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Sykes harrumphed and seized his pewter tankard of ale. While he drank, Fluff reached into his pocket, slipped out a licorice, and passed it under the table. He grinned at Georgie and handed off another.

Not dogs, then. Wolves. They were supposed to be in bed, not crawling around the filthy stone floor.

Georgie didn’t look. They didn’t want to draw attention to this latest fiasco. The Barrow Prince was at the other end of the table, looking as personable as granite, and they needed to figure out an approach.

Suddenly, he leaned forward and spoke. His gravelly voice carried surprisingly well.

“Miss Marsden,” he said. “You are left-handed.”

Elf stopped moving her fork.

“So am I.” The Barrow Prince raised his left hand. His palm had a yellow cast and looked hard as horn. “When I make diagrams of a tumulus’s interments, I draw the skeletons facing right more readily, and faithfully, than the skeletons facing left. I noticed the same pattern in your father’s Two Dissertations on the Saxon Grave Hills of the Peak District.”

Mr. Marsden was holding his wineglass in his right hand and lowered it with a clink.

“Did you make those diagrams?” asked the Barrow Prince, black eyes fixed on Elf.

She went rigid. Sir Graham was looking at her too, and Fluff, and Sykes, and Georgie, and her father. He wore a disgruntled expression.

“She assisted,” he said. “She is the eldest, and happily, the least silly of my daughters. You met the youngest, so least silly may seem faint praise. But I do believe she will, someday, under my guidance, develop into that rarity, a truly rational dame.”

The Barrow Prince’s smile was a crooked slash.

“Miss Marsden?” he repeated.

How wonderful. The Barrow Prince wanted to hear directly from Elf. He’d identified her work and demanded its acknowledgment. How wonderful. How terrible.

Elf was staring into space, cheeks pale, mouth tense. Georgie tried to catch her eye, to nod encouragement. Yes. All she had to say was yes, to start. Yes, I made the diagrams. She had, hadn’t she? She must have. If Mr. Marsden was willing to admit she’d assisted, she’d done it all.

One word to start. Less than a word. A sound.

“Are you humming?” Fluff turned to Georgie.

“Lovely,” murmured Sykes, his gaze hot.

“No.” Georgie shook their head. “I wasn’t.”

“You were humming, and it did sound lovely.” Fluff turned gallant. “You have the voice of an angel.”

Sykes leered. “You must give us a song.”

“What’s this?” Sir Graham glanced over. “A song?”

“I can’t sing at the table,” protested Georgie.

“There’s a pianoforte.” Fluff rose excitedly. “I adore music, and I’ve been a week listening to that.” He pulled a face at the Barrow Prince. “You’ve heard how he rasps. My ears are rubbed raw. The balm of melody is required.”

Georgie stood. Now all eyes were on them. Could Elf speak to the Barrow Prince if the table were distracted?

They walked with Fluff to the pianoforte, drawing more eyes as they passed by the bar. A music book lay open on the stand, and they took their seat, turning over a few pages before flipping the book closed. They’d already decided on a song their mother used to sing, in Welsh, simple and sweet and sad, about a sailor’s lost love. At the first stroke of the keys, the roar of conversation gentled. When they began to sing, the room fell silent. Even the dog stopped barking.

Georgie did have the voice of an angel, thank you very much.

They pronounced the Welsh without fully understanding it, shaping their mother’s syllables, understanding them by color more than sense. They let the language and the tune wash through them, wash away everything but the present moment, one silver note, and then the next.

After the last, the hush was profound. Thunderous applause followed, and shouted requests for another, which Georgie indulged, a ballad this time, known to all. Other voices joined in, Fluff’s included, his baritone smooth as silk. The zeal and adoration of the crowd—it felt like a warm bath, dissolving the weariness and aches of the day’s travel and misadventure.

Until Georgie swiveled enough to glimpse their table, Elf sitting motionless, the Barrow Prince sitting…nowhere.