The Singer

“You are so very welcome. Thank you for coming to visit me.”

It was amazing how cordial she made it sound, considering Ava knew she really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Orsala’s smile only got wider the longer she held Ava’s hands.

“You have a wonderful sense of humor,” the older woman said. “I can tell.” Then she squeezed Ava’s hands and dropped them, motioning them all inside.

Within minutes, they were all sitting at the round kitchen table, drinking a fragrant herb tea that made Ava think of the spice market in Istanbul.

“Damien keeps me supplied with tea,” Orsala said, sitting down next to Damien and patting his hand. “I can only get the plain teas here. The ones from Istanbul are the finest.”

“I’m glad you enjoy them,” Damien said quietly, holding back another smile as Sari carefully avoided meeting his eyes.

“So much drama,” Orsala said under her breath, looking between the two. “On to other things.” She turned her attention to Ava. “Evren sent a letter with Damien. He says that they cannot discover where you’ve come from! What a delicious mystery, huh? Perhaps reading you today will give us a clue.”

“How?” Ava asked.

“How much do you know about Irina blood?”

“I… a little. Not much. I know that Irin and Irina magic is different. Related, but different.”

“Two sides of the same coin, is the saying, I think.” Orsala smiled. “We speak the same language they write. But unlike us, Irin can grab the magic. Hold on to it with their writing. We can’t do that.”

“Has an Irina ever tried?”

Sari said, “Yes. Some try. It doesn’t work for us.”

“No more than an Irin speaking magic works for them,” Orsala added. “We are different. We were designed to be.”

Sari grimaced. “And you just end up with messy tattoos and no extra magic.”

Damien leaned toward her. “They’re not messy. I actually think they’re rather attractive, my dove.”

“Don’t call me ‘my dove.’”

Ava tried not to laugh. Was there anyone less dove-like than Sari?

Orsala was smiling at her granddaughter before she spoke again. “So, Irina speak our magic in the Old Language as the Irin write it. But we also have other gifts. Again, no one knows why. I’m assuming you haven’t heard any of our songs?”

“Songs?”

Damien said, “Our history. Most of the books we have written—like the one Malachi showed you when you first came to the scribe house—are written records of Irina songs.”

Orsala waved a dismissive hand. “Written songs are not songs. There is no way of capturing the true nature of our history on the page. It must be heard to be understood.”

Damien smiled indulgently and turned to Ava. “This is a very old argument.”

“It’s true,” Sari added. “The songs were never meant to be written. The act of writing them diminishes the power of their meaning.”

“I’m not going to get into this argument, my dove.”

Sari slapped her hand on the table. “Stop calling me that!”

Orsala barked out something in Norwegian that made both Damien and Sari sit up straight. For a moment, they both looked like chastised children, then Orsala switched to English.

“So, while I am working with Ava and teaching her beginning spells, you two will continue to research her background. We have records, too. And you can speak to Candice.”

Sari’s jaw had clenched. “But—”

“Candice’s father was a historian and genealogist. One of the first in the Americas, so it’s possible she might know something about the families that Ava might have come from. Once I get a feeling for her blood, you’ll have more to go on.”

“And you want us to work together?” Damien asked quietly. “Are you sure?”

“I am quite positive,” Orsala said. “Why don’t you both finish your tea and start right now?”

“Together?” Sari seemed limited to one word answers forced out between clenched teeth.

“Yes. In fact, just take your tea with you and leave Ava and me alone.”

Damien couldn’t hide the pleased expression on his face as he rose and held out his hand. “Shall we, my dove?”

Sari was muttering under her breath. She ignored her mate’s hand and put her cup on the counter, then without a backward glance, she walked out the front door.

Damien turned to Orsala and smiled. “So good to see you again, matka.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Damjan. You have a long way to go.”

“Will they make up?” Ava asked after they’d finished their tea and been left alone in the cottage. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Orsala added wood to the flames before she settled in the chair across from Ava.

“Yes. There was hurt on both sides. They both made mistakes, and I understand why Sari feels the way she does. But now?” Orsala shook her head. “It is time. Damien is a different man than he was during the Rending. Sari needs to learn that some Irin grow from their mistakes, and that forgiveness isn’t something to be withheld from your mate, not even in grief.”

“Was it that bad? Really?”

Shadows flickered in Orsala’s eyes. “Yes.” Then the old woman shook her head and asked, “Are you ready to listen?”