Sky Song: Overture by Meg Merriet Page A

could muddle my curse?”
    “My mother used to sing it is all,” I confessed.
    “Was your mother a witch?” She tucked my hair behind my ear so she could see my face.
    I shrugged off a shiver as the woman’s nails ran against my scalp. “She and my father were farmers.”
    “That song is ancient. Legend says it was stolen from the sirens, and only witches can wield its power.”
    “Are you saying I’m part witch?” I asked.
    “There’s no such thing as being part witch,” Maive said. “You either have the gift or you don’t. When this is all over, I would offer you my services in honing your craft.”
    “I’ve been a lot of things in my life. Not sure I’d want to be a witch.”
    “The path is not for everyone. Hold still.” Maive dabbed my cheek with her fingertip and showed me one of my eyelashes that had fallen off.
    I smirked. “Should I make a wish?”
    “Actually, I was hoping I might keep it.”
    “Um… go ahead.” Molly’s eyes and mine met briefly as we both stifled a chuckle.
    Maive tucked my eyelash into a velvet pouch. She had an odd sort of social character that might have been considered inept in certain settings. Perhaps that was how witches conducted themselves. Having so much power, they had no reason to accord with normal folk.
    “How did you come to be Dirk’s lover?” I asked.
    Maive’s fond countenance endeared her to me. “Eight years ago, I told my Lexi’s fortune in a tavern. There was an immediate kindling between our spirits that ignited and flared. We’ve been lovers ever since, convening in secret off and on.”
    “Why in secret?”
    “Our temperaments are too caustic for anything else. We must walk different paths and keep our distance until the longing returns and draws us back into love. It is our way. Like majestic oaks, we need room to thrive.”
    Their way sounded strange to me, but it was moving how two independent people with fiery passions found something functional.
    My own parents had cherished a much simpler existence. Mother and I cared for the house and the animals while father worked the fields. At day’s end, Mother would sing me to sleep while Father waited in the threshold. I still remembered his outline as he leaned there, arms folded against his chest. He and she would go into the kitchen to talk, or if the weather were fine, they would go outside. I never understood how they slept so little. They shared these moments while they had the chance as if they could see the Blue Dusk on the horizon, and understood their time was limited.
    I wondered when Dirk would address the questions festering in everyone’s minds. Without knowing what came next, I couldn’t imagine the men remaining after a night or two recuperating in Nelise. It was not a large city, and as conservative agricultural cities go, it was somewhat lacking in entertainment.
     
    Dorian Belle lived in a country mansion with his his daughter and four servants. The home had pastoral elegance to it and high-ceiling rooms of white and gray with accents of charcoal blue. The Belles might have appeared to be an upper middle class family if not for their ballroom, which they transformed into a barracks to house the men. The grand space had a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs and its gold-plated walls bore portraiture of old-world Elsatian aristocrats.
    After all we had been though together, I made the assumption Dirk and I were on renegotiated terms with one another. I might have even dared to call him friend. It only made sense I should sit in on his counsel, but as I tried to follow our host into the billiards room and join the boatswain and navigator, Dirk closed the door on me, whispering, “Clikk, love, I need you to look after Molly. You’re the person I trust the most.”
    I scowled at him, but nodded and accepted my role as Molly’s keeper; I had no experience to suggest I should be any good at it. If the girl needed a governess, our ship’s navigator would have been the