no one had stopped by in the four days since she’d arrived. Maybe she should just go sightseeing, or better yet, plan an early return to Cincinnati.
Taking a violin down from the rack, she studied it for a moment, then realized it was less of a classical violin and more of a fiddle with a flatter bridge to make double stops easier. It also had steel-core strings that would elicit a brighter, more durable sound. Unable to resist, she tucked it under her chin and reeled out the old American folk song:Turkey in the Straw. The manwho’d helped raise her had taught her how to play that simple, bouncy tune when she’d been so young that his fiddle was almost bigger than she was.Turkey in the Strawalways brought that kind old gentleman to mind.
“What a lively song.” A white-haired woman, one of those older ladies who had aged so well that the number of years they’d walked the earth was impossible to guess, stood in the doorway, smiling.
Lyla lowered the instrument from her shoulder and naturally cradled it in the crook of her arm. “It’s calledTurkey in the Straw—one of the first songs my grandfather taught me on his violin—or hisfiddle, actually. That’s what he always called it.” She offered a polite nod as she tucked the bow in next to the instrument under her arm and extended her hand. “I’m Lyla Ibrams. Are you here for music therapy?”
“Nay, lass. I am Mairwen. I’m sure Keeva has mentioned me.” She shook Lyla's hand, her grip strong and sure for one who appeared so fine-boned and delicate. “I came by to see how ye’re settling in here at Seven Cairns. Is everything to yer liking?”
Lyla found herself trapped in the woman’s piercing gaze. She’d never seen eyes so blue—unless maybe her own. Many had remarked that her eyes were the brightest blue they had ever seen. “Um…yes,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything is fine here, thank you.”
Mairwen arched a silvery brow. “Are ye certain? That is not what yer face says.”
A shiver rippled up Lyla's spine, making every nerve-ending twitch. Nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she cleared her throat, then silently scolded herself to stop that. It was hard on her vocal cords and would only irritate the scar tissue. “Everything is fine,” she repeated with more conviction. “Really.”
Mairwen leaned closer. “Dinna worry. Keeva already told me about the voice ye hear—the man’s voice.” She shrugged. “’Tis nothing to fash yerself about. He’s only a spirit seeking to connect with ye.”
“I am not a house available for haunting or demon possession.”
“Demon possession?” Mairwen’s pleasant friendliness fell away to a leery stoniness. “Has the man suggested ye harm yerself or others?”
“No, actually, he assured me that everything would be fine and that he would always protect me.” Uncomfortable with this particular line of conversation with a person she’d just met, Lyla turned away to return the fiddle and bow to their place on the instrument rack across the room. “But that’s neither here nor there. Would you mind clarifying what you need me to do here? This setup is more suited forteachingmusic, not offering therapy.” For some strange reason, this woman hit her the wrong way, irritated her, and made her tense, which didn’t make any sense. Mairwen hadn’t said or done anything wrong. She’d just popped in to say hello.
“Do ye not feel that learning to coax music from something could also be therapy to a troubled soul?” Mairwen meandered deeper into the room, idly running a finger across the strings of a cello. “Wouldn’t learning music help someone to express themselves in a way other than speaking?”
Unable to argue with such logic, Lyla surrendered by lifting her hands and bowing her head. “I just needed clarification about whether I needed to teach them to play an instrument or help them find songs to listen to that would help them calm their minds.”
